Muller, Marcia - [McCone 04] Games to Keep the Dark Away (v.1,shtml) (18 page)

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 the desk matched the decor:
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
the 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 recrossed 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 must 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.

Back
in my motel room, I thumbed through the Yellow Pages
and selected a few of the more exclusive-sounding men's doming
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 weather. 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."

"And Scotch drinkers versus bourbon drinkers. Or people who
eat small curd cottage cheese, as opposed to the ones who like large
curds." Keller led me into a large, tiled kitchen. It was
spotlessly clean except for the stove top, which was littered with
egg shells. A partly fried egg with a broken yolk sat in congealing
grease in a frying pan. There were several more eggs in the sink.
Keller motioned at the stove. "See what you can do. Fix one for
yourself if you're hungry."

Never shy where food was concerned, I jumped at the invitation;
after all, it was almost five o'clock. "Thanks, I will."

Keller went to the refrigerator. "Want a beer?"

"Sure." I busied myself at the stove.

"The help's off today." He set the beer next to me. "And
I can't cook worth a damn. So of course I had to get a craving for
something difficult. By the way, since it's not me you're after,
what're you investigating?"

"Later. This is a delicate operation."

We took our sandwiches to a blue-and-white breakfast nook. As
Keller sat across from me and cracked another beer, I studied him.
Under the overhead light, the puffiness of his face was more
pronounced and there were bluish semicircles under his eyes. It
seemed a typical case of a doctor not taking his own advice. I
wondered if he was always in this bad a shape or if it was a result
of what sounded like a messy divorce.

After I'd bitten into my sandwich and gotten yolk all over my
chin, I dug into my bag and took out Snelling's photo of Jane
Anthony. "Do you remember this woman?" I passed it over to
Keller.

He looked at it and his eyes widened in surprise. "That's
Jane."

"Yes, Jane Anthony."

"Why do you have her picture?"

"She's missing and her roommate has hired me to locate her."

"But…" He paused and took a swig of beer.

"But?"

Keller ran a hand through his blond hair. "Why have you come
to me?"

"She's a former employee of The Tidepools. Mrs. Bates refused
to talk to me about Jane. I thought perhaps you could shed some light
on where she might be."

"
I
could?"

"Yes. Her roommate is very anxious to locate her."

"Oh." Keller poked a finger at his untouched sandwich,
looking thoughtfully at the picture. "I see. Well, I'd like to
help you, but Miss Anthony was merely one of many employees. As an
administrator, I don't have much contact with the people who work
with the patients, and I'm afraid I don't know anything about the
woman personally. And, of course, it's been a long time since I've
seen her."

That was what I'd been afraid of. I sighed, taking the photo from
him and tucking it back in my bag. Still, while I was here, I could
try to find out something about the mysterious "unpleasantness"
at The Tidepools. When people refused to talk about something or
pretended ignorance of it—and Ann Bates had seemed to be
pretending—I became more and more curious.

"Tell me something about The Tidepools, Dr. Keller," I
said. "Are you merely the director or do you own it?"

"I'm part owner, along with Mrs. Bates, who is my business
manager as well as personnel director." Keller still hadn't
touched his sandwich. For a man with such a craving, his appetite had
ebbed fast—but that was probably due to the alcohol. Now he
picked it up and took a bite, then set it down quickly.

"And the term for the place is a hospice?" I asked.

"Yes. It's a concept that has been popular in Britain for
some time and started to catch on in America in the mid-seventies.
Basically what we do is help people who have terminal illnesses live
as fully and comfortably as they can until their deaths. The
philosophy is that death is merely another stage in human
development. It should be met with dignity, and we help our patients
to achieve that."

"How does a hospice differ from say, a hospital or a
convalescent home?"

"Well, as I said, our patients all have terminal illnesses.
We can't—and don't—attempt to cure them. Instead, we try
to ease their pain: physically, through special mixtures of drugs
that are effective without keeping them doped up. And emotionally, by
such policies as encouraging their families to be with them as much
as possible. Each patient is assigned a team consisting of a doctor,
a nurse, a social worker, and a trained volunteer. The staff and
patients grow very close; it's an extremely warm atmosphere."

