Muller, Marcia - [McCone 04] Games to Keep the Dark Away (v.1,shtml) (11 page)

Music
poured from Don Del Boccio's apartment as he came
out and looked over the bannister at me. It sounded like
Tchaikovsky—great, surging crescendoes. I stood, my hand on the
railing, looking up.

Don wore a forest green terrycloth bathrobe and a huge grin. His
black hair was tousled and fell onto his forehead. "Now, this
time it's sure to be a social call!"

"I hope it's all right to drop in this late." I remained
where I was, still clutching the railing. "I got your message at
the motel and I… I need someone to talk to."

His bushy brows drew together in an expression of concern. "Sure.
Come on up."

I climbed the stairs, feeling terribly weary. When I got to the
top, Don's eyes searched my face and then he ushered me in. He
motioned for me to sit on the blue rug and went to the stereo. "Let
me turn this down." I dropped to the floor.

The music sank several decibels and then Don came over and sat in
front of me. "What's wrong?"

"I stumbled onto another murder." Quickly I told him
about John Cala.

Don was silent for a moment. "John. My God. Didn't the police
suspect him of having something to do with Janie's death?"

"Apparently he found her body before I did."

"And now someone's killed him."

"In the same way, and in the same kind of deserted place. Did
you know Cala?"

He nodded. "Everybody from Salmon Bay knows everybody else.
John was kind of a troublemaker, and not very bright. He dropped out
of school in tenth grade and went into his father's fishing business.
I guess he did all right."

"Really? He lived in a little house with a dreadful
assortment of junk in the front yard."

"That doesn't mean much; it's the way his family lived. In
Salmon Bay, nothing ever changes from generation to generation."

"I guess not. Did he have a family?"

"No. He married twice, that I heard of. The first wife was
killed in an auto accident, the second left him. Claimed he beat
her."

"Do you think he did?"

"Maybe. I know he was a confirmed male chauvinist; goes with
the territory, I guess."

I sighed. "It really doesn't matter now. He's dead. And his
murderer escaped. And the police think somehow it's all my fault."

Don's eyes widened. "They don't suspect
you
!"

"Oh, no. They just think I bungled everything. If I hadn't
found Cala, his body might have lain there until demolition on the
amusement park started next spring. But do they appreciate that fact?
No, because I'm a private operative, I bungled it. I suppose if a
real cop had followed him there and found his body, they'd have given
him
a medal." My voice broke, from weariness and
frustration, and Don took my hand.

"Why don't you let it go for now?" he said softly.

"How can I?"

"Relax. Have some wine."

"That sounds good."

He stood up. "How about some food?"

My stomach still felt uneasy. "No."

"Yes."

"Please, no."

"You need to eat. A little salami, some cheese. It's good for
you."

"Mother Del Borcio."

"Humor me. I'm Italian."

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Everything."

He went to the kitchen and quickly produced red wine, cheese,
crackers, a dish of black olives, and a foot-long salami.

"You're always feeding me," I said.

"I know." He sat back down and gestured at the food.
"Eat."

Surprisingly, I was able to get down a respectable amount. It did
make me feel better, but didn't relax me enough to get my mind off
Cala's murder.

"If only I knew why he went out on that pier," I said.
"And why he went to the amusement park. I know he was meeting
someone there. But who?"

Don smiled, leaning back against a pillow. "Full of
questions, aren't you?"

"It's my stock in trade. Somehow, I've always known the right
questions to ask. And people open up to me. I'm a complete stranger,
but they'll still tell me things they wouldn't tell their best
friend."

"You have an open face. You look like you won't judge
people." Don's eyes moved over my face, in the same appreciative
but inoffensive way they'd appraised my body when he first saw me. I
smiled back and lay down, my head on a pillow, feeling warm and
finally relaxed. The wine had made me drowsy and a little
disconnected from my surroundings.

"I've always asked too many questions," I said, aware I
was almost repeating myself. "My mother used to get mad at me.
'Why, why, why?' she used to say. "
Why
are you always
asking why?'"

Don chuckled and got up. He turned off the lights, brought a
candle from the kitchen, lit it, and set it on the rug. Then he lay
down, his elbow on the pillow next to me, head propped on his hand.

