Mariner's Compass Read Online Free PDF

Though we had three ranch dogs who followed Daddy or whoever was driving a ranch truck everywhere, I hadn’t had a personal pet since five months before Jack died. We’d had Poacher, our Border collie, put to sleep because of a brain tumor. It broke our hearts not only because we loved him, but because, along with our brass bed, he’d been with us since the first year of our marriage. I missed the companionship of a dog—their honest emotions and joyful acceptance of you no matter what your mood.
    “Look at me, Scout, acting like you’ve come with the house. You’re probably one of the neighbors’ dog. Did Mr. Chandler sneak you treats? Is that why you’re hanging around?” I ran my hand down his healthy, padded rib cage. His shiny coat and bright eyes indicated he wasn’t a stray; he obviously belonged to somebody. I glanced around. The neighborhood was quiet in the thinning fog; no one to ask without knocking on doors. Finding out who owned Scout would be my second task after inspecting Mr. Chandler’s house.
    I stood up and dug in the bottom of my purse for the boot-shaped key ring. “So, want to join me while I check out my inheritance?”
    A small sound grumbled from the back of his throat.
    “I’ll take that as a yes.”
    The expensive oak front door had a two-foot oval stained glass window. The pattern was an old sailing ship, the full sails made of a milky white glass, the sun behind it an improbable red-pink.
    The key slid smoothly into the lock, and I turned the knob, my stomach lurching slightly. I touched Scout’s head, thankful for his comforting presence. The door opened directly into a small living room. The house smelled of smoky vanilla, like that from a pipe. To my left a doorway led to the kitchen. Directly in front of me, a short hall ended at three closed doors which, after a quick inspection, turned out to be two bedrooms and a bathroom. Back in the living room, I walked over to the sliding glass window running the length of the west wall. The curtains opened to reveal the freshly painted wooden deck I had seen from my truck and a million-dollar view of the Embarcadero and Morro Rock. Two redwood lawn chairs with bright kelly green cushions and a matching table sat waiting for occupants. I gazed for a moment out at the busy harbor scene below and the ocean beyond. The sunsets from this perch were probably magnificent.
    I turned back and really looked at the living room—clearer now in the light. There was no doubt that Mr. Chandler was a man who loved both wood and the sea. Everything in the living room celebrated the beauty of wood from the built-in teak bookcases to the oak mantle carved with small anchors and dolphins setting off the stone fireplace to the dozens of hand-carved duck decoys.
    I walked around the room, studying the furniture and wood carvings, trying to get a handle on this man’s identity. The detailed workmanship of his carvings was unbelievable. A walnut dolphin, looking as if it sprang from a burl of wood, danced on its tail; a mare with a colt lying at her feet made from some kind of light, very grainy wood; walking sticks carved with the heads of dogs, cats, horses, and gargoyles; a tiny wren perched on a hunk of rough wood, looking as if it would take flight any minute; a cormorant in smooth wood whose wings lifted as a hinged lid to reveal five small wooden fish inside. I counted fifteen duck decoys—some so realistic I expected them to shake their feathers and quack when I touched them. On the walls were framed prints of old sailing ships and one hand-carved bas-relief plaque in pale, almost grainless wood—“Raise the stone and thou shalt find me; cleave the wood and there I am.”
    I read it out loud, saying each word slowly. It seemed religious, but didn’t sound like anything I’d ever read or heard.
    The sofa was a plain navy cotton with an Irish Chain lap quilt hung over one arm; the chair opposite it a wine-colored recliner. A refinished trunk, the