Games to Keep the Dark Away Read online

  Chapter 10

  By the time I reached the half-demolished block on Potrero Hill, I’d come up with a strategy for approaching Snelling. Like most artistic people, the photographer had a passion for his work and probably enjoyed talking about it. After all, hadn’t he and Jane originally become friends because of her interest in his art? If I could tap into that enthusiasm—and it shouldn’t be hard since I was an amateur photographer myself—I might gain enough of Snelling’s confidence that he would talk freely about Jane and his urgent need to find her. It might even lead to him reopening the investigation.

  The demolition crews were working today and I had trouble finding a place to work. Finally I sandwiched the car between two trucks near the dead end and walked down the street toward Snelling’s house. The neighborhood was noisy with the grating sounds of pounding, ripping, and prying. A couple of the workers shouted and whistled at me as I passed, and I smiled at them. More militant feminists than I would have taken offense, but what the hell—some days I could use all the admiration I could get.

  I pushed through the gate in the redwood fence and went down the path to Snelling’s door, feeling as if I had stepped into a jungle. The palms rustled overhead and amid the tangled vines, bright, mysterious flowers bloomed. I was trying to figure out what they were when the photographer opened the door a crack and looked out over the security chain.

  “Sharon.” His voice was shaky. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong. I just want to talk to you.”

  “Oh.” He hesitated and then I heard the chain rattle. When he opened the door, he was running his hand through his thinning blond hair. He looked even more pale than usual, and his thin face was ravaged, as if he’d spent a bad night.

  I waited for him to speak and when he just stood there, I said, “I was in the neighborhood, seeing a client and I thought...” I paused, surveying his faded jeans and stained shirt, similar to those he’d worn the first time I’d come here. “I guess I caught you in the darkroom.”

  “Not really.” His shoulders drooped with resignation. “I was just cleaning up. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come to the door at all. What can I do for you?”

  He didn’t look in any shape to talk about Jane Anthony, so I began in on the story I’d thought up on the way over here. “Well...I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t have dropped in like this. But I thought maybe if you had a little time you’d show me your darkroom and studio. I do some photography myself—not a lot and not very well—and, frankly, I’ve been dying to see how a real professional operates.”

  Snelling looked relieved and wary at the same time. “I see.”

  “I can come back some other time—”

  “No, no.” He made a dismissing motion with one hand. “I’d be glad to show you.” He started off down the hall and I followed.

  We went through the living room—where the draperies were still closed in spite of the sunlight—and up the spiral staircase. It led to a large room that was glassed in on the far end, the one that faced the Bay. There were skylights in the roof and the walls were painted the same stark white as downstairs. The room was devoid of furnishings, except for a stool in its center. Shelves on the rear wall held photographic equipment.

  I went over there and looked at the cameras. There were three, one of which was similar to mine. “Which of these do you use the most?”

  “The Nikkormat.”

  “That’s what I have.”

  “You like it?”

  “Yes, very much. It’s light and easy to handle. And when you’re as clumsy with a camera as I am, that’s important.”

  “Have you been at it long?” He came over and took the Nikkormat off the shelf.

  “Forever, it seems, but I never get any better. I work at it for a while, drop it, then take it up again six months later. When I’m into it, I spend hours and hours in the darkroom at Dolores Park and sometimes I get the feeling I’m improving. But, then, I’ll shoot a few rolls and let them sit for months without developing them. I’ve got film in my camera left over from a visit to my family last May. My mother keeps demanding copies of the photos and I keep putting her off.” Surprised at the rush of words, I reined myself in. Snelling was the one who was supposed to be doing the talking.

  My monologue seemed to have relaxed him, however. He took the lens cap off the camera and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “But while you’re working at it, you enjoy it, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re not trying to make a living at it.”

  “Lord, no!”

  “So why worry about it?” He walked to the center of the room and took a light meter reading. “Come on over here. I want to get some shots of you. You have interesting bone structure.”

  I went over to him, and he took another reading, close to my blue sweater. “Sit down.” He pointed at the stool. “And don’t pose, because if you do, I won’t touch the shutter.”

  I sat, feeling self-conscious. Snelling walked around me, his footsteps light on the linoleum floor. The stool was a swivel type, and I turned to watch him. “You only use natural light?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about a tripod?”

  “Sometimes. Depends on what I’m after.” He kept moving, watching me through the camera. “Like I said, you have interesting bone structure. Are you Indian?”

  “Only an eighth.”

  “What’s the rest?”

  “Scotch-Irish.”

  “What do you think of Stanford’s team this season?”

  “What?”

  Click.

  I grinned. “You tricked me.”

  Click.

  “Well, I suppose in your business it doesn’t pay to be.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Dammit, this wasn’t working. I was supposed to be pumping him and instead he was going to get my life story. Still, talking about the detective business was a natural lead-in to talking about Jane. I began telling him about my days guarding dresses at the department store.

