“Mrs. Anthony,” I said, “what’s Don’s last name?”
She shook her head. “We’ll leave him out of this.”
“She may have gone to see him—”
“No, not Don. He wouldn’t have her. Not after what she did.”
“What did she—”
“No” She shook her head firmly. “That’s over. I won’t go into it.”
I sighed. “So you have no idea where she’s gone now?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” But her eyes said she didn’t care. “The reason you need to see her—is it about a job?”
I hated to disappoint her. “No. Actually, Mrs. Anthony, I don’t know your daughter.”
Her sad eyes became puzzled. “But you said—”
“I’m a private detective; Abe Snelling hired me to find Jane. She left home a week ago without telling him where she was going, and Abe was afraid something had happened to her.”
“A private detective.” She shook her head slowly. “The kinds of jobs you girls will get into today.…This Abe Snelling—is he in love with Jane?”
“They’re just friends, but good friends.”
“That’s good. She never had many friends, you know. She never fit in here in the village. The other children thought she was different…and I guess they were right. I’m glad she has a friend like Abe Snelling.”
“So am I, Mrs. Anthony.” I stood up.
Mrs. Anthony stood up too. “You must think I’m a bad mother, Miss McCone.”
“Not really.”
“You must understand—I love my daughter.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“If I didn’t love her, she wouldn’t be able to make me so angry.”
“Of course. I understand.”
She looked into my eyes, her hand on the front doorknob. “Do you have children, Miss McCone?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then you can’t understand.”
“Yes, I can. I also have a mother.”
As I went down the front walk, Mrs. Anthony lowered the shade on the window once again. It reminded me of Abe Snelling locking himself inside his house with his treasured solitude.
Chapter 5
I went back to the motel and called Snelling to report what I’d found out. “So,” I concluded, “it appears Jane is all right and will get in touch with you when the spirit moves her.”
There was a pause. “Well, so far she hasn’t. And her mother gave her my message last night.”
“I guess she doesn’t think it that urgent.”
“No, I guess not.” He hesitated again. “Sharon, she’s got to be staying somewhere in the Port San Marco area. Since you’re already down there, would you keep looking for her?”
“I can, but it seems a lot of expense for nothing.”
“I’d appreciate it if you would, though. Don’t worry about the expense. Just find Jane—I must speak to her.”
Snelling obviously had more reason for wanting to talk to Jane than merely reassuring himself she was all right. What? Well, that wasn’t really any of my business and, if he was willing to pay for my time, I didn’t mind pursuing his elusive roommate. In fact, I was enjoying being out of the city. “Okay,” I said, I’ll keep looking.” Then I remembered the man named Don. “Abe, did Jane ever mention someone named Don, an old boyfriend?”
“Don? No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Terrific. There must be hundreds of Dons in the area.”
“Do you think Jane’s with him?”
“Her mother says no, but it’s a possibility.”
“Why can’t you ask Mrs. Anthony who he is?”
“I did; she wouldn’t say.”
His sigh was audible over the wire. “Mothers…”
Then I thought of someone who probably would know—and tell. “Abe, do you know a friend of Jane’s called Liz Schaff?”
He was silent for a moment. “Liz who?”
“Schaff. S-c-h-a-f-f.”
“I don’t recall her.”
So Liz had been telling the truth about not knowing Snelling. Odd that Jane had never had Liz over to the house. But then, her mother had indicated that Jane didn’t make friends easily; maybe once she had one she didn’t treat her the way most people do.”
“Who is this Liz person?” Snelling asked.
“A nurse at S.F. General. She and Jane had a lunch appointment and Jane never showed. Liz was worried about her.”
“How do you know her?”
“I can’t go into that now.” I looked at my watch.
“Listen, Abe, I’m going to check a few things out and then I’ll be in touch, probably this evening.”
“Okay.” He seemed reluctant to hang up. “Keep me posted.”
I placed a second call to San Francisco, to the number Liz Schaff had scribbled on the back of her grocery list. She answered on the third ring.
“It’s funny you got hold of me,” she said when I identified myself. “Usually I’m at work, the noon-to-eight shift, but I’m off sick today.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Just a cold. Have you found Jane?”
“She’s somewhere in the Port San Marco area; at least, she visited her mother last night.”
“Then she’s okay.”
“I guess so. Her mother would have noticed if anything was wrong.”
“Don’t count on it. What did you think of Salmon Bay?”
“Not much.” Everyone was certainly talkative today. “Liz, I’ve got a question for you. Do you know a former boyfriend of Jane’s named Don?”
“Sure, that would be Don Del Boccio. He’s a disc jockey in Port San Marco, on KPSM.”
“Do you think she might have gone to see him?”
“I doubt it. Not after…”
“After what?”
“Well, they broke up quite a while ago.”
“Mrs. Anthony didn’t want to talk about it. She hinted Jane had done something bad to him.”
Liz chuckled. “Probably did. Jane is not exactly easy on her men.”
“Well, I think I’ll talk to him anyway. Thanks for the information.” I hung up before she could further prolong the conversation.
