Games to Keep the Dark Away

by Marcia Muller

  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 Café, scene of Snelling’s photographic triumph. Its windows were dark, the umbrellas on the little outdoor tables furled. The entire neighborhood had a quiet, shut-down appearance. Even the walls 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 Sn
elling 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 quiet 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 form S.F. 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.

  “By ‘anyone,’ you mean Jane.”

  “Yes.” She drained her wineglass. “Jane. And me.”

  Liz Schaff hadn’t given me any more concrete facts than Snelling, but her short, resentful speech about Salmon Bay had breathed life into the photograph I had in my bag. I finished my wine and slipped into my jacket.

  “Have I helped?” Liz asked.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Will you let me know what you find out?”

  “Sure.” I gave her one of my cards. “The first number is where I work—All Souls Legal Cooperative; the other’s my answering service. Call me anytime if you think of anything else.”

  Liz scribbled a number on the back of what looked like a grocery list. “And that’s where you can reach me. Please do let me know.”

  I told her not to worry, and we left together. Liz headed for her car and I went home to pack for a trip to Salmon Bay.

  Chapter 3

  I couldn’t decide whether my studio apartment was untidy or it just looked that way in contrast to Jane Anthony’s impeccable room. True, there were unwashed dishes in the sink and rumpled quilts on the bed, but that didn’t necessarily make me a sloven, did it? As I entered the combination living-and-bedroom, my cat, Watney, brushed against my legs, purring as if to reassure me. I scratched him and then sat down cross-legged on the bed, staring at the want ad section that was spread out there.

  The ads from the Sunday paper were turned to the heading “Apartments for Rent—S.F.,” and a good number of the boxes were circled in red ink. Unfortunately, most of them had X’s over the circles. When I’d decided it was time to start looking for a new place to live, I hadn’t realized what a short supply of decent apartments there was in the city.

  But I’d definitely decided to move. There had been two murders in the building the previous year—which I had been involved with—as well as numerous upheavals in the neighborhood stemming from the crimes. Frankly, coming home depressed me these days. And the apartment really was too small; the sparkles in the acoustical paint on the ceiling were tacky; the old icebox that ran off the compressor in the basement didn’t hold enough or keep things very cold; even the little garden of plastic flowers in the lobby had ceased to amuse me. It was time to move.

  Wasn’t it?

  But I’d been here for years. I was settled.

  Wasn’t I?

  Besides, was I really ready to pay over six hundred dollars for a one-bedroom in another neighborhood?

  I cut the debate with myself short. Obviously I wasn’t going any place in a hurry; all the apartments I’d looked at yesterday had been rented by the time I’d gotten there.

  I reached for the phone and called my answering service. There was a message from my friend Linnea Carraway, who had recently taken a news anchor position with a small TV
station in Seattle; she’d just called to chat. Paula Mercer, my artistic friend from the de Young Museum, had heard of an apartment I might like and wanted me to phone her. One of my sisters had called. All she’d said to the operator at the service was, “This is Sharon’s sister,” so I didn’t know which of the two she was. And I was damned if I was going to spend long-distance money to find out. There was no message from Greg.

  Well, why should there be? That was over. After a year and a half, Lieutenant Gregory Marcus and I had called it off. We’d had good times—even wonderful times—but our stormy natures had turned our affair into a battleground. I was glad the relationship was over; it was a relief to be without the constant, energy-sapping conflict. But still, you get used to that daily phone call after all that time. You get used to shared laughter and loving and nice moments. Not finding a message left me with a mild sense of depression. I needed to do something. I needed to get out of here. Now.

  I got up and took my suitcase from the closet. Watney eyed it suspiciously.

  “Yes, I’m leaving you again,” I told him. “Tim will feed you.”

  Watney merely turned his back and licked one black-and-white spotted shoulder.

  That was another problem, I thought as I threw jeans and sweaters, and a skirt in case I needed to look grown up, into the bag. Where would I ever find another apartment manager who would take such good care of my cat? Maybe I should…

  As I drove down the Junipero Serra freeway toward San Jose, I decided to bypass Salmon Bay and take a motel room in Port San Marco. I remembered spending a week there one childhood summer with Linnea and her parents. The memory conjured up images of a boardwalk and amusement park rides, cotton candy and corn dogs.

  And the thought of corn dogs made me realize it had been a long time since supper. I fished in my bag for one of my emergency-ration Hershey bars and unwrapped it with one hand. The squares of chocolate lifted those traces of depression that remained.

  Port San Marco, as I recalled, had once been a great fishing port. Then, as Liz Schaff had said, the industry had become automated and large companies from the north and south had taken over, putting the individual fisheries out of business. Unlike the village of Salmon Bay, the larger town had made the transition to the modern age, and now so-called smogless industries and expensive housing tracts dotted the hills west of the port. The port itself was given over to tourism; luxurious marinas, restaurants, and hotels lined the waterfront. I’d even heard something about plans for a performing arts center on the site of the old amusement park.