Games to Keep the Dark Away

by Marcia Muller

  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 and a fly-specked 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 dying 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 ponytail and secured with a pink plastic barrette.

  “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 your 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 windows, 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 di
d 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.

  Chapter 17

  I went to the Mission Inn to phone Barbara Smith’s sister, Susan Tellenberg, and check for messages. There was one—from Abe Snelling, of all people. Perhaps the photographer wanted to rehire me. I depressed the receiver and direct-dialed his home in San Francisco. He answered immediately.

  “Thanks for calling,” He said. “Hank Zahn told me where you were. It was in the papers about you finding that dead man. He was the one they originally suspected of killing Jane, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think he did do it?”

  “No. I think he knew who did, and that got him killed.”

  There was a long silence. When Snelling spoke, his voice was flat. “So they aren’t any closer to finding the person now than before.”

  “Not really.”

  “Has anything else come up about Jane?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, anything that might....I don’t know. That might explain why she was murdered.”

  I had the impression that Snelling had something specific in mind but didn’t want to say. “Well, I did find out where she was that week. She has a boyfriend down here and she was staying on his boat doing research.”

  “Research?” Now he sounded astonished.

  “Not of a scholarly sort. I think Jane was looking into an old murder that happened at the place where she used to work, a hospice called The Tidepools. She was going through their personnel files—the boyfriend, Allen Keller, is part owner there and probably brought them to her at the boat.”

  “Why on earth was she doing that?”

  “She must have had an idea who the killer was and wanted to verify it with the records.”

  “But why?”

  I hesitated. Snelling had been Jane’s friend and might not like what I was about to say. But, then, by his own admission they hadn’t been all that close. “I think she intended to blackmail the killer. The boyfriend here is in bad financial shape and she may have been trying to help him out. In fact, she went to San Francisco originally with the idea of making money to buy him out of his trouble.”

  Again Snelling surprised me with his reaction. He said in a matter-of-fact tone, “You mean she came here looking for this killer.”

  “Or a lead to him.”

  “Amazing.” But he didn’t sound amazed at all. Of course, Snelling struck me as a good judge of character, and this new information may have fit in with what he had already guessed about Jane.

  “Do you want to reopen the case?” I asked.

  He ignored the question. “Did the police look over those personnel records?”

  “I doubt they’ve had the chance. Keller was aware I knew they were on the boat, so he would have returned them to The Tidepools right away. The police would have to subpoena them, and I don’t think there’s been time for that.”

  “I see.”

  “Abe, don’t you want me to—”

  “No. Jane’s dead, and it’s a waste of money anyway. I have to go now. I was working in the darkroom and I only answered the phone because I thought it might be you. Thanks for calling.” Abruptly he hung up.

  I sat staring at the receiver. Snelling had certainly gotten a lot of information for free. “Cheapskate,” I muttered.

  After a few seconds I called Susan Tellenberg’s number. This time she answered and, when I asked if I could come talk to her about her sister, she sounded surprised but agreed. She gave me instructions on how to get there and said she’d see me within the hour.

  The Tellenberg home was in the older section of the city, not far from Don’s apartment house. It was a white frame cottage on a double lot, most of which was apple orchard. I went up to the door and was greeted by a plump blond boy of about five.

  “Mama said you should come to the orchard,” he told me, and took off across the front yard and through the trees. I followed, savoring the pungent aroma of overripe fruit. It reminded me of cider and football games and long walks home afterward, holding the hand of the cutest boy on the team. Funny how a new romance could beget memories of an old one...

  A woman with dark, curly hair and a rosy complexion sat cross-legged under the trees, tossing apples into a bushel basket. The little boy made a beeline for her and burrowed into her lap. She hugged him, adjusted the halter top he had knocked askew, and waved at me. I went over there.

  “I’m Susan Tellenberg,” she said, “and this is my son, Robbie.”

  The little boy wriggled out of her lap, gave me a military salute, and began to prance around, smashing apples. His mother gave him a stern look and he stopped. “Ms. McCone and I have things to talk about, Robbie. Perhaps you’d like to go in the house and find a book.”

  “I’ve read all my books.”

  “Reread one. You like the story about the rhinoceros.”

  “Rhinoceros!” His eyes grew wide and he turned and ran toward the house.

  “He’s young to be reading,” I said.

  “You’re never too young.” She grinned. “Besides, it keeps him occupied and it’s cheaper than buying a TV. I hope you don’t mind if we talk out here. I’ve got to get these windfalls picked up before they rot and disease the trees.”

  “No problem.” I dropped to the ground, glad I’d worn jeans. “Let me help you.”

  “You want to know about Barbara,” she said.

  I picked up a couple of apples and tossed them into the basket. “Yes. I’ve read up on the case, in connection with another investigation, and I wanted to get an account of what happened from someone who really knew her.”

  “Is this other case something to do with Andy? Are you trying to find him?”

  “Her husband? No. It’s related to one of the people who used to work at The Tidepools.

  “Good.” She nodded with satisfaction and moved over to another pile of windfall apples.

  I moved too. “Why good?”

  “Because Andy didn’t kill my sister, and I don’t want to him found. By now, he’s started a new life and he’s entitled to it.”

  “It sounds as if you like him.”

  “I like Andy a lot. He put up with plenty from my sister and, on top of that, to be suspected of murdering her... well, it’s too unfair. I only wish we hadn’t run; there was no need to.”

  “Oh?”

  She must have interpreted the comment as skeptical, because her eyes flashed. “Barbara’s death was a suicide. Andy ran because the police started raising all kinds of stupid speculation.”

  “He must have been very frightened.”

  She shrugged. “Andy always was a bit of a coward. But a nice coward, a gentle man. He wouldn’t hurt any
one, least of all Barbara. He loved her, for some reason.”

  “Tell me about Barbara.”

  Susan relaxed, now that we were off the subject of Andy. “It may sound as if I disliked my sister. That isn’t really true. It was just that she had so many problems—in addition to the cancer, I mean—and they were all ones she brought on herself.”

  “Such as?”

  “She drank too much, took all sorts of pills. She’d been in and out of therapy for years, but never stayed long enough for it to do her any good.”

  “Did they ever diagnose a specific mental illness?”

  “She was a manic-depressive, and as she got older the mood swings became more and more severe. When she found out she had cancer, she went into the depressive state and stayed there. We—Andy and I—felt The Tidepools was the only way to keep her from killing herself. Others in the family—if you’ve read the newspaper accounts, those are the ones the reporters talked to afterward—didn’t agree. Maybe they thought her manic phase was the real Barbara. At any rate, they resented Andy for convincing her to go to the hospice. And when the police began to suspect him, they didn’t help one bit, with their talk of how she would never take her own life.”

  Susan Tellenberg had a lot of pent up anger in her, and I gathered she’d been fonder of Andy than a sister-in-law should be. I glanced at her left hand—no wedding ring. She could be widowed or divorced, with a crush on her sister’s gentle husband.

  I said, “But Andy convinced her to go to The Tidepools.”

  She nodded. “She didn’t want to go, but he insisted. It was the one time in their entire life together that he got his way. Usually he’d knuckle under to her demands. I’d ask him why—it wasn’t helping her get any better or take responsibility for her life—and he’d just say it was preferable to living in perpetual conflict. Anyway, Barbara went to The Tidepools, but she hated it from day one and made sure everybody knew that. And then she died. She must have saved up her medication, like the others did.”

  “The newspaper stories say she wasn’t receiving it long enough to have saved it.”

  Susan shrugged and moved again with her basket. “Barbara might even have brought the drugs with her. Like I said, she was always taking one kind of pill or another.”