In the motel office I bought a local paper, then walked out on the wharf to the restaurant where I’d eaten the night before. While I was waiting for my shrimp salad, I scanned the radio listings. The show called “Don’s Daily Doubles” was on from two to eight; they worked their disc jockeys hard here. Since it was almost two now, I decided to save Del Boccio for evening and check out The Tidepools this afternoon on the off chance that Jane had visited her former place of employment. When I got in my car, I tuned in KPSM.
Del Boccio’s voice came on, extolling the Golden Forty Hits. He intended to play them all, over and over, two at a time without commercial interruptions, for the next six hours. He had a frantic style that matched the station’s hard rock format—and made me cringe. After a few minutes I switched the radio off. It was enough to know he was on the air and unavailable until eight; I didn’t have to listen to him. And, while Del Boccio was honking, snorting, and screeching his way into the hearts of local teenagers, I might even catch up with Jane. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with him at all.
The Tidepools was as attractive as Liz Schaff had said. A low building of weathered gray shingles, it was laid out in several wings on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. There were great expanses of glass that must have afforded magnificent views of the surf crashing on the rugged reefs below. Groves of eucalyptus and wind-bent cypress were scattered throughout the grounds, and the rolling lawn was immaculate. I parked in a semicircular driveway and went up to the front wing, the windows of which were screened by tall juniper hedges.
I pushed through the heavy carved door into a Spanish-style lobby with a gleaming terra-cotta floor. The rear wall was all glass and opened onto a courtyard with a blue mosaic fountain and fuchsia plants in hanging baskets. The woman at th
e desk matched the décor: she was as darkly handsome as an Indian maiden brought into a hacienda to wait on the rancheros.
I gave her my card and asked to see the personnel director. She dialed her phone and had a muffled conversation, then replaced the receiver and looked up at me. “Mrs. Bates is in conference right now. Perhaps you’d like to walk around the grounds while you wait? It shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”
A walk appealed to me far more than sitting on one of the hard carved-wood chairs in the reception area. I went back outside and looked around. Eucalyptus bordered the semicircular drive on either side, and farther back, toward the edge of the bluff, clumps of cypress leaned to indicate the direction of the prevailing wind. I cut across the well-manicured lawn toward the cliff. A wooden platform with wicker chairs perched there, and a pair of white-haired ladies sat together, knitting and chatting. They didn’t look ill, and they certainly didn’t seem sad or afraid. In fact, they nodded pleasantly at me and went on with their conversation.
I looked down at the sea. Huge outcroppings of black rock rose from the placid water, up and down, the sheltered beach. A long stairway scaled the side of the cliff from the platform. I climbed down it, noting the high tide line of seaweed and shells. When the tide was in, the entire beach would be submerged. The reefs, with the exception of one or two huge ones, would disappear—and the waves crashing against them would be treacherous. I took off my boots and socks and walked across the damp sand to the water’s edge. When I tested it with my toes, it was as cold as I’d expected.
But so what? Born in San Diego, I’d grown up around the sea. To me, walking on a beach without getting my feet wet was practically heresy and, besides, I wanted to get a look at the tidepools for which the hospice was named. I rolled up my pants legs and waded out to the start of the reefs.
The rocks felt rough even on my feet, which were toughened by my habit of going barefoot whenever possible. I squatted down and peered into one of the pools formed by concavities in the reef. Tiny fish darted through the trapped waters, and starfish and anemones clung to their sides, their delicate arms drawn in and still. Tidepools—microcosms of the unfathomable sea—had always fascinated me. I watched this one for several minutes, until I realized it was time for my appointment with Mrs. Bates.
The white-haired ladies were gone when I reached the platform. I sat down on a wicker chair and brushed sand from my feet before putting on my socks and boots. Then I re-crossed the lawn and entered the main building. The receptionist picked up her phone when she saw me and, minutes later, a slender woman with sleekly styled gray hair entered through an archway. She was dressed in a tailored black suit that would have looked more at home on Montgomery Street than in this coastal setting, and the smooth lines of her face indicated the gray was premature.
“Ms. McCone? I’m Ann Bates, the personnel director here.” She extended her hand.
I clasped it briefly. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“I understand you’re a private detective.” She glanced at my card, which she held in her other hand.
“Yes. I’m investigating the disappearance of one of your former employees.”
She raised one finely penciled eyebrow. “Who might that be?”
“Jane Anthony. I believe she was a social worker here up until eight months ago.”
Ann Bates frowned. “Yes, she was. But why have you come to us now?”
“Apparently Jane is somewhere in the Port San Marco area. I thought she might have come to see you, perhaps in hopes of getting her old job back. She hasn’t found work since she left your employ.”
“I haven’t seen Jane since the day she terminated.” She spoke abruptly, and her choice of words made it sound as if Jane were dead.
“Well, you knew her, at any rate. Maybe you can tell me something that would shed some light on where she might be.”
“I doubt anything I have to say would be helpful.”
“Another of your former employees, Liz Schaff, mentioned some unpleasantness that occurred here before they both quit. Did it involve Jane?”
