Muller, Marcia - [McCone 04] Games to Keep the Dark Away (v.1,shtml) (16 page)

I had heard that Snelling was quite a recluse. In spite of his
celebrity, the shy photographer was never photographed himself and
even refused to attend exhibitions of his own work. It was said that
he ventured out of his house less and less these days, insisting his
clients come to his studio here rather than go to them.

I continued gazing at the view, wondering where to start looking
for Jane Anthony on the basis of the few facts I had, until I heard
Snelling shuffle his feet. He was still nervous about snipers, even
if I wasn't. I took a final look around the room and then followed
him back upstairs.

"Are you sure you don't want to bring the police in on this,
Abe?" I asked.

"No!" He looked surprised at the violence of his own
answer, then repeated more softly, "No. If Jane has just gone
off for some private reason, she'll be furious with me."

He seemed excessively concerned with Jane's temper.

"She
did
go off without telling you."

"I know, but she'd say she's an adult and entitled to live
her own life. Please, Sharon, can't you find her without involving
the police?"

"I'll try." I asked him for the names of the friends
he'd contacted as well as Jane's mother's phone number and address in
Salmon Bay. He got an address book and read them off to me.

"Do you plan to talk to Mrs. Anthony?" he asked as he
followed me down the hall to the door.

"It's a good place to start. I'll try not to alarm her. But,
frankly, there's so little of your roommate here—nothing
personal at all—that I really don't have any sense of who she
is or what she's likely to do."

"Funny." He paused, his hand on the doorknob. "I
thought I knew her, but I don't have any sense of that either."

"Well, maybe her mother will fill me in."

"Maybe." But he sounded doubtful.

We said good-night and I went out into the crisp fall evening. As
I started down the overgrown path, I heard Snelling chain the door
and lock himself securely into his sanctuary.

As
I walked back to my car I noticed a black VW parked
nearby. It hadn't been there before and, since it was even more
beat-up than my own MG, I wondered if its owner had abandoned it. My
question was answered when I drove off. The VW's lights flashed on
and it pulled out after me.

I turned off of Snelling's street onto Missouri, heading for home,
but I wasn't very familiar with Potrero Hill and I quickly found that
it had any number of streets that came to dead ends. In the dark I
lost my bearings and, at the same time, I became conscious that the
same set of headlights had been shining in my rearview mirror for
quite a while. They were small and close-set, and I wondered if it
could be the VW I'd seen near Snelling's house and, if so, why it was
following me. Possibly it had something to do with my visit to the
photographer but more likely it was someone who had spotted me, a
woman alone, and decided to play games. The best course of action was
to get off this damned hill; I could lose him on the flatlands.

I came to Twentieth and went left. It was a through street, but it
curved back, taking me even farther out of my way. Irritated, I
jammed on my brakes and made a U-turn, my headlights illuminating a
rustic board fence that surrounded one of the communal gardens that
dotted the area's vacant lots. As I went back up the rise, the old
black car passed me. I tried to get a glimpse of the driver, but his
headlights blinded me. When I reached Vermont Street I stopped,
waiting to see if he would keep going or turn.

He made a U at the same spot in the curve as I had, then started
back up. I put my car in gear and went right on Vermont, deciding to
give this business the acid test. Ahead was the section known as "the
second most crooked street in the world"—a series of esses
actually more perilous than the famous Lombard Street on Russian
Hill. I left the MG in first gear and snaked down between the
concrete embankments, past a cypress-dotted park on one side and the
brightly lit windows of houses and apartment buildings on the other.
At first I thought the other car had given up, but as I hit the
straightaway and put on speed, I spotted its lights.

In my years as a private detective, I'd tailed people and had been
tailed in return, but I'd never experienced anything like this. It
was the most amateurish job I'd ever seen. My inclination was to
suspect kids playing a prank—but kids were never this
persistent. If it was someone following me because of my visit to Abe
Snelling,

I wanted to get a look at him. I slowed and turned in front of
S.F. General Hospital. When I looked back, my pursuer was gone.

I didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
Downshifting, I stopped for a light in front of the old red brick
buildings of the hospital. To my left was the Blue Owl Cafe, scene of
Snelling's photographic triumph. Its windows were dark, the umbrellas
on the little outdoor tables furled. The entire neighborhood had a
quiet, shutdown appearance. Even the wails of ambulances were
momentarily stilled. I gave the iron gates of the hospital a cursory
glance, then did a double take. The black car waited just inside one
of the auto entrances. Obviously its driver had known some shortcut
through the hospital grounds. The light changed and I gunned the MG
straight ahead. My pursuer pulled out of the driveway and careened
across three lanes of traffic after me.