"Tell me about you," he said. "You asked me the
right questions earlier this week and I gave you my life history. Now
it's your turn."

"There's not a whole lot to tell. I'm from San Diego, got a
sociology degree from Berkeley, couldn't find a job. I'd done
security work part-time while I was going to school, so I went back
into that and got training as a detective."

"And your family—what are they like?"

"An average middle-class clan."

He traced one finger along my hairline. "I find it hard to
believe that an average middle-class clan produced someone like you."

"Hmmm. Well, I guess you're right. Now that I think of it,
I'm the most normal of the lot."

"Tell me about them."

I shut my eyes, visualizing my parents' old rambling house in San
Diego and all the people who had lived there at one time or another.
"I have two older brothers. One's married with two kids, the
other's single. They get in trouble with the law a lot."

"The kids or your brothers?"

"My brothers. The kids are too young yet."

"What do they do?"

"Minor things. Overdue traffic tickets. Getting rowdy in
bars. My brother John once punched out a cop. Then I have two younger
sisters."

"Do they beat up on cops?"

"No. Their specialty is pregnancy."

"Oh."

"One of them lives on a farm near Ukiah. She has three kids,
each by a different boyfriend. My other sister lives in a suburb of
L.A. She's got four kids and is married to a musician."

"Are all the kids his?"

"Oh, yes. Unlike Patsy, Charlene is very monogamous. That's
the problem."

"Problem?"

I opened my eyes. Don had a bemused smile on his lips and the
candlelight flickered over his tanned, handsome face. "Charlene's
husband keeps leaving her. Not for anything like other women—just
to go on tour with this country-western band. He'll go off for six,
eight months at a time and then, when he shows up, bingo! She's
pregnant again."

"It sounds serious."

"Oh, it is. They've only been married five years. God knows
how many kids they'll end up with."

"What about you?" Don ran his finger down my cheek and
along my jawbone. "Do you want kids?"

"I never think about them. Good Lord—I don't even know
if I want to get married."

"And I'll bet your mother worries about that."

"Oh, yes. That, and the fact I'm always getting mixed up in
murders. My poor parents! All they ever wanted were good Catholic
kids—and look what they got."

"How do they handle it?"

"Well, my mother's an expert at coping. She holds the family
together through the worst trials and traumas."

"And your dad?"

"When we were younger, he wasn't around all the time. He was
a chief petty officer in the navy and managed to pull a fair amount
of sea duty. Now he's retired and works as a cabinetmaker. When
things get to be too much for him, he just goes off to his workshop
in the garage and plays his guitar."

"What? Another musician?" Don's finger stopped moving
along my chin and he stared down at me.

I grinned. I loved to tell people about my eccentric family. "Only
amateur."

"What does he play? Rock?"

"No. Irish folk ballads."

"I thought McCone was a Scottish name."

"Scotch-Irish."

"But you look Indian."

"Shoshone. One-eighth."

"Ye gods." He brushed a tendril of hair away from my
face and wound a thick lock of it through his fingers. "Did you
know your family was, uh… not usual when you were growing up?"

"Oh, no. For years, I thought we were just like everybody
else. It wasn't until high school that I became aware of certain…
oddities."

"What enlightened you?"

"It's a long story."

"We have all night."

"Yes, we do, don't we?"

Don and I exchanged solemn looks for a moment. Then I said, "Well,
I really figured it out because of our Corvair. You know, one of
those little compact cars with the engine in the rear?"

Don nodded.

"One day, in tenth grade, I was telling a girlfriend about
it. You see, there was so much junk in our garage—my father's
guitar included—that we couldn't drive the car in all the way.
During the winter, its rear end stuck out and the engine got cold and
wouldn't start."

"All right. So far I can picture it."

"Every night," I went on, "when it was time to go
to bed, my dad would take this torchlight out to the car. He'd plug
it in and turn it on, and then he'd open the rear hood and stick the
light in there to keep the engine warm. And then he'd take a couple
of old quilts and tuck the back of the car in for the night."

Don opened his mouth, but I held up my hand. "I know what
you're going to say. Just what my friend in high school did. There I
was, telling her this story about how clever my dad was to keep the
car's engine warm in spite of everything, and she said…"
I started to laugh. "She said, as logical as could be, 'Why
doesn't he just back the car into the garage?'"