Ann Bates glanced over her shoulder at the receptionist, who had been listening to our conversation. The woman quickly dropped her eyes to a book on the desk. “I don’t know what she meant by ‘unpleasantness,’” Mrs. Bates said.
“Neither do I, but she definitely alluded to it. Can you think—”
“Ms. McCone, I have no idea what Ms. Schaff could have been thinking of. And, frankly, I’m going to have to cut this short. I can’t help you, and it’s against The Tidepools’ policy to discuss our employees—or former employees—with anyone.”
“Surely you can make an exception in this case. Jane’s been missing for a week.”
“I thought you said she was here in the area. How can she be missing if you know where she is?”
“I only know approximately where. Please—”
“At any rate, it’s not in my power to make exceptions to our rule.”
“Who can, then?”
She looked puzzled.
“You might have a supervisor.”
“The only person here with more authority than I is our director, Dr. Allen Keller.”
“Then let me talk to him.”
“He’s not available today.”
“When will he be?”
She made an impatient gesture with one hand and glanced at the receptionist, who still had her head bowed over the book. “Dr. Keller is taking the week off.”
“Is he at home?”
“He may be.”
“Then let me call him there. This is important.”
“To you, perhaps, but not to Dr. Keller. His telephone number is unlisted, and I cannot give it out to anyone.”
“Shouldn’t Dr. Keller be the one to judge what’s important to him?”
Her face reddened. “In this instance, I am sure I can speak for him.” She stepped around me to the door and held it open. “And now, Ms. McCone, I must ask you to leave.”
“Thanks for being so helpful.” Irritated, I stalked outside. The door slammed behind me.
“Officious bitch,” I said aloud. There was no one to hear me but a seagull on the lawn. I glared at it and went to my car. Allen Keller might have an unlisted phone number, I thought, but there were ways to get his address.
Chapter 6
Back in my motel room, I thumbed through the Yellow Pages and selected a few of the more exclusive-sounding men’s clothing stores. Apparently Allen Keller didn’t shop at the first two I called, but the credit clerk at the third reacted with dismay when I identified myself as Dr. Keller’s secretary and asked why he hadn’t received his most recent monthly statement.
She went to check her files and returned to the phone a few minutes later. “That statement went out on the twenty-eighth, ma’am.”
“That’s odd. Was it sent to the Beach Walk address?” Beach Walk was one of the few residential street names in Port San Marco that I remembered.
“No, it went to Sea View Drive.”
“Ninety-six Sea View?”
“No, seventy-seven.”
“Now I understand.” I scribbled down the address and added, not without a twinge of conscience, “That should have been changed. It’s ninety-six Beach Walk now. You’ll see it’s corrected?”
“Of course, ma’am.” Relief flooded her voice; I wasn’t going to yell at her.
I wasn’t familiar enough with Port San Marco to place Sea View Drive. A map on the wall of the motel office showed it to be in a new development southeast of downtown. I picked out what looked like the easiest route and set off to talk to Dr. Keller.
The development was a maze of newly paved streets spiraling up toward the tops of the oak-dotted hills. I followed Sea View Drive higher and higher until I had a view of the entire coast and the channel islands in the distance. Keller’s house was an arrangement of shingle-and-glass boxes whose roofs slanted at various angles; the shingles had barely had time to wea
ther. The place reminded me of a hastily assembled house of cards that might topple at any moment.
The heavy blond man who answered the door wore a blue terrycloth bathrobe and slippers. He was fortyish and at least thirty pounds overweight. The puffiness of his face and his bloodshot eyes suggested he liked his alcohol as much as his food. “What is it?” he asked impatiently.
“I’m looking for Dr. Allen Keller.”
“You’ve found him.”
“My name’s Sharon McCone. I’m an investigator with All Souls Legal Cooperative in San Francisco.” I held out my card.
He looked at it with distaste. “You’re a detective?”
“Yes. I’m trying to locate—”
“Is it about my divorce?”
“No, I’m–”
“Because if it is, you can tell Arlene she’s gotten all she’s going to get.”
“It’s not about your divorce.”
“I don’t care about the community property laws. I made it, and it’s mine, and she can—”
I raised my voice. “It’s not about your divorce!”
“Oh.” Temporarily deflated, Keller surveyed me. “Come to think of it, you don’t look like any of the detectives I’ve seen this past year. And Lord knows I’ve seen enough of them. Are you sure you’re not working for Arlene?”
“I’m sure. I’ve never even met your wife.”
“You’re not missing much.” He looked thoughtful. “Tell me, can you make a fried egg sandwich?”
“A what?”
“Fried egg sandwich.”
“Well, yes, but what has that got to do—”
“Come on.” He opened the door wider and motioned me inside.
I hesitated, then shrugged and stepped into a large entryway. Keller shut the door and started for the rear of the house.
“I like them gooey,” he said over his shoulder, “but I keep breaking the yolks.”
“I like them that way too.” I followed him. “There are two kinds of people: the ones who break the yolk before frying the egg and the ones who don’t. It’s like people who use sandwich spread versus people who use real mayonnaise.”
Games to Keep the Dark Away Page 4