Games to Keep the Dark Away Page 5

“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 semi circles 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 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 see 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 still 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.

  Chapter 7

  I had two hours before I could catch Don Del Boccio at the radio station after his show. As I drove slowly down the dusk-shrouded streets of Keller’s subdivision, I thought about going to my motel, then changed my mind and started north toward Salmon Bay. Sylvia Anthony had said she didn’t know Jane’s whereabouts, but I didn’t believe her. Perhaps I could convince her to tell me or, at the very least, deliver another message from Snelling to her daughter. Possibly I could steer the conversation around to the mysterious trouble at The Tidepools—an unanswered question that was beginning to bother me in much the same way a hangnail does.

  When I got to Hydrangea Lane, a light-colored compact was parked in the driveway of the Anthony home. The house itself was dark. I went up to the door, crushing a blue blossom that drooped over onto the steps, and knocked. There was no sound from inside.

  I turned and looked over at the car in the driveway, wondering if it might be Jane’s. Snelling had said she drove a white Toyota. This was one of those boxy-looking Hondas, but he’d also said that all cars except for VW’s looked the same to him. I went down the steps and tried its door. Locked. I peered inside, looking for something that might identify the owner, but the front and backseat were empty.

  Turning, I glanced up and down the narrow unpaved street. Lights shone in the other houses and from one of them I could hear the howl of sirens and blare of horns from a TV cop show. Otherwise it was quiet: there were no dogs barking, no children calling, no music or laughter. It was a desolate silence and it made me think fondly of San Francisco’s light-hearted vitality.

  I left my MG where it was parked and walked through the lanes to the road by the marina. Rose’s Crab Shack, a weathered establishment set on stilts over the water, was open, and I went inside. A counter with stools ran along one wall and a couple of rickety tables occupied the rest of the floor space. Hand-lettered signs advertised beer, bait, and burgers.

  The only customer was the bearded fisherman I’d spoken to that morning at the boatyard. He glanced at me, then stood up, fumbled some coins onto the counter, and left. A frail old man with shaggy white hair was sitting on a folding chair next to the grill. He raised his head from his newspaper and gave me a cursory look. I ordered a cup of coffee. It was terrible, and I added two spoonfuls of sugar, hoping to kill the bitter taste.

  I cleared my throat and said, “Interesting little town you’ve got here.” The words seemed ridiculous as soon as they were out.

  “No, it ain’t.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said it ain’t. About the most interesting thing hereabouts is the new fall TV shows, now that we’re over the summer reruns.”

  “Oh.”

  He picked up his newspaper again. “Of course, today the most interesting thing hereabouts is you.”

  “What?” I stopped stirring the coffee and set the spoon down.

  “I don’t know as we’ve ever had a private detective before. Especially a woman private eye.”

  “How did you—”

  “John Cala told me.”

  “John Cala?”

  “Him, the one that just left.”

  The fisherman, of course. “But how did he know?”

  “Sylvia Anthony. John lives next door.”

  “Does everybody here know everybody else’s business?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? Keeps us honest.” Then he rustled the paper and disappeared behind it.

  I idled away ten minutes, barely touching my coffee. Then I started back to Sylvia Anthony’s house, feeling as if the eyes of Salmon Bay were upon me. It was after seven-thirty; if Mrs. Anthony was still out, I’d just go back to Port San Marco and talk to Don Del Boccio.

  I was at the corner of the side street that led to Hydrangea Lane when I heard the sound of running footsteps. They were farther up the road, coming toward me form the direction of the old pier. I stopped and made out a bulky figure. As it came closer, I recognized the fisherman, John Cala. I put out a hand to stop him.

  “Hey!” I said. “What’s going on?”

  He pushed my hand away and kept running. As he passed me, I glimpsed his face—it was twisted with fear. He turned into the side street, probably heading for his house.

  Now, what was that all about? When I’d talked with him that morning, Cala hadn’t seemed a man who would scare easily. But he was plainly frightened. Frightened enough to make me want to know why.

