Marcia Muller - Games to Keep the Dark Away

“You’re not missing much.” He looked thoughtful. “Tell me, can you make a fried egg sandwich?”

“A what?”

“Fried egg sandwich.”

“Well, yes, but what has that got to do-”

“Come on.” He opened the door wider and motioned me inside.

I hesitated, then shrugged and stepped into a large entryway. Keller shut the door and started for the rear of the house.

“I like them gooey,” he said over his shoulder, “but I keep breaking the yolks.”

“I like them that way too.” I followed him. “There are two kinds of people: the ones who break the yolk before frying the egg and the ones who don’t. It’s like people who use sandwich spread versus people who use real mayonnaise.”

“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.”