Don started to laugh too, and then I laughed harder, and he
laughed harder still. He buried his face against my neck and put his
arms around me and we laughed and laughed. Finally we lay there,
holding each other, panting and bursting into occasional giggles.
After a few minutes, Don raised his face, looked down into mine, and
kissed me.

What with the wine and the weariness, I almost felt I was
floating. I kissed him back, aware of nothing but his lips and the
soft fabric of his robe. And then I felt the rough-but-gentle touch
of his hands on my body. And responded, my own hands on him.

Soon my clothes and his robe lay heaped on the floor next to us,
and we merged together in slow but powerful motion on the blue rug.
And the aftermath of its climax brought shared peace and a shield
from the haunting shadow of violent death.

Sometime during the night we moved to the bed in the alcove and
slept, close in each other's arms. And, toward morning, I awoke with
a start from dreams of Corvairs wrapped in blood-spattered quilts.
Awoke thinking of one thing that might have made John Cala go out to
the old pier.

A car. The presence of a car he'd thought he recognized.

The
morning sunlight shining on the water at Salmon Bay
had that pale quality I associated with autumn, and there was a
slight chill in the air. I parked my car by the side of the main road
and contemplated Rose's Crab Shack.

An hour earlier, after calling Barbara Smith's sister and still
getting no answer, I'd allowed Don to feed me a disgraceful amount of
scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns, and toast. But I supposed a cup
of coffee wouldn't hurt me, and here at the Crab Shack it might open
the door to a conversation about the night that Jane Anthony died. I
got out of the car, crossed the road, and went into the
hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

There were several people in there—the same white-haired old
man behind the counter, two men in fishing clothes, and a woman with
a little girl of about ten. I started to sit down at the counter, but
the old man rose and said, "What are you doing here?"

The room grew very still.

"I thought I'd have a cup of coffee," I said.

"Not in here, you won't."

"Why not?"

The old man came around the counter and stopped within two feet of
me. He was my height and frail, but with his hands on his hips and
his white-stubbled chin jutting out, he was forbidding enough to keep
me from sitting down. He merely stood there, glaring at me with
watery blue eyes.

"Why not?" I repeated.

"We don't want your kind in here."

"My kind?"

"Troublemakers. That's what you've brought us—trouble."

"How did I do that?" I was aware of everyone else in the
room watching us.

The old man reached for a folded newspaper lying on the counter
and shook it at me. "It's all in here. First Miz Anthony's girl,
and now John Cala."

"I only found them, you know. I didn't kill them."

"That's what
you
say."

"Look, I'm trying to help the police find out who did it. I
came in here to ask you if you'd seen any cars going out to the old
pier the night Jane died."

He took a step closer. "I was in here behind the counter the
whole time. You ought to know that."

I backed up, looking around. "Well, what about everybody
else? Did any of you see a car that night?"

They were all silent. The little girl put her hand to her mouth.

The old man kept coming and I kept backing up. He held the
newspaper rolled in his hand, as if he were about to discipline a
puppy.

"Come on," I said, "somebody must have seen
something."

"That's what the cops said. And I told them the same thing.
Nobody saw nothing." We had reached the entrance now, and the
old man held the screen door open.

"Don't you care if the killer's caught?" I asked.

He motioned impatiently, shooing me outside. "All we want is
to be left alone, lady. That's all anybody here wants." He
slammed the door and hooked it shut.

I stood there peering through the screen at him and frowning.
"What are you afraid of?"

The old eyes shifted. "Nobody here's afraid of nothing."

"Are you afraid one of you might have done it? Is that it—you
think somebody who lives here in the village is the killer?"

He started to turn.

"Look at it this way," I said. "Do you really want
to live with a killer on the loose among you?"

In a flash, he had the screen door open and was outside, coming at
me. "Get out of here!" He waved the paper in the air, then
took aim at my behind. I ran just like a puppy would.

At my car I stopped and looked back. The old man stood in front of
the Crab Shack, glaring at me. The other customers had come outside
and were watching in silent amazement. The scene suddenly seemed
funny to me, and I chuckled ruefully as I got into my car and
continued down the road. Once out of sight of the restaurant, I
parked again and began canvassing on foot.

