Muller, Marcia - [McCone 04] Games to Keep the Dark Away (v.1,shtml) (6 page)

He bit into a piece of bacon and I seized my opportunity. "Do
you know much about Salmon Bay?"

A look of gloom crossed his face. "We're back to that, are
we?"

"I can't help it. It's my job. And you asked me to stay."

"That I did." He smiled ruefully. "You've got to
excuse me. Normally I wouldn't babble at you, but…"

"I understand."

"To answer your question, yes, I do know Salmon Bay. I was
born there. My father was a fisherman, his father too… he and
my mother still live in Salmon Bay. I don't see much of them."

"Are you on bad terms?" I thought of Jane's relationship
with her mother.

"Not really. We don't have much in common, though, and I hate
to go up there. The people in the village have a lot of pent-up hate.
They blame Port San Marco for surviving commercially while their town
failed. They just sit around talking about the good old days and try
not to starve. And they resent anyone who has made good. I guess that
includes me."

"What about The Tidepools? How do they feel about it being so
close by?"

He shrugged.

"Were you seeing Jane when she worked there?"

"At first."

"And then?"

"Then I didn't anymore."

"Do you know about the problems there?"

He ran a finger over his moustache.

"Please, Don. I need to know about it and no one will tell
me."

Carefully he poured us more wine. "How did you find out about
it?"

"A friend of Jane's who worked there too."

He nodded.

"Will you tell me?"

"Why not? It's no secret." He picked up his glass and
leaned back against a pillow, stretching his long legs out. "There
was a series of deaths, three of them. Overdoses of the painkilling
medicine they use there. With the first two, it appeared the patients
had saved up their medication until they had enough to overdose. The
staff was blamed for being lax. And, of course, there were the usual
rumors."

"Which were what?"

"That someone at The Tidepools had been deliberately lax, had
wanted the patients—they were both old women with no living
relatives—to die."

"Why?"

"Because they had willed large estates to the place."

I remembered Keller's description of the arrangements that were
often made. "You said three deaths, though."

"The third was different. A younger woman with cancer. It
appeared to be a mercy killing by her husband, a medical technician
with the Port San Marco hospital."

"Why did they suspect that?"

"He disappeared immediately after. With a lot of money.
They've never been able to locate him."

"Sounds more like murder than mercy killing—because of
the money."

"Yes."

"Do they think he might have been responsible for the two
older women?"

"There was some speculation, but it doesn't seem very
likely."

"What about repercussions on the staff?"

"A number of people left afterward, including Jane. The
Tidepools wasn't a good place to work anymore."

"But things are better now, at least according to Allen
Keller, their director. He said—"

Don sat up straighten "You know Keller?"

"Not well. Do you?"

"Not well." But his face had darkened and now his eyes
grew hard.

"Are you on bad terms with him?"

"I hardly know the man."

"But—"

"I don't know him well, and I don't know anything more about
The Tidepools. And, besides, what has Keller got to do with Janie's
death?"

"Nothing, as far as I know," I admitted. We finished our
breakfast in silence. When I left, Don accompanied me downstairs,
tossing off a few comments about some new stereo equipment he was
going to take a look at. I got into my car and he squatted down so he
could look through the window at me. "Listen, even under the
circumstances, I've enjoyed meeting you. Come back, okay?"

"I'd like to."

"I'll make you veal parmigiana."

"Sounds great."

"My lasagna's not bad either."

"You've got a deal."

"I don't usually talk too much."

"I guessed that."

He paused, then squeezed my arm and walked over to an antique
Jaguar parked at the curb. It was painted a gauche disc-jockey gold.
He got in, started it up, and roared past me, waving.

I liked Don Del Boccio. He was bright and funny and had the kind
of good looks that had always attracted me. And right now I wished I
were next to him in the gaudy Jaguar, taking a long top-down ride up
the coast. Instead, I would have to go back to my motel and try once
again to contact Abe Snelling.

