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were so. She died five years ago. That’s also why I moved. It was about time to let the old place go. Start a new life.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.
    “Thank you.” He held up the first aid kit in his hand. “Since that scrape on your head is my fault, how about letting me take a look at it?” He grinned at me again. “Don’t worry, you can trust me. I’m a fireman.”
    I laughed. “That would be great, except I’m not on fire.”
    He shook his head and pointed to a blue wooden bench under a pepper tree. “You sound like one of my daughters. You modern young women, always the smart remark for everything. Why, in my day—”
    “Okay, okay,” I said, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “I’ll let you bandage my wounds as long as I don’t have to endure an ‘In my day, women were seen and not heard’ lecture.”
    He raised his thick black eyebrows. “You do know my daughters, don’t you?”
    “No, but I have a father.”
    I sat down on the bench. Scout flopped down, resting his head on the tops of my feet.
    “Lift your bangs,” the fireman said, sitting down beside me. He inspected the scrape closely, then tore open an alcohol swab and started cleaning around it. “Trust me,” he said. “I was a paramedic about twenty years ago.” I jerked back when the alcohol hit my raw skin.
    “It’s going to sting a little,” he said.
    “You’re a day late and a dollar short there, buddy,” I commented.
    “Cut an old fart some slack. I’m not as quick on the draw as I once was.” He winked at me. “So, what was all the ruckus about this morning?” he asked as he tore pieces of tape with his teeth to fit the gauze pad covered with antibiotic cream.
    “Mr. Chandler passed away last night.”
    He carefully taped the bandage to my forehead. “The guy who lived here? I’m sorry to hear that.” Only inches away, he looked sympathetically into my eyes. “Was he a relative?”
    “No,” I answered, feeling funny about accepting sympathy for a sorrow I didn’t feel.
    When I didn’t elaborate, he didn’t press. He ran a finger lightly over the taped edges, flattening them into place. “All done.” He snapped the first aid kit closed and held out his hand. “Richard Manuel Jose Trujillo. Formerly of Phoenix, Arizona. Call me Rich.”
    I took his hand and said, “Benni Harper. San Celina, California.”
    “So, Benni Harper of San Celina, what brings you to Morro Bay?”
    I hesitated, then blurted out, “How well did you know Jacob Chandler?”
    His face grew curious. “Jake? Not well. We talked over the fence a few times. You know, weather and whatnot. He recommended a few restaurants and the fishing boat I go out on sometimes.” He shrugged. “We were just neighbors. We didn’t run in the same circles here in town. Actually, I haven’t really gotten to know many people yet. Me and the fire chief are old buddies from way back, but other than that I’m still a relative newcomer here myself.”
    I hesitated again. Did I want to tell this person, this stranger, about the weird circumstances of my inheritance? A silent voice warned me to keep that information to myself. On the other hand, how would I convince people to talk to me if they didn’t even know who I was or why I was here? I felt irrationally guilty, as if I’d done something wrong, when in reality I was an innocent bystander drawn into the life of a man I’d never met. Another feeling of uneasiness seized me when I realized that a good chance that relatives or friends of Jacob Chandler might expect his will to read quite differently.
    “Hey, kid, are you all right?” he asked.
    “Yes, fine.” I stood up abruptly. Scout jumped up and crowded next to my leg.
    Rich stood up, and I looked at him for a long moment. His dark eyes seemed kind, and I had to start somewhere.
    “To be honest,” I said, reaching down and stroking Scout’s head for comfort, “I didn’t even know Mr. Chandler. I just found out today that he