Mariner's Compass by Fowler Earlene

Author:Fowler, Earlene [Fowler, Earlene]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780425174081
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2000-04-01T07:00:00+00:00

11

WHEN I GOT back to Morro Bay, I immediately called the Basque restaurant in Bakersfield. After speaking to three different people who couldn’t make sense of what I was asking with the scant information I offered, they finally told me that I should probably talk to the owner, Gabriel Zalba. He was gone for the day but would be in tomorrow at eleven a.m. As much as I dreaded the long, boring trip, it seemed best if I drove to Bakersfield and talked to him in person.

I spent the rest of the evening watching television and playing with Scout. About nine o’clock, Rich brought over a piece of fresh-baked pineapple upside-down cake, and we talked for an hour or so.

“Sure you don’t need any company on the drive?” he asked.

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. This man might tell me more if I’m alone, you know?”

His disappointed face made me feel bad, but my first priority was not to fill a lonely widower’s days, but to get this mysterious situation resolved.

“He’s going to be mad at me, but I’m leaving Scout here,” I said. “To watch the house.”

He nodded. “That’s probably a good idea. I’ll keep an eye out also.”

Later when Gabe called, I told him I was driving to Bakersfield tomorrow. For a change, he didn’t argue and just asked me to call him when I returned. I almost missed his zealous protectiveness. Almost.

The next morning at eight o’clock, as I was getting in my car, I saw the photographer and his wife loading camera equipment into their blue Taurus. I walked across the street and asked, “So, where are you going today?” It was nice to just shoot the breeze with people who weren’t involved with this crazy quest business, people who were just vacationing, taking touristy pictures, and were normal. The woman pushed up her tooled silver bracelet and said, “Hearst Castle and maybe that lighthouse up there.”

“Piedras Blancas,” I said.

“That’s the one. Also, we heard that there’s a bunch of sea lions somewhere around that area.”

“There are, and the poor things are constantly harassed by tourists. I’d use a telephoto lens if you have one. Sea lions can be aggressive when they feel threatened.”

“We’ll be careful,” the man said. “We believe in the credo—‘Take only pictures, leave only footprints.’ ” He paused for a moment to reattach the red tape covering one of their taillights.

“What happened there?” I asked sympathetically.

“A tree jumped in back of him yesterday,” the woman said with a chuckle. He gave her an irritated sideways look.

They were in front of me when I drove through the center of town. A lively conversation was taking place, no doubt about her smart remark about the tree.

The three-hour drive on Highway 46 to Bakersfield was not a fun one, especially since I’d traveled it so many times in my life. I took a portable tape player and stuck on a long-playing tape of George Strait—my favorite singer for long, tedious trips. His silky caramel voice would make the miles fly.

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