Marcia Muller: Games to Keep the Dark Away

In a few seconds, however, the door opened and a tall, gaunt woman looked out at me. She was the woman in Snelling’s photo grown older, with gray hair instead of black and wrinkles where Jane’s flesh was smooth. Deep lines bracketed her mouth from her prominent nose to her chin. Briefly I wondered if Jane would look like this in twenty or thirty years, or if getting out of Salmon Bay had put her beyond the reach of the bitterness that had so aged her mother.

I introduced myself and Mrs. Anthony ushered me into a dark parlor. It was crammed with what looked like good antiques-a roll-top desk among them-and every surface was covered with china knickknacks. My first impression was of clutter, but as my eyes became accustomed to the dimness, I saw that each object was carefully placed and dust free. Jane was her mother’s girl in more than looks.

Mrs. Anthony indicated I should sit on the couch and lowered herself slowly into a platform rocker, the way a person afflicted with arthritis will do. She snapped on a floorlamp next to her and I looked for signs of the poor health Snelling had mentioned. There weren’t any, but many illnesses are hard to spot; broaching the subject of Jane’s disappearance would still require care and tact.

Before I could speak, Mrs. Anthony said, “You mentioned on the telephone that you’re a friend of my daughter’s. What brings you to Salmon Bay?”

“I’m trying to locate Jane.”

“Why?”

’’I need to talk to her.”

“About what?”

I decided to ignore the question. “Do you know where Jane is, Mrs. Anthony?”

An odd look passed over her face. It could have been anger or perhaps fear. Whatever, it was gone before I could put a label on it. “No.”

“Have you seen her recently?”

She was silent a moment. “What if I have?”

“Mrs. Anthony, I really need to locate d Jane. It would help me tremendously if-”

‘Why should I help you?”

“You would also be helping your daughter. It’s very important I talk to her.”

“About what?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

She hesitated. I sensed she was unsure which would be in her daughter’s best interest-protecting her privacy or putting me in touch with her. “It’s very important, you say?”

“Yes.”

“All right; she was here last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yes, came to pay her old mother a visit.” She spoke the words with a biting sarcasm.

“How long did she stay?”

“An hour, maybe less. That’s about the usual length of one of her visits.”

“Did you tell her friend Abe Snelling had been trying to get in touch with her?”

She raised her eyebrows. “And what do you know of Abe Snelling?”

“We’re both her friends-”

“Seems Jane has a lot of friends all of a sudden. Funny, for a girl who never did.” She got up and went to raise one of the window shades, as if to throw light on the subject of her friendless daughter. Turning, she said, “Look, Miss McCone, I told Jane that Abe Snelling had called. She said she’d get back to him when she could. And then she left.”

“And she didn’t say where she was going?”

Again the odd expression crossed her face. This time I put a name to it: disgust. “No. My daughter does not confide in me.”

I thought she was going to ask me to leave, but instead she returned to the rocker and settled in. It occurred to me that she was lonely and glad she had someone to talk to. I glanced around the room, trying to find a way to keep the conversation going, and spotted a framed photograph. It was of the old pier I’d seen before, moody and mysterious in the fog. I got up and went to look closer.

“That’s a nice picture,” I said.

“Jane took it.”

“I didn’t know she was a photographer.” But as I spoke I realized Snelling had said they had a mutual interest in art.

“She isn’t anymore. She doesn’t do anything but live off-” Abruptly she cut off her own words.

“You mean live off Abe Snelling? He’s only helping her out until she finds a social work job.”

Mrs. Anthony sighed. “Him too?”

“What?”

“Nothing. A social work job, eh? I warned her about choosing work like that. You depend too much on the government, and the government isn’t to be trusted. Now she’s out of a livelihood, just like her father was when the fishing went bust.

“Jane’s father was a fisherman?”

“All his life. Didn’t know anything else. When the fishing went bust, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He’s dead now; been dead nearly thirty years.” Her voice had taken on a bitter singsong quality, as if this were a speech she’d repeated many times in those thirty years. “I raised my girl all by myself, working as a maid for the so-called fine folks in Port San Marco. I saw she had everything, just like the other kids. And she repaid me. How she repaid me!” She laughed hollowly.

I stood very still, not wanting to break the train of her memories. “How?” I said softly.

“I had the money saved. I was going to send her to art school in Port San Marco so she could maybe make something of her photography. She could have lived at home, helped out with a part-time job. But, no, not for her. She had to go away to college, up to San Jose. And she had to get fancy ideas about what she called social responsibility, working with those less fortunate than her. Those were her exact words-‘those less fortunate than I am.’ If she wanted to help someone less fortunate, she only had to look to her own mother.”

She fell silent and I moved back to the sofa. “When did Jane come back from San Jose?”

“After about a year of working with bums and drug addicts. I thought she was cured of that ‘social responsibility’ nonsense. But, no, she had to go and get a job at The Tidepools, working with more ‘unfortunates.’ Unfortunates, my hat!”

“Why do you say that?”

“You have to be rich to get in there. Rich and dying. But do they pay their help well? No, they don’t. Jane had to moonlight, working at a drug abuse clinic in her off time. And she wasn’t the only one. Her friend Liz did too-at the Safeco Pharmacy. And what did Jane spend that extra money on? Did she come home and help out? No, she moved to a fancy apartment in Port San Marco and took up with that Don. Oh, Don was all right; I know that now. She’s done far worse in her time…” Her voice ran down and she stared into space, probably cataloging all the men who had been worse than Don.

“Mrs. Anthony,” I said, “what’s Don’s last name?”

She shook her head. “We’ll leave him out of this.”

“She may have gone to see him-”

“No, not Don. He wouldn’t have her. Not after what she did.”

“What did she-”

“No” She shook her head firmly. “That’s over. I won’t go into it.”

I sighed. “So you have no idea where she’s gone now?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” But her eyes said she didn’t care. “The reason you need to see her-is it about a job?”

I hated to disappoint her. “No. Actually, Mrs. Anthony, I don’t know your daughter.”

Her sad eyes became puzzled. “But you said-”

“I’m a private detective; Abe Snelling hired me to find Jane. She left home a week ago without telling him where she was going, and Abe was afraid something had happened to her.”

“A private detective.” She shook her head slowly. “The kinds of jobs you girls will get into today…This Abe Snelling-is he in love with Jane?”

“They’re just friends, but good friends.”

“That’s good. She never had many friends, you know. She never fit in here in the village. The other children thought she was different…and I guess they were right. I’m glad she has a friend like Abe Snelling.”