What now? I asked myself.

The amateurishness of the tail job had convinced me the driver
couldn't possibly be much of a threat—and that in itself could
be dangerous. For safety's sake, I decided to lead him to my own
neighborhood.

When I reached my own block on Guerrero Street, I began to look
for a parking space. I left the first one I found for my pursuer and
took one closer to my apartment building. When I saw him slip into
the space, I got out of my car, locked it, and glanced back. I still
couldn't see the driver through the glare of the headlights. I walked
down the sidewalk, past my building, and glanced back again. A woman
of about my height was getting out of the other car. In seconds,
footsteps tapped behind me. I turned and ran up the outside steps of
the building three doors down from mine, then flattened myself
against the wall by the mailboxes inside the dark entrance.

The woman's footsteps faltered and stopped just short of the
entrance. I waited, barely breathing. When the footsteps started
again, they seemed to be going away. Once more they stopped, then
came back toward me with renewed speed. A figure came through the
archway and ran up the steps.

She was slender, dressed in a corduroy jacket and jeans. In the
dark, she missed seeing me. She had her back to me, scanning the
doorbell buzzers on the opposite wall, when I stepped forward and
said, "Okay, what do you want?"

The woman gasped and whirled, her hand to her mouth. In the gleam
from a streetlight, I saw wide eyes and a close-fitting cap of blond
hair. She stood staring at me, frozen.

Slowly the woman lowered her hand. It went to her pocket, and I
tensed, thinking she might have a gun. All she did, however, was slip
her fingers in there. Her other hand clutched the strap of her
shoulder bag.

At that moment the entry lights, which were probably on a timer
switch, came on. They showed a woman about forty, too sharp-featured
to be attractive. Lines of strain were drawn taut around her mouth.
She glanced from side to side, as if surprised to find herself there.
Her obvious fright relieved me.

She ran her tongue over her lips. "I…"

"Look," I said, "I'm not going to hurt you. I just
want to know why you're following me."

"I… I saw you come out of Abe Snelling's house."

"Yes?"

"So I followed you."

"Do you make a habit of following all his visitors?"

"I… no, of course not." She took her hand out of
her pocket and placed it on the other one, gripping the shoulder bag
even tighter.

"Then why me?"

"I thought you might have been there to see Jane."

"Jane Anthony?"

She nodded.

"What about Jane?"

"She's a friend of mine. I haven't been able to get hold of
her. She missed a lunch date early this week, and I've called and
called, but Snelling just says she's not there."

"But why watch the house?"

"Tonight was the first time I've done anything like that. I
was thinking of going in to talk to Abe Snelling when I saw you come
out." She looked down. "I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

She was silent.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Schaff. Liz Schaff."

It wasn't one of the names on the list of Jane's friends Snelling
had given me. "Okay, Liz, mine's Sharon McCone. What exactly are
you afraid of?"

"I…" She looked up. "Can we go some place
and talk?"

"Sure." I didn't want to take this stranger into my
apartment, so I said, "Let's go over to Ellen T's, the bar on
the corner. We'll have a drink and you can tell me about it."

She nodded and we went down the steps and across Guerrero to my
neighborhood tavern.

It was Monday night and the drinking crowd was sparse, just a few
regulars. I waved to one of my fellow tenants, a guy who did wood
sculpture, and nodded to the owner of the new ice cream shop on the
opposite corner. The shop was the latest in an invasion of chic
businesses that threatened to change the simple, friendly atmosphere
of my working-class neighborhood. Ellen T's was one institution I
hoped would remain the same—and I was reasonably certain that
as long as Ellen and Stanley Tortelli owned it, it would stay a homey
corner tavern, dispensing good food, good drinks, and, occasionally,
good advice.

I asked Liz Schaff what she wanted to drink and, when Stanley
looked up from one of his ever-present crossword puzzles, ordered two
glasses of white wine.

"Red's better for you, now that the fall weather's setting
in," Stanley said. Often the good advice came unasked for.

"White," I said firmly.

He shrugged and went to pour it. When I paid, Liz tried to give me
a dollar, but I pushed it aside. "Don't worry; I'm on an expense
account."

Stanley rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Clearly, he didn't believe
it. As I led Liz to the back room where the old men played dominoes,
I wondered why it was that those who knew me well refused to
associate me with such items as expense accounts, first-class
airplane tickets, and fashionable clothes. Looking down at my jeans
and old suede jacket, I got my answer.

The back room was also Monday-night quiet. Four old men sat at the
domino tables and two Latino youths were idly knocking balls around
on the felt of a pool table. Liz and I sat in the far corner. I
sipped my wine before I spoke.