Before
calling Snelling I checked with Lieutenant Barrow.
He told me they had located John Cala sleeping off a drunk in the
parking lot of a bar near the waterfront. The fisherman claimed he'd
found Jane's body and then panicked, but Barrow was skeptical of his
story.

"What I wonder is why he went out there in the first place,"
he said. "He claims he was just taking a look around, but
there's nothing on that pier, nothing around it."

"Have you established the approximate time of death?" I
asked.

"Within an hour of when you found her."

"Could it have been less than fifteen minutes?"

"I doubt it."

"Why?"

"You said in your statement that the body was cool - when you
touched it. Even though she was lying half in the water, it's
unlikely she would have cooled that much in fifteen minutes. No, I'd
say the time of death was closer to an hour before you found her."

"Then Cala probably didn't kill her. I forgot to tell you
this last night, but I saw him in Rose's Crab Shack about fifteen
minutes before I went out on the pier. He was there, at the counter,
and he left as soon as I came in. But he didn't look scared or
upset—not like he did when I saw him running away from the
pier."

"How come you waited until now to tell me this?"

"In all the excitement I just forgot. I'm sorry."

"Hmmm." There was a pause. "Anybody else in the
Crab Shack then?"

"Just the old man behind the counter. He'll verify what I've
told you; we even spoke briefly about Cala."

"Thanks. I'll check it out." From what I'd observed of
Barrow, he'd be on it right away. He was a seasoned cop, professional
as any big-city investigator.

"Is it okay for me to leave Port San Marco?" I asked.

"You heading back to San Francisco?"

"Yes. My job here seems to be done."

"Well, go ahead. I know where to find you if I need you."

I hung up and sat, once more contemplating the crack in the wall.
Cala was telling the truth about not killing Jane, but why
had
he gone out on the old pier? I'd have liked to know, but then, it
really wasn't any of my concern. The police would get it out of him.
I picked up the phone again, hoping Snelling would be at home.

The photographer answered on the first ring. "It's about time
you called," he said.

"I tried to, last night and then again this morning. You
didn't answer."

"Oh. Of course."

"Where were you?"

"In the darkroom."

"All night?"

"No, of course not. But I like to work in there late at
night, and I unplug the phone so if it rings I won't hear it and be
tempted to interrupt my work and answer. And I leave it unplugged
until I get up, usually around eleven in the morning. What do you
have to report?"

"I'm afraid I have bad news." Quickly I told him about
Jane's death.

There was a long silence. It stretched out more than thirty
seconds. "Abe," I finally said, "are you okay?"

When he spoke his voice was high-pitched and full of fear. "Dead!
She can't be dead. How could this happen?"

"Abe, I don't know. But what I can do is stay down here and
follow up with the police—"

"No!"

"Obviously you care that someone killed your roommate. Don't
you want to find out who it was?"

"It doesn't matter. Don't you see?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

"Nothing matters anymore. Nothing. I have to go now, Sharon."
There was a click as he set down the receiver.

I hung up and stared at the phone, wondering about Snelling's
strange reaction. I had expected regret and sorrow—because he
and Jane, while not lovers, had been friends. But what I'd heard was
shock verging on panic. Why? I wondered. Because Snelling was not too
stable? Or was it something to do with how urgently he had needed to
speak to Jane? To find out, I'd have to head back to San Francisco.

It took me only a few minutes to pack and check out, and soon
after that I was on the pass road heading inland. Once away from the
sea, the air became hot and dry, heavy with the bitter odor of
eucalyptus. I opened the car windows and vents to create a breeze. It
did little to alleviate the heat, and I kept leaning forward to
unstick my shirt from my damp back. The road rejoined the freeway and
I sped along on the ridge above the Salinas Valley.

Ten years ago there had been no freeway here, just a winding
two-lane road that connected the little valley towns like Bradley,
San Ardo, and San Lucas. I remembered Sunday nights, coming back from
weekends in Santa Barbara or Los Angeles, when the road would be a
continuous line of traffic crawling in both directions. In those days
I had thought nothing of driving a six- or eight-hundred-mile round
trip on a weekend, but now the prospect was unthinkable. I liked to
imagine I was getting more sensible now that I'd entered my thirties,
but occasionally I wondered how good that was.

