Marcia Muller - Games to Keep the Dark Away

“No reason we can’t be elegant, even if we are sitting on the floor.” He poured wine into delicate stemmed glasses and motioned for me to help myself. Smearing a bagel with cream cheese, he launched into another monologue, this time about Port San Marco.

“Do you like it here? I do, even though the town’s changed a lot since I was a kid. It used to be the home of a whole fishing fleet. There were several generations of families who fished these waters. This house was built by one. Those must have been the days, I tell you. But of course, it all changed. Those families couldn’t compete with the big companies, and Port San Marco had to turn elsewhere for is bread.”

I was about to ask him where, but he went right on.

“Tourism. High-tech firms. The developments you see all over the hills are a consequence of that. Those hills used to be covered with trees and cows and horses-and now look at them. Of course, they’re expensive homes and in good taste for the most part. And Port San Marco’s never been in the best of taste anyway. The old amusement park is boarded up now. Going to be torn down and replaced by a performing arts center. I don’t mind-I’ll enjoy not having to drive to San Francisco for concerts. But, still, I’m going to miss that park. Pinball. Rides. Cotton candy. Saltwater taffy.”

He bit into a piece of bacon and I seized my opportunity. “Do you know much about Salmon Bay?”

A look of gloom crossed his face. “We’re back to that are we?”

“I can’t help it. It’s my job. And you asked me to stay.”

“That I did.” He smiled ruefully. “You’ve got to excuse me. Normally I wouldn’t babble at you, but…”

“I understand.”

“To answer your question, yes, I do know Salmon Bay. I was born there. My father was a fisherman, his father too…he and my mother still live in Salmon Bay. I don’t see much of them.”

“Are you on bad terms?” I thought of Jane’s relationship with her mother.

“Not really. We don’t have much in common, though, and I hate to go up there. The people in the village have a lot of pent-up hate. They blame Port San Marco for surviving commercially while their town failed. They just sit around talking about the good old days and try not to starve. And they resent anyone who has made good. I guess that includes me.”

“What about The Tidepools? How do they feel about it being so close by?”

He shrugged.

“Were you seeing Jane when she worked there?”

“At first.”

“And then?”

“Then I didn’t anymore”

“Do you know about the problems there?”

He ran a finger over his moustache.

“Please, Don. I need to know about it and no one will tell me.”

Carefully he poured us more wine. “How did you find out about it?’

“A friend of Jane’s who worked there too.”

He nodded.

“Will you tell me?”

“Why not? It’s no secret.” He picked up his glass and leaned back against a pillow, stretching his long legs out. “There was a series of deaths, three of them. Overdoses of the painkilling medicine they use there. With the first two, it appeared the patients had saved up their medication until they had enough to overdose. The staff was blamed for being lax. And, of course, there were the usual rumors.”

“Which were what?”

“That someone at The Tidepools had been deliberately lax, had wanted the patients-they were both old women with no living relatives-to die.”

“Why?”

“Because they had willed large estates to the place.”

I remembered Keller’s description of the arrangements that were often made. “You said three deaths, though.”

“The third was different. A younger woman with cancer. It appeared to be a mercy killing by her husband, a medical technician with the Port San Marco hospital.”

“Why did they suspect that?”

“He disappeared immediately after. With a lot of money. They’ve never been able to locate him.”

“Sounds more like murder than mercy killing-because of the money.”

“Yes.”

“Do they think he might have been responsible for the two older women?”

“There was some speculation, but it doesn’t seem very likely.”

“What about repercussions on the staff?”

“A number of people left afterward, including Jane. The Tidepools wasn’t a good place to work anymore.”

“But things are better now, at least according to Allen Keller, their director. He said-”

Don sat up straighter. “You know Keller?”

“Not well. Do you?”

“Not well.” But his face had darkened and now his eyes grew hard.

“Are you on bad terms with him?”

“I hardly know the man.”

“But-”

“I don’t know him well, and I don’t know anything more about The Tidepools. And, besides, what has Keller got to do with Janie’s death?”

“Nothing, as far as I know,” I admitted. We finished our breakfast in silence. When I left, Don accompanied me downstairs, tossing off a few comments about some new stereo equipment he was going to take a look at. I got into my car and he squatted down so he could look through the window at me. “Listen, even under the circumstances, I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Come back, okay?”

“I’d like to.”

“I’ll make you veal parmigiana.”

“Sounds great.”

“My lasagna’s not bad either.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

“I don’t usually talk too much.”

“I guessed that.”

He paused, then squeezed my arm and walked over to an antique Jaguar parked at the curb. It was painted a gauche disc-jockey gold. He got in, started it up, and roared past me, waving.

I liked Don Del Boccio. He was bright and funny and had the kind of good looks that had always attracted me. And right now I wished I were next to him in the gaudy Jaguar, taking a long top-down ride up the coast. Instead, I would have to go back to my motel and try once again to contact Abe Snelling.

Before calling Snelling I checked with Lieutenant Barrow. He told me they had located John Cala sleeping off a drunk in the parking lot of a bar near the waterfront. The fisherman claimed he’d found Jane’s body and then panicked, but Barrow was skeptical of his story.

“What I wonder is why he went out there in the first place,” he said. “He claims he was just taking a look around, but there’s nothing on that pier, nothing around it.”

“Have you established the approximate time of death?” I asked.

“Within an hour of when you found her.”

“Could it have been less than fifteen minutes?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“You said in your statement that the body was cool when you touched it. Even though she was lying half in the water, it’s unlikely she would have cooked that much in fifteen minutes. No, I’d say the time of death was closer to an hour before you found her.”

“Then Cala probably didn’t kill her. I forgot to tell you this last night, but I saw him in Rose’s Crab Shack about fifteen minutes before I went out on the pier. He was there, at the counter, and he left as soon as I came in. But he didn’t look scared or upset-not like he did when I saw him running away from the pier.”

“How come you waited until now to tell me this?”

“In all the excitement I just forgot. I’m sorry.”

“Hmm.” There was a pause. “Anybody else in the Crab Shack then?”

“Just the old man behind the counter. He’ll verify what I’ve told you; we even spoke briefly about Cala.”

“Thanks. I’ll check it out.” From what I’d observed of Barrow, he’d be on it right away. He was a seasoned cop, professional as any big-city investigator.