Marcia Muller - Games to Keep the Dark Away

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.”

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.