Muller, Marcia - [McCone 04] Games to Keep the Dark Away (v.1,shtml) (7 page)

"Liz," I said, "what did Jane tell you about her
relationship with Abe Snelling?"

"Nothing, except he was a friend and helping her out."

"She didn't say anything else? How she met him? About his
work or their mutual interest in photography?''

"She didn't say anything. I didn't even know he was a
photographer until you mentioned it the other night. And of course
Jane wouldn't discuss photography with me—she knew I didn't
even know which end of a camera to look through."

"How good a friend of Jane's were you?"

"Oh, we were pretty close. We palled around at The Tidepools,
had drinks after work. Sometimes we'd have dinner."

"And here, in the city?"

"We saw each other occasionally."

"After the patients died, you left The Tidepools first,
right?"

Her eyes widened a little. "So you found out about that."

"It wasn't hard. I gather it was public knowledge."

"Yes, it was." She picked up her burger, took a
deliberate bite, and began chewing as if it were hard work.

"The person who told me about the deaths mentioned a drug
they use there," I said, "a painkiller that the patients
overdosed on."

"Look, I'd rather not talk about it."

"Just tell me about the drug. Then we'll drop the subject."
I didn't exactly know why I was prying into the matter of the deaths
at The Tidepools, but I had long ago learned to trust my instincts.

Liz sighed and set her burger down. "It's a variation of
something called Brompton's Mix, which was developed in England. It
consists of morphine, alcohol, and one of the phenothiazines."

"The what?"

"Thorazine, Compazine, or—Look, this can't possibly
mean anything to you."

I had to admit it didn't. "It's a strong enough mix to kill a
person, though?"

"Obviously, if taken in sufficient quantity. Which the
patients did."

"How could they have gotten hold of that much of the drug?"

"The police thought they must have saved it up from their
daily dosages." Liz's mouth twisted bitterly. "Of course,
they only came to that conclusion after thoroughly grilling the
staff. But they could see for themselves that the pharmacist kept
tight control over all the drugs. There was no way he would have
allowed anyone to get his hands on more than the authorized dosages."

"Did you know any of the patients who overdosed?"

"I knew all three. But I wasn't on the medical team that was
assigned to any of them."

"Was Jane?"

"I don't…" She paused, a strange look passing
over her face.

"Was she?"

"I think so. I'm not sure if she worked with all three of
them, but I know she was assigned as Barbara Smith's social worker."

"Which one was Barbara Smith?"

"The last one. The one whose husband…" She looked
at her watch. "I've got to get to work."

"Liz—"

"I've got to go." She stood up, placing some money on
the table. "Thank you for telling me about Jane." Quickly,
she strode out of the railed-off cafe. I watched her cross the wide
street, her white shoes moving swiftly, her brown coat billowing open
to reveal her starched smock and pants.

I looked down at my cheeseburger, then at the briefcase that sat
on the floor beside my chair. I should go to City Hall and get those
documents filed. I should forget about Jane Anthony and The
Tidepools. If it didn't take too long at City Hall, I could spend the
remainder of the afternoon hunting for a new apartment.

Instead, I left my lunch untouched and went to Abe Snelling's
house.

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 park. 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.

"I had to. You were looking at me with a suspicious
expression, as if you expected me to pull a gun on you."

"Sorry." I spread my hands out. "I don't like being
the center of attention."

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 tc 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."