Games to Keep the Dark Away

by Marcia Muller

  “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.

  Chapter 9

  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 cooked 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.”

  “Hmm.” 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 answers 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 form 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 hy
drant—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.

  “Liz,” I said, “what did Jane tell you about her relationship with Abe Snelling?”

  “Nothing, except he was a friend and helping her out.”

  “She didn’t say anything else? How she met him? About his work or their mutual interest in photography?”

  “She didn’t say anything. I didn’t even know he was a photographer until you mentioned it the other night. And of course Jane wouldn’t discuss photography with me—she knew I didn’t even know which end of a camera to look through.”

  “How good a friend of Jane’s were you?”

  “Oh, we were pretty close. We palled around at The Tidepools, had drinks after work. Sometimes we’d have dinner.”

  “And here, in the city?”

  “We saw each other occasionally.”

  “After the patients died, you left The Tidepools first, right?”

  Her eyes widened a little. “So you found out about that.”

  “It wasn’t hard. I gather it was public knowledge.”

  “Yes, it was.” She picked up her burger, took a deliberate bite, and began chewing as if it were hard work.

  “The person who told me about the deaths mentioned a drug they use there,” I said, “a painkiller that the patients overdosed on.”

  “Look, I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Just tell me about the drug. Then we’ll drop the subject.” I didn’t exactly know why I was prying into the matter of the deaths at The Tidepools, but I had long ago learned to trust my instincts.

  Liz sighed and set her burger down. “It’s a variati
on of something called Brompton’s Mix, which was developed in England. It consists of morphine, alcohol, and one of the phenothiazines.”

  “The what?”

  “Thorazine, Compazine, or—Look, this can’t possibly mean anything to you.”

  I had to admit it didn’t. “It’s a strong enough mix to kill a person, though?”

  “Obviously, if taken in sufficient quantity. Which the patients did.”

  “How could they have gotten hold of that much of the drug?”

  “The police thought they must have saved it up from their daily dosages.” Liz’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Of course, they only came to that conclusion after thoroughly grilling the staff. But they could see for themselves that the pharmacist kept tight control over all the drugs. There was no way he would have allowed anyone to get his hands on more than the authorized dosages.”

  “Did you know any of the patients who overdosed?”

  “I knew all three. But I wasn’t on the medical team that was assigned to any of them.”

  “Was Jane?”

  “I don’t...” She paused, a strange look passing over her face.

  “Was she?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure if she worked with all three of them, but I know she was assigned as Barbara Smith’s social worker.”

  “Which one was Barbara Smith?”

  “The last one. The one whose husband...” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  “Liz—”

  “I’ve got to go.” She stood up, placing some money on the table. “Thank you for telling me about Jane.” Quickly, she strode out of the railed-off cafe. I watched her cross the wide street, her white shoes moving swiftly, her brown coat billowing open to reveal her starched smock and pants.

  I looked down at my cheeseburger, then at the briefcase that sat on the floor beside my chair. I should go to City Hall and get those documents filed. I should forget about Jane Anthony and the Tidepools. If it didn’t take too long at City Hall, I could spend the remainder of the afternoon hunting for a new apartment.

  Instead, I left my lunch untouched and went to Abe Snelling’s house.