In King City, near the midpoint of the valley, I stopped for gas
and a Coke. The soda was sticky-sweet and only made me more thirsty.
I leaned against the car as I drank it, watching trucks and autos and
campers and buses whiz by on the freeway. A prickly, irritated
feeling was rising inside me—both at Snelling for reacting to
Jane's death in such an unusual way and at myself for not being able
to understand it. I tossed the half-full Coke can in the trash basket
and continued north on Route 101, through the ever-present bottleneck
at San Jose, up the Peninsula, past the airport, and home.

Watney greeted me vociferously as I entered the apartment. His
food bowl was empty, the water dish dry. Tim had obviously forgotten
to feed him today. He'd never neglected the cat before, and as I
filled the bowls I wondered if perhaps all the beer my building
manager guzzled had finally destroyed his few remaining brain cells.
The cat taken care of, I got myself a glass of wine—with no
consideration at all for my own brain cells—and went into the
main room. Everything was the same there—the rumpled quilts,
the want ads with the red circles, the books and magazines on the
table. I didn't know why I'd expected it to be different, but the
lack of change only heightened my sense of discontent.

I tried to call Snelling, hoping he'd calmed down by now. There
was no answer. I dialed my service and received two messages—a
second one from Paula Mercer about the apartment she'd found for me,
and another from my sister, this time leaving her name—Patsy.
Patsy was my youngest sister and the family rebel. She lived on a
farm up near Ukiah, had three children—each by a different
boyfriend—and steadfastly refused to get married. The
embodiment of the back-to-the-land craze of the seventies, she sold
quilts for money, raised vegetables and chickens for food, and seemed
perfectly content to do without TV, video recorders, and electronic
games.

Since she had been living like that for eight years and was so
good at it, I figured it had passed over the line from being a
media-induced aberration to a genuine way of life.

Much as I loved my sister, I didn't want to talk to her tonight.
And much as I needed a new apartment, I didn't care to spend the
evening looking at one. I ignored both messages and sat, sipping
wine, feeling prickly and out of sorts, as dusk fell over the city.

The next morning I drove to the big brown Victorian that housed
All Souls. The house was on a steeply sloping side street across from
a trash-littered triangular park and, as usual, parking was at a
premium. I finally left the MG by a fire hydrant—the meter
maids never got there till noon—and hurried up the rickety
front steps. The co-op was in its customary morning turmoil:
attorneys who didn't live in the second-floor rooms were arriving;
others were grabbing their briefcases and rushing off for court. Hank
stood by the front desk, talking with Ted, the secretary, about an
office-supply order. When Hank saw me, he mumbled something about
some documents and notes on my desk. I started down the hall, but
suddenly he called after me.

"Abe Snelling phoned me this morning."

I stopped. "What did he have to say?"

"He told me to thank you for your good work and asked that we
send a bill."

"How did he sound?"

Hank frowned. "Okay. Why?"

"He was pretty broken up yesterday over his roommate's
death."

"Well, he recovers quickly, then. This morning he was all
business."

I sighed, irrationally annoyed by Snelling's recuperative powers
and went into my office. On my desk was a thick folder of notes on a
pretrial conference for a landlord-tenant dispute that was due to go
to court next week. I took off my jacket, curled up in my ratty
armchair, and spent the next few hours going over it.

The case was an interesting one. A couple had bought a two-unit
house with the intention of moving into the upper flat. They'd sold
their previous home and were now living in a motel because the
occupants of the flat had refused to leave, even after they had been
served with a legal eviction notice. Through striking up an
acquaintance with the downstairs neighbors, I'd found out that the
tenants had already moved into a new apartment and were merely
keeping enough possessions in the flat to make it appear they still
lived there. They were now attempting to extort several thousand
dollars from the new owners before they would remove everything and
give up the keys to the premises.