"Now," I said, "tell me what you're afraid of that
makes you watch Abe Snelling's house."

Liz ran a hand through her smooth blond hair, then began fiddling
with one of her gold hoop earrings. "Well, Jane's missing."

But that wasn't enough. "And?"

"And…" She paused, looking at me, and then her
eyes took on a hard resolve. "And I'm afraid Abe Snelling has
done something to her."

"Done something? Like what?"

"Well, hurt her or imprisoned her in there or…"

"Yes?"

"Or killed her."

"Killed her? Do you know Snelling personally?"

She looked startled. "Uh, no."

"He's a photographer, very well known and respected."

"All Jane ever told me was his name. And I don't know
anything at all about photography."

"Well, believe me, your suspicions don't jibe with his public
persona. Exactly why do you think he would kill your friend?"

"She's missing.
Something's
happened to her."

"It could be something quite harmless. She may have gotten
sick of everything and taken off some place to be alone. She might be
with a friend—a male friend. She may have simply decided to
disappear; people deliberately disappear all the time."

"Not Jane."

"You never know what a person is capable of doing until he or
she does it."

Liz shook her close-cropped head.

"You say you and Jane are friends?" I asked.

She ignored the question. "Snelling must have mentioned Jane
to you. What did he say?"

I hesitated. Snelling hadn't asked me to keep the investigation
confidential. "That she's missing."

"Are you a friend of his? Is that why he told you?"

"I'm a private detective. Snelling hired me to find her."

"Oh." Liz reached for her wineglass. Her hand shook
slightly as she raised it to her lips. She set it back down carefully
in the indentation it had made on her napkin. The gesture made me
think of Jane Anthony's immaculate bedroom. "He must also be
worried about her then."

"Very worried. So you see, your fears are groundless.
Murderers don't hire private detectives to locate their victims, now
do they?"

She smiled faintly. "Not in real life."

"That's right." I sipped some wine. "If you want to
help me find your friend, you can tell me something about her."

"Like what?"

"Start at the beginning—how do you know her?"

"We're from the same hometown, Salmon Bay, near Port San
Marco. I'm about four years older than Jane, but we knew each other
growing up—everybody in Salmon Bay knows everybody else. And we
worked together at The Tidepools."

"What's that?"

"A hospice, a place that provides care for the terminally
ill. I'm a registered nurse, have my degree from UCLA. Jane is a
social worker."

"Where is The Tidepools?"

"In Salmon Bay, a little north of the village proper. It's a
rambling shingled building on the bluff above a beach with reefs and
tidepools. The setting is beautiful, really, all cypress and
eucalyptus groves. You'd never think, looking at it, that people go
there to die."

"And you and Jane worked there together."

"For over five years."

"It must have been depressing."

Liz looked surprised. "Oh, no, it wasn't. The whole
philosophy of the hospice movement is dying without fear, and in
dignity. At The Tidepools, the patients live out what time they have
fully, even happily. Sometimes it can be quite inspiring."

"When did you leave there?"

"Well over a year ago. There was… some…
unpleasantness, and then I had a good offer from S.E General."

''Unpleasantness?''

She shook her head and looked down into her wine.

I let it go for the moment. "What about Jane? Did she leave
at the same time?"

"No, not until maybe eight months ago. She came up here
without a job, hoping she'd find something in her field, but she
found that they're not hiring social workers. She had it pretty rough
until Abe Snelling took her in. I tried to make her a loan but Jane's
too proud to accept money."

But not too proud to accept Snelling's free room, I thought. "Do
you know of any place Jane might have gone?" I asked. "Friends?
A boyfriend?"

"No." She looked up, eyes wide. "That's why I've
been so worried."

"What about home? I understand her mother still lives in
Salmon Bay."

"They don't get along. I don't think she'd go there."

Briefly I'd entertained the thought that maybe Jane didn't want to
see Snelling for some reason and had asked her mother to lie to him
on the phone. But if they weren't on good terms… "You're
sure it's that bad a relationship?"

Liz hesitated. "Pretty sure. Mrs. Anthony doesn't approve of
anything Jane does."

"Why?"

"That's just the way she is."

"I don't understand."

"Salmon Bay is a rather provincial place. It's basically a
fishing village, but the fishing industry got automated and most of
the individual fisheries went broke. People in Salmon Bay still
manage to make a living, but barely. They just sit out there on their
spit of land, mending their nets and dreaming of the good old days.
Naturally, anyone who ventures into the real world is suspect."
The bitterness in Liz's voice grew with every word.