  All the while, Snelling circled me, lithe as a cat, almost on his tiptoes. Gracefully he weaved and bobbed, moving here and there, making me turn the stool or crane my neck to follow him. He continued to catch me off guard when he clicked the shutter. It was like being stalked by a playful lion. And, although there was no menace involved, after a while my uneasiness returned. Finally I said, “Do you think we could stop now? I feel kind of hunted.”

  He grinned, obviously unable to maintain his gloomy mood when immersed in his work, and lowered the camera. “You are getting that wary look again.”

  “I feel like you’re stalking me.”

  A strange expression crossed his face and he went to place the camera on the shelf. “I guess that’s what you could say I do to my clients—stalk them.”

  “Do they all get as uncomfortable as I did?”

  “Some of them. But you’d be surprised how many of them love the attention. Come see my darkroom.” He opened a door next to the shelves.

  I got up and crossed to the doorway. Snelling flipped on a red safelight in the ceiling. It illuminated a row of stainless steel tanks, a huge print dryer, and one of the most sophisticated enlargers I’d ever seen. The table that held it was half white Plexiglas, which could be backlit so you could view negatives and slides on it. Water bubbled softly in the washing tank, where several prints floated face down.

  “This is wonderful,” I said.

  “Go on in.” Snelling flipped another switch, turning on regular white light.

  I stepped inside and looked at the enlarger, clasping my hands behind my back, not daring to touch it. Snelling leaned against the counter that held the tanks, watching me with amusement.

  I said, “I thought I was the only one who washed prints face down, so the other people using the darkroom wouldn’t see how awful they were.”

  “Once I’m done with something I like to go on to the next without being
reminded of what’s past.”

  “Like with Jane?” The words were out before I could stop them.

  Snelling’s mouth pulled down. “Just what do you mean by that? Is it supposed to be a dig because I’ve halted your investigation?”

  “No,” I said quickly, afraid that I’d destroyed our rapport. “Of course not. It just seems a similar situation, that’s all. I guess people often approach their work and their personal lives in the same way.”

  Snelling folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose so. But you have to remember Jane and I weren’t all that close. I’m sorry she’s dead, but I can’t mount a costly crusade to find her killer. That’s the police’s job.”

  I nodded. “How did you meet Jane?”

  “Uh, I was giving a lecture on photography at S.F. State. She came up afterward and asked some questions. They were more intelligent than what I usually hear, so I asked her to have a drink with me. And we became friends.”

  “And then she moved in with you?”

  “Yes, when she couldn’t continue to pay the rent on the room where she was living. We lived quietly and companionably until she disappeared.”

  “Did you have many mutual friends?”

  “No. We went our separate ways.”

  “Did she ever talk about her past, before she came to San Francisco?”

  His frown deepened. “Sharon, what is this?”

  “I’m curious. I found her body. I feel some sort of...I don’t know, call it a connection.”

  He straightened up and started for the door. I went after him.

  “Abe, did Jane ever mention The Tidepools?”

  He turned, his face lit by the brightness from the studio.

  “Did she ever mention The Tidepools?” I asked again. “Or Allen Keller? Or Ann Bates?”

  “No.” Curtly he motioned me out of the darkroom and began herding me toward the stairs.

  “What about Don Del Boccio? Or a fisherman named John Cala?”

  “I’ve never heard of either of them.” He was right behind me, his body forcing me down the spiral staircase so fast that I almost stumbled.

  “What about a patient at The Tidepools named Barbara Smith?”

  We had reached the bottom of the stairway. Snelling blocked my way into the living room, urging me down the hall instead. “Who are all these people? What do they have to do with Jane?”

  “Some are former employers. Don Del Boccio was her boyfriend at one time. I don’t know about Cala—he lives next door to her mother. I don’t know about Barbara Smith, either, except...”

  Snelling unchained the front door and opened it wide. “Except what?”

  “Except...” I paused, one foot over the threshold. “Except I think Jane may have killed her.”

  It had only occurred to me at that moment and it was a wild thrust in the dark, but it hit Snelling hard. His pupils dilated and he went even paler. Then he reached out a hand and shoved me through the door.

  “Get out of here,” he said, “and don’t ever come back.”

  Chapter 11

  Another unpleasant confrontation awaited me at All Souls. As I came through the front door, I ran into Hank. His eyes, behind his thick, horn-rimmed glasses, went from my face to the still-bulging briefcase in my hand.

  “You didn’t file those documents yet.”

  “Uh, no.’

  He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly four-thirty. What have you been doing all afternoon?”

  In truth, I couldn’t tell him. After I’d left Snelling’s I’d stopped at the McDonald’s near City Hall for a hamburger to make up for the one I hadn’t eaten at lunch. I’d sat there on the upper deck and watched the traffic on Van Ness Avenue, occasionally reminding myself that I should be going about my business. But the mental prodding had done no good and, after three cups of coffee and two hours of meandering thoughts about Jane Anthony and Abe Snelling, I’d packed it in and gone back to the office.

  “I had some other business to attend to,” I said lamely.

