Marcia Muller: Games to Keep the Dark Away

But so what? Born in San Diego, I’d grown up around the sea. To me, walking on a beach without getting my feet wet was practically heresy and, besides, I wanted to get a look at the tidepools for which the hospice was named. I rolled up my pants legs and waded out to the start of the reefs.

The rocks felt rough even on my feet, which were toughened by my habit of going barefoot whenever possible. I squatted down and peered into one of the pools formed by concavities in the reef. Tiny fish darted through the trapped waters, and starfish and anemones clung to their sides, their delicate arms drawn in and still. Tidepools-microcosms of the unfathomable sea-had always fascinated me. I watched this one for several minutes, until I realized it was time for my appointment with Mrs. Bates.

The white-haired ladies were gone when I reached the platform. I sat down on a wicker chair and brushed sand from my feet before putting on my socks and boots. Then I re-crossed the lawn and entered the main building. The receptionist picked up her phone when she saw me and, minutes later, a slender woman with sleekly styled gray hair entered through an archway. She was dressed in a tailored black suit that would have looked more at home on Montgomery Street than in this coastal setting, and the smooth lines of her face indicated the gray was premature.

“Ms. McCone? I’m Ann Bates, the personnel director here.” She extended her hand.

I clasped it briefly. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

“I understand you’re a private detective.” She glanced at my card, which she held in her other hand.

“Yes. I’m investigating the disappearance of one of your former employees.”

She raised one finely penciled eyebrow. “Who might that be?”

“Jane Anthony. I believe she was a social worker here up until eight months ago.”

Ann Bates frowned. “Yes, she was. But why have you come to us now?”

“Apparently Jane is somewhere in the Port San Marco area. I thought she might have come to see you, perhaps in hopes of getting her old job back. She hasn’t found work since she left your employ.”

“I haven’t seen Jane since the day she terminated.” She spoke abruptly, and her choice of words made it sound as if Jane were dead.

“Well, you knew her, at any rate. Maybe you can tell me something that would shed some light on where she might be.”

“I doubt anything I have to say would be helpful.”

“Another of your former employees, Liz Schaff, mentioned some unpleasantness that occurred here before they both quit. Did it involve Jane?”

Ann Bates glanced over her shoulder at the receptionist, who had been listening to our conversation. The woman quickly dropped her eyes to a book on the desk. “I don’t know what she meant by ‘unpleasantness,’” Mrs. Bates said.

“Neither do I, but she definitely alluded to it. Can you think-”

“Ms. McCone, I have no idea what Ms. Schaff could have been thinking of. And, frankly, I’m going to have to cut this short. I can’t help you, and it’s against The Tidepools’ policy to discuss our employees-or former employees-with anyone.”

“Surely you can make an exception in this case. Jane’s been missing for a week.”

“I thought you said she was here in the area. How can she be missing if you know where she is?”

“I only know approximately where. Please-”

“At any rate, it’s not in my power to make exceptions to our rule.”

“Who can, then?”

She looked puzzled.

“You might have a supervisor.”

“The only person here with more authority than I is our director, Dr. Allen Keller.”

“Then let me talk to him.”

“He’s not available today.”

“When will he be?”

She made an impatient gesture with one hand and glanced at the receptionist, who still had her head bowed over the book. “Dr. Keller is taking the week off.”

“Is he at home?”

“He may be.”

“Then let me call him there. This is important.”

“To you, perhaps, but not to Dr. Keller. His telephone number is unlisted, and I cannot give it out to anyone.”

“Shouldn’t Dr. Keller be the one to judge what’s important to him?”

Her face reddened. “In this instance, I am sure I can speak for him.” She stepped around me to the door and held it open. “And now, Ms. McCone, I must ask you to leave.”

“Thanks for being so helpful.” Irritated, I stalked outside. The door slammed behind me.

“Officious bitch,” I said aloud. There was no one to hear me but a seagull on the lawn. I glared at it and went to my car. Allen Keller might have an unlisted phone number, I thought, but there were ways to get his address.

Back in my motel room, I thumbed through the Yellow Pages and selected a few of the more exclusive-sounding men’s clothing stores. Apparently Allen Keller didn’t shop at the first two I called, but the credit clerk at the third reacted with dismay when I identified myself as Dr. Keller’s secretary and asked why he hadn’t received his most recent monthly statement.

She went to check her files and returned to the phone a few minutes later. “That statement went out on the twenty-eighth, ma’am.”

“That’s odd. Was it sent to the Beach Walk address?” Beach Walk was one of the few residential street names in Port San Marco that I remembered.

“No, it went to Sea View Drive.”

“Ninety-six Sea View?”

“No, seventy-seven.”

“Now I understand.” I scribbled down the address and added, not without a twinge of conscience, “That should have been changed. It’s ninety-six Beach Walk now. You’ll see it’s corrected?”

“Of course, ma’am.” Relief flooded her voice; I wasn’t going to yell at her.

I wasn’t familiar enough with Port San Marco to place Sea View Drive. A map on the wall of the motel office showed it to be in a new development southeast of downtown. I picked out what looked like the easiest route and set off to talk to Dr. Keller.

The development was a maze of newly paved streets spiraling up toward the tops of the oak-dotted hills. I followed Sea View Drive higher and higher until I had a view of the entire coast and the channel islands in the distance. Keller’s house was an arrangement of shingle-and-glass boxes whose roofs slanted at various angles; the shingles had barely had time to weather. The place reminded me of a hastily assembled house of cards that might topple at any moment.

The heavy blond man who answered the door wore a blue terrycloth bathrobe and slippers. He was fortyish and at least thirty pounds overweight. The puffiness of his face and his bloodshot eyes suggested he liked his alcohol as much as his food. “What is it?” he asked impatiently.

“I’m looking for Dr. Allen Keller.”

“You’ve found him.”

“My name’s Sharon McCone. I’m an investigator with All Souls Legal Cooperative in San Francisco.” I held out my card.

He looked at it with distaste. “You’re a detective?”

“Yes. I’m trying to locate-”

“Is it about my divorce?”

“No, I’m-”

“Because if it is, you can tell Arlene she’s gotten all she’s going to get.”

“It’s not about your divorce.”

“I don’t care about the community property laws. I made it, and it’s mine, and she can-”

I raised my voice. “It’s not about your divorce!”

“Oh.” Temporarily deflated, Keller surveyed me. “Come to think of it, you don’t look like any of the detectives I’ve seen this past year. And Lord knows I’ve seen enough of them. Are you sure you’re not working for Arlene?”

“I’m sure. I’ve never even met your wife.”