"It must be an expensive place. I mean, with all those staff
members giving individual attention to each patient."

Keller shrugged. "Health care is never cheap." He picked
up the sandwich and looked dubiously at it, then took another bite,
as if he were afraid of insulting the cook.

"Then most of your patients must be well off."

"Not all of them. We accept insurance plans as well as
Medicare and MediCal. And special arrangements can be made."

"Such as?"

"You're very curious about our inner workings." He
smiled when he said it, but I sensed a wariness.

I decided to manufacture a personal interest. "I have good
reason. My Uncle Jim is very ill. Cancer." In reality, my
mother's younger brother was a top touring player on the pro bowling
circuit. A couple of times before when I'd needed to fictionalize a
relative with a disease or handicap, Uncle Jim had popped into my
mind. I had a superstition that saying something bad might make it
so, and Jim was the least likely person in the family to succumb to
anything.

"That's too bad." Keller gave up on the sandwich and
pushed his plate away. "How long has he?"

"The doctors haven't said. The problem is, although he owns
his home, he doesn't have much cash. If he wanted to go to The
Tidepools, what kind of arrangement could you make with him?"

Keller drained his beer and went to the refrigerator for another.
"You say he owns a house? Does he have any other assets?"

"Some rental properties."

"That's simple, then. We'd have him draw up a will, with The
Tidepools as beneficiary. At the time of his death, we would have
first claim on the estate for the amount owing for his care, plus a
carrying charge."

"Carrying charge?"

"To reimburse us for what we'd lost by not having immediate
payment."

"I see." I also pushed my half-eaten sandwich away. The
conversation had killed my appetite. What Keller had just explained
made good financial sense, but it sounded somewhat cold-blooded to
me. "Well," I said, "I'll bring it up to my uncle when
it seems appropriate. The Tidepools certainly looks like a pleasant
place to, um, spend one's last days."

"I can assure you it is."

"I did hear something that makes me leery, though."

"Oh?"

"Another of your former employees—Liz Schaff—hinted
there had been some unpleasantness there, just before both she and
Jane Anthony left your employ."

Keller frowned. "Unpleasantness?"

"Yes. She wouldn't elaborate, though."

His eyes began calculating rapidly. "When did these women
leave The Tidepools?"

"Between eight months and a year ago, I think."

"That explains it."

"Then you know what she was talking about?"

"Yes, but it was nothing, really. I'm surprised she would
even bring it up. It had nothing to do with either Miss Schaff or
Miss Anthony."

"What was it?"

"A problem with one of the patients. Actually, with a member
of the patient's family. I won't go into it, however; it's nothing
that's likely to happen again."

For a closed issue, I thought, people were mighty sensitive about
it. "Still, I'd like to know, if I'm to recommend The Tidepools
to my uncle."

"I assure you, Miss McCone, it was nothing." Keller
glanced at his watch and pushed his chair back from the table. "It's
after six, and I have an appointment at seven."

I stood up. "Thank you for taking the time to talk to me."

"And thank
you
for demonstrating your excellent
culinary skills."

I gave his partially eaten sandwich a skeptical glance and
followed Keller down the hall to the front door. As I stepped
outside, I remembered some unfinished business. "Oh, by the way,
I think you should telephone Ross Brothers, the clothing store, in
the morning."

He frowned.

"I don't want to go into it, but your billing address is
wrong. You'll want to correct it."

"My billing address?"

"Uh-huh."

A slow smile spread across his puffy face. "This must have
something to do with how you located me. The Tidepools would never
give out my address."

"You're right."

"But I shouldn't ask."

"Right again."

I left Allen Keller standing on the steps of his house, the
bemused smile on his face. The building still reminded me of a house
of cards, and I wondered if his messy divorce and the community
property laws were what it would take to make it topple.