Marcia Muller - Games to Keep the Dark Away

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.