  ‘Sharon, those documents are important.”

  “I know.”

  “So why didn’t you take care of them?”

  “Something came up.”

  “Sharon, this isn’t like you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all you have to say—you’re sorry?”

  I felt a flush of irritation. “What do you want me to do, kneel and beg forgiveness?”

  “You could at least explain—”

  “Look, Hank, I’ve had a bad day.” I started to push past him. “The documents will be filed first thing tomorrow.”

  He blocked me. “It was important some of them be filed today.”

  “Then why didn’t you...” I stopped, realizing that what I was about to say was unrealistic, to say nothing of petty.

  “Then why didn’t I what?”

  I was silent, feeling sullen and totally in the wrong.

  “Why didn’t I file them myself? Is that what you were going to say?”

  Hank’s bony frame loomed over me. Usually my boss was as mild-mannered as they come, but he couldn’t tolerate people shirking their responsibilities.

  “Look, Hank, just forget it.”

  “Why didn’t I file them myself? My God, Sharon, I’m a lawyer!”

  The conversation was bordering on absurd. “Don’t lawyers file documents?”

  “Not when they have someone on salary to do it.” He waved his hand wildly and almost poked me in the eye. “Not when they pay someone else to handle it.”

  Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? Why had I made it worse? “Drop it, Hank. Please drop it.”

  He glared down at me, then moved around me toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Hank never left the office before six.

  “Out.”

  “Yes, but where? I might need to talk to you before I go home.”

  He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “You are not the only one who has had a bad day. I am going down the street to the Remedy Lounge, where I will have a couple of Scotches and contemplate my problems in silence.”

  “No one has that hard a day. The Remedy Lounge is the sleaziest bar in Bernal Heights, maybe in the entire city.”

  “Ah , but it has its advantages.”

  “Which are?”

  “It is dark, nearly always deserted, and—best of all—you are not likely to follow me there.” He went out, slamming the door for emphasis.

  I sighed and went down the hall to my office. Hank was wrong; whether it was sleazy or not, I planned to join him at the Remedy Lounge in a very few minutes. But before I did that, I wanted to call a friend at San Francisco State, to see if Abe Snelling had ever given a lecture on photography there.

  My friend, Seamus Dunlap, was temporarily out of his office. Tapping my fingers impatiently on the desk, I waited for him to call back. He was a color photographer who did work for classy magazines like National Geographic and, in fact, the person who had interested me in photography when I’d been dating him years before. If anyone would know about Abe Snelling, it was Seamus.

  My phone buzzed and I answered it. “Sharon! How are you doing?” Seamus’ deep voice seemed to fill my tiny office.

  “Pretty good. You?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Seamus, I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “To your knowledge, has Abe Snelling ever lectured at State?”

  “Abe Snelling.” He paused. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  I ignored his question. “If he had, within the past year, you would know, right?”

  “Does anything ever go on here that I don’t know about?”

  I chuckled. “Occasionally, as I recall.” About a year before I’d met him, Seamus’ wife had run off with one of his students. The photographer had been so caught up in his work that he hadn’t even noticed for a week.

  “Come on, that was centuries ago. Speaking of centuries, when
are you and I going to get together?”

  “Later this month, maybe.” Seamus was attractive and intelligent, but difficult to get along with for any length of time. After Greg Marcus, another temperamental man was exactly what I didn’t need.

  “Just as easy to pin down as ever, hey? But back to your question: as far as I know, Snelling’s never lectured here—or anyplace else. Not that we wouldn’t love to have him; but the guy’s a recluse.”

  That was what I’d expected. So why had Snelling lied to me?

  “Thanks, Seamus,” I said.

  “Hey, why are you interested in Snelling?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get together.”

  “I’ll call you.” He probably would, too—a year from now, when he remembered he was supposed to.

  “Buy you a drink?”

  I slipped onto the cracked vinyl stool next to Hank. He was hunched over the bar, a glass that I knew contained Scotch and soda in front of him. As usual, the Remedy Lounge was dark and empty. The glasses on the back bar were spotted, the mirror fly-specked, and the bartender had a large, nondescript stain across the front of his apron.

  Hank looked sidelong at me, then back at his glass. “That’s okay. I’ll buy.”

  “But it’s a peace offering.”

  “So’s mine.”

  Since he’d insisted, I ordered bourbon and water. The bartender plunked the glass down in front of me, and some of the drink slopped over.

  “I’m sorry about those documents,” I said. “I was preoccupied and time just got away from me. I’ll file them first thing in the morning.”

  He nodded.

  “I seem to have a lot of trouble keeping on top of things lately,” I went on. “Maybe I need a vacation.”

  “Probably.”

  I leaned forward on the bar, laid my hand on a sticky place, and pulled it back. “So I was thinking—could I have a few days off? The tenants’ dispute doesn’t go to trial until next week and, once I file that stack of documents, I really don’t have anything else pending.”

  Slowly Hank turned to look at me.

  “With the weekend, I could get away for around five days. It might do me some good.”