I'd followed the tenants, gotten pictures of them entering their
new apartment, and we'd subpoenaed evidence that they'd changed the
addresses on their bank and charge accounts. It promised to be a
lively court battle, since the tenants were a surly and unpleasant
pair, and I was looking forward—in spite of being a renter
myself—to testifying against them.

What other work remained for me that day was not nearly so
interesting. My briefcase lay on my desk, fat with documents to be
filed at City Hall—one of my less glamorous but important
duties. I regarded it with distaste, then left the office and went
down the long hall to the big country kitchen at the rear of the
house. A couple of attorneys were there, making a salad. I looked
into the refrigerator and saw nothing but lettuce, carrots, tomatoes,
spinach, and alfalfa sprouts.

"Yuck!" I said.

Anne-Marie Altman, a striking blond who specialized in tax law,
looked over at me and grinned. "Too healthy in there for you,
huh?"

"You've got it. Why don't you people buy some real food?"

"Like what?"

"Hot dogs. Hamburgers. There are some wonderful new frozen
dinners on the market."

She made a face at me and tossed me a radish. I popped it in my
mouth and left the room. Back in my office, I sat at the desk,
contemplating the full briefcase. There was a McDonald's near the
Civic Center. I could stop there for lunch, I thought. But, dammit, I
didn't feel like filing documents. If only Jane Anthony's murder and
Abe Snelling's initial panic and subsequent cooling of interest
didn't nag at me so.

Then I remembered Liz Schaff. I'd promised to let her know what
I'd found out. Maybe she could give me some insight into Jane's
relationship with Snelling. Surely Jane had mentioned more about her
roommate than his name. I picked up the phone, remembered Liz worked
afternoons, and called her at home. She agreed to meet me for a quick
lunch and suggested the Blue Owl Cafe, across from the hospital.

Liz was sitting at one of the umbrella-covered tables when I
arrived, wearing her coat against the chill, the fall sunlight
glinting off her bright blond hair. It was one of those crisp, clear
days that make up for the summer fog in San Francisco, and the
striped umbrellas and flowers on the tables added a further note of
cheer.

When I sat down at the table, I noticed that Liz had a glass of
wine in front of her. It surprised me to see a nurse drinking before
going on duty, but I reminded myself it wasn't as if she was an
airline pilot. I ordered wine too, and we both chose cheeseburgers.
When the waiter had gone, Liz leaned forward across the table.

"Have you found Jane?"

"In a way."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm afraid your friend is dead," I said gently.
"Murdered. I found her body the night before last."

"You found…" Her face went pale and she reached
for her wineglass. "Where?"

"Do you know the old pier in Salmon Bay?"

"God, yes. We used to hang out there in high school, to drink
beer and neck."

"Well, I don't think she went there for either reason. But
someone stabbed her and left her body on the bank, half in the
water."

Liz drained her glass and signaled to the waiter, who seemed to
know her, for another. She passed a hand over her eyes, as if to
brush away tears. "Someone? Don't the police have any idea who?"

"No. Do you know a fisherman named John Cala?"

"Yes. He went to the same high school as we did. He was wild,
always in trouble."

"At first the police suspected him. But he's got an alibi."

"Why would they suspect John?"

"He found the body before I did, but didn't report it. He
went out on the pier for some reason, but he's not saying why. I'd
give a lot to know."

Liz looked thoughtful. "When did this all happen? The other
night?"

"Yes. Around eight o'clock."

"And the police arrested John?"

"He's probably been released by now."

"And he won't say what he was doing there?"

"No."

"God. What a mess." She sipped from her fresh glass of
wine and a little color returned to her face. "So what else are
the police doing about it?"

"The usual things, I would imagine."

"And what about you?"

"I'm off the case. Abe Snelling decided he couldn't use my
services anymore."

"I see." Liz paused as the waiter placed our food in
front of us. She looked at her burger with unconcealed distaste.