At the first house an old woman in a striped house-dress told me
she hadn't seen anything. She minded her own business, she said, and
didn't see why others couldn't do the same.

At the second house a younger woman with a baby on her hip said
she didn't have time to pay attention to what went on outside her own
yard. Besides, if this was a come-on to get her to buy something, I
could forget it. Her husband had lost his job at the supermarket, and
they were collecting unemployment.

No one was home at the next house, and the one after that had two
German shepherds in the yard. They barked and jumped on the fence and
looked at me hungrily. I decided to bypass that one.

Crossing the street, I found an old man working in his garden. No,
he said, he hadn't noticed anything, but had I ever seen such
beautiful marigolds as his?

Truthfully I said I hadn't.

The old man plucked one and gave it to me. I slipped it through
the buttonhole of my jacket and went on.

The neighboring house was vacant. At the next a woman shouted from
behind a closed door for me to go away. Two little boys playing in
the yard of the last house said their mother wasn't home.

I went into the general store and was told to get out unless I was
buying something. Finally I reached the Shorebird Bar and went
inside.

It was dark, with a long scarred bar a mirror that reminded me of
the Remedy Lounge back home. The bartender's apron was cleaner,
however, and the glasses looked like somebody had taken care in
washing them. There were two customers, men at the far end who were
shaking dice. I sat down a few stools away from them and ordered a
beer. The bartender looked as though he wanted to refuse to serve me,
then shrugged and went to get it. When he came back, I asked him
about the night of Jane's death.

He frowned, polishing the bar with a rag. "That was a busy
night. Of course, they all are. Ain't much else to do here but drink.
I don't recall anything unusual, until I heard the sirens."

"Do many people drive out that way?"

"No. Isn't much reason to. The police asked me the same
question, and I couldn't tell them anything either." Then he
looked at me with suspicion. "Why're
you
asking?"

"I'm working with the police."

"Yeah? Who?"

"Lieutenant Barrow."

Apparently he knew and liked Barrow, for he nodded and called down
the bar to the two customers, "Hey, fellows, you remember the
night Miz Anthony's girl got killed?"

They stopped rolling the dice and turned to look at us. They were
both bald, one fat and the other skinny, probably in their fifties.
The skinny one said, "I sure do, and it's a damned shame."

"This lady here is trying to find out who done it."

They hesitated, exchanging looks.

"She's okay," the barkeep said. "She's helping out
a friend of mine on the cops."

"The cops can use all the help they can get," the skinny
one said.

"Even from a lady," the other added.

I said, "Were either of you here that night?"

The fat one grinned slyly. "We're always here. You could call
us regulars."

"I'm trying to find out if anyone saw a car driving out to
the old pier. It would have been a half hour, maybe an hour before
you heard the police sirens."

They both frowned. Then the fat one nodded. "There was a car,
but I'm not sure how long before the sirens."

"What kind of a car, do you remember?"

"It was a foreign job. I noted it because we don't get too
many around here."

"Do you recall what kind?"

"I couldn't put a name to it. It was what you call a sports
car. Red. In pretty bad shape. Engine sounded like it had a cough."

The stirrings of excitement I'd been feeling disappeared. The
wonderful machine he had just described was mine.

"Does that help you any?" the fat man asked.

"Some. Did you see any cars before that one?"

He shook his head. "I was just getting here. You want, we
could ask some of the other boys."

"Do that. Thanks." I stood up. "I'll stop by again
later."

The bartender nodded and went back to polishing the scarred
surface in front of him. The "boys" went back to their
dice.

I left and stood outside, looking off toward the pier. My
morning's efforts seemed fruitless and now I wondered why I had even
bothered. The police would have canvassed the village thoroughly—and,
given their official status, at least would not have been
ingloriously chased out of the Crab Shack. I had better get back to
town and try Barbara Smith's sister once again.

"Lady?" The voice came from behind me.

I turned. It was the little girl who had been in the Crab Shack
with her mother. She was dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt, and had
bare feet. Her blond hair was pulled up in a pony tail and secured
with a pink plastic barette.

"Hi," I said. "What's your name?"

"Rachel."