  I considered going after him, but decided he’d had too great a head start. After all, I didn’t know for certain that he was running for home. Instead, I went on toward the pier. There was no place else out here that he could have been coming from.

  It loomed in the dusk, leaning at an unsteady angle on its pilings. Looking around, I saw no one. I stepped on to the planking and tested it to see how it held my weight. In spite of its appearance, the pier was remarkably sturdy. I started forward, feeling with each step for loose or missing boards. The water sloshed beneath, but otherwise I heard nothing. I got to the end and looked down into the blackness. Here, in the bay, the tide was low. There was nothing frightening down there that I could see. If anything, it was a peaceful place. Far off in the channel I could see a ship’s lights. The horizon was a faint line of color, the pinks and reds of the sky paling quickly to indigo. I watched for a moment and then, as I was about to turn to go, I heard a small bumping sound.

  I listened. It came again. From under the other end of the pier, I reached into my bag for my small flashlight and started back, shining it through the boards at my feet.

  The shape below was pale colored, half in and half out of the water. The part in the water bumped up against the pilings with the motion of the waves. I went over and squatted down on the edge of the planking, shining my light closer. It was a woman, dressed in jeans and a bulky white sweater. She lay on her face on the bank, one arm outflung, her body in the water from the waist down. I sucked in my breath, ran down the rest of the pier, and scrambled over the rocky bank to her.

  Her flesh, when I touched her wrist, was cool but pliant. I felt carefully, but could find no pulse. Brushing aside her long dark hair, I touched the spot where the big artery should have throbbed. Nothing. I grasped her shoulder, rolled her on her back.

  And looked down into the lifeless face of Jane Anthony.

  “No!” I said. The word sounded loud in the stillness.

  How had it happened? I picked up my flash from where I’d dropped it next to Jane’s body and shone it on her. There was a red stain on the front of the white sweater. She had not fallen from the pier and broken her neck. She had been murdered. Stabbed, maybe. Or shot.

  I looked around for a weapon or some other evidence, but saw nothing. Standing up, I began breathing hard and for a moment was afraid I’d hyperventilate. Police. I had to call the police. Remembering a phone booth in front of the Shorebird Bar, I scrambled back up the bank and started running.

  Of
course there was no 911 number. The operator, spurred by the urgency in my voice, connected me with the Port San Marco Police. I told them who and where I was, then left the booth. As I waited for the police to arrive, I resisted a strong urge to go into the bar for a drink.

  It was ten minutes before I heard the sirens and, by the time the cruiser pulled up, I had been joined by a crowd of weathered men in work clothes who had been inside the bar. I climbed into the police car and directed the officers to the old pier. The crowd followed on foot.

  I pointed out where Jane’s body lay on the bank beneath the pier, then returned to the cruiser. A plainclothes detective named Barrow spoke briefly with me and said we would talk more later. An ambulance arrived, and lab technicians. The crowd grew larger. After a while I got out of the car and began to pace up and down beside it.

  The compact in Sylvia Anthony’s driveway must have been Jane’s. Yes, Jane had gone to see her mother again. But where was Mrs. Anthony? And why had Jane come here, to the deserted pier? And what about the fisherman I’d met running down the road? Had he found Jane’s body? Or had he…

  The police had set up floodlights and now they illuminated the ambulance attendants as they brought the body up the bank. The crowd moved forward, as if it were one person. The lights’ glare picked out eager faces, eyes greedy for a glimpse of the body. Young and old, male and female, they all wore expressions of undisguised anticipation.

  My anger rose as I watched them, and I was about to turn away when my eyes met a pair of familiar dark ones. John Cala and I stared at one another for several seconds before he stepped back and vanished into the crowd.

  Chapter 8

  As I was leaving the Port San Marco police station at a little after midnight, I saw a plainclothes detective bringing Sylvia Anthony in. They had located her, Lieutenant Barrow had told me, at a church bingo game, and by now she presumably had identified her daughter’s body. The police had not been so lucky in finding John Cala. The fisherman was missing from his unusual haunts. Barrow had run a check on him, and it turned out he had a record, including a conviction for assault.