Spider Web by Earlene Fowler Page B

needed an addition. The sisters supervised the construction. To everyone’s surprise, they worked in perfect harmony, having perfected the good cop, bad cop shtick. The contractors finished two weeks ahead of schedule, anxious to hightail it out of there. I couldn’t imagine why.
    The addition to the four-bedroom ranch house I grew up in included a wheelchair-accessible bedroom, a roomy bathroom with a walk-in shower, a sitting room and even an apartment-size kitchen. The plan was that they’d live a completely independent life with the comfort of knowing that Dove, Daddy and Isaac were only a hallway and a closed door away.
    I glanced over at Isaac. This project seemed to have affected him emotionally; he’d been less jovial and teasing lately. Maybe it was the subject—home, family, memories. I wondered about what memories he carried of his upbringing. We agreed from the onset that we’d both be subjects of this book—that he’d interview and photograph me and vice versa. So far, neither had happened. We’d been too busy with our other subjects.
    Was he having as much difficulty figuring out how to photograph me as I was trying to decide how to interview him? Though our relationship was comfortable now, even loving, it had begun because of a sad incident in his life. He’d come to San Celina a few years ago to look into the murder of his granddaughter, Shelby, a budding photographer attending Cal Poly. Her grandma had been his fourth wife, and though he and Shelby hadn’t been related by blood, he’d known her since she was born and they’d had a special connection. Her murder had affected him deeply, I know, though he rarely spoke of it . . . or her.
    During our “investigation” of Shelby’s murder he met Dove, fell in love and they married. Though initially I’d been suspicious of him, I’d grown to love him like a grandfather. Still, I wondered if it bothered him that, except for a few distant cousins, he had not one person in this world physically related to him. I glanced over at his face, golden brown from the sun, his silver and turquoise cross earring as familiar to me as his bear-size hands. I never knew his age until last year when Dove threw him an eighty-fourth birthday party. He would be eighty-five soon, though he didn’t look it. He claimed it was Dove who kept him a young buck.
    A freeway sign announced Pismo Beach at the next exit. I glanced over at Isaac, wishing I didn’t have to disturb his nap. But we’d be there in a few minutes, and I had no idea where to find this person we were meeting.
    He opened his eyes as I slowed down to take the turnoff to Pismo.
    “Destination?” I asked.
    “Harry’s Bar,” he replied, blinking his eyes.
    That was a surprise. “Hmmm . . .”
    He turned to look at me, one thick white eyebrow lifted. “What’s that mean?”
    “Bit of a rough-and-tumble place.” I gave him a half smile. “Or so I’ve been told.”
    He chuckled and tugged at his ear. “Actually, we’re meeting in front of the bar. He was going to be downtown anyway and said it would be easier if we followed him to his house. He said we’d know him by his unique vehicle.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    He shifted in the seat, pulled at his seat belt cross strap. “His name is Pete Kaplan. That’s I all know.”
    Mr. Kaplan’s vehicle was indeed easy to spot. When we pulled right in front of Harry’s, the street quiet on this cold and foggy Tuesday morning, the old ’60s Volkswagen bus looked like something right out of a history book. It was a faded blue, green or gray—hard to distinguish—and was covered with hand-painted Day-Glo orange and yellow daisies and crooked peace symbols.
    The man who opened the driver’s door when we pulled up also looked like someone from another era. He pulled off a navy knit cap showing a full head of curly, shoulder-length gray hair. With his silver-streaked beard, faded blue jeans and red and black tie-dyed T-shirt, Pete Kaplan could