"That's a nice name. Where's your mom?"

She motioned at the store down the street. "Getting the
groceries. I'm not supposed to talk to you."

"Why not?"

"They say you're an outsider. We don't like outsiders here."

Lord, they taught them young! "Who doesn't?"

She paused, looking down and running her bare toes through the
dust. "My mom. And my dad. Most everybody."

"What about you?"

She looked up, fixing solemn eyes on my face. "I don't mind
strangers. At least I don't mind you. And I like your car."

"You do, huh?"

"Yes. Could I sit in it, do you think?"

"Won't that make your mom mad?"

She glanced at the store. "She'll be in there a long time.
She has a big list. Can't I sit in your car? Please!"

"Okay," I said. "Come on."

We went down the road and I held the passenger door open for her.
Rachel hopped in and began to examine the dashboard. I remained
standing beside the car; I was not going to get myself accused of
child-stealing.

"Does this radio work?" Rachel asked.

"Yes. Do you want to hear it?"

"Please."

I reached in and put my key in the ignition, then flicked the
radio on. A disc jockey's voice filled the air, going on about the
fifties sock hop to be held at Port San Marco High on Saturday. His
style was not nearly so frantic as Don's. Don. Thinking of him gave
me a momentary rush of pleasure.

"The radio in my dad's car is busted," Rachel said. "It
has been for years."

I turned my attention back to the little girl. "Is that so?"

"Yes." She turned, her forearms resting on the window,
and looked up at me. "The real reason I wanted to sit in the car
is to talk about what you were asking back there." She jerked
her head in the direction of the Crab Shack.

I'd suspected she had more on her mind than the MG. "Oh?"

"About the cars the night the lady was killed. I'm not
supposed to know about the lady being killed, but I do. And I saw
something."

"Tell me."

She looked around. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"My mom said not to. She said to forget it so we wouldn't get
involved. You're never supposed to get involved."

I squatted down beside the car. "Rachel, your mom is right.
Sometimes getting involved is a bad thing. But there are other times
when it's important. Times when you can help other people."

"Like you?"

"Like me."

She considered this solemnly. "Knowing about the car will
help you?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"A whole lot."

She nodded as if she'd already known that. Then she said, "There's
this Garfield doll at the store. I've been saving up for it, and I've
almost got enough. But I need two more dollars."

It surprised me so much that my mouth dropped open.

"Only two dollars," Rachel repeated.

"Did you parents also teach you that tactic?" I
muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing." I dug in my bag and held up the money. "I
give you two dollars, you tell me about the car, right?"

"Right." She reached for it.

I pulled it back; I didn't like the idea of bribing a child. But
then, she'd proposed it. "Tell me first."

Her lower lip pushed out. "How do I know you'll pay me if I
tell first?"

Rachel had been watching too much TV, I decided. "Don't
worry. I'll pay."

"All right." She leaned forward through the window, her
small face conspiratorial. "That night I was playing in the
front yard of our house." She motioned down the road. "I
wasn't supposed to be out there; my mom thought I was in my room. But
I like it outside when it's dark."

I glanced back at the store. Rachel's mother was nowhere in sight,
but I was worried she would come out at any moment. "What did
you see, Rachel?"

She pouted again.

I held up the two dollar bills.

"I saw a car go out there. It parked and then its lights shut
off."

"What kind of car?"

"Like my dad's. That's why I noticed it."

''What kind of car does he have?''

"A VW. A dark blue one."

"And this was a VW?"

"Yes. A blue one, just like Dad's."

"What happened then?"

"My mom came out and called me. And I went inside."

It
would
be a VW, one of the most common cars on the
California highways. Still, it was a lead. I held out the two dollars
to Rachel. Her small hand closed over them quickly and she stuffed
them in her pocket. I stood up and opened the car door for her.

"Maybe you'd better not tell your mother we talked," I
said.

"I never tell her anything I don't have to." She jumped
out of the car and started off toward the store. "Thanks, lady!"
she called over her shoulder.

What a polite little extortionist! Was it the parents' fault? I
wondered. Television? Something in the water? And what about people
like me, who bribed children?

I decided I'd better leave philosophical considerations for
another day, and headed back toward Port San Marco.