Games to Keep the Dark Away

Chapter 7

I had two hours before I could catch Don Del Boccio at the radio station after his show. As I drove slowly down the dusk-shrouded streets of Keller’s subdivision, I thought about going to my motel, then changed my mind and started north toward Salmon Bay. Sylvia Anthony had said she didn’t know Jane’s whereabouts, but I didn’t believe her. Perhaps I could convince her to tell me or, at the very least, deliver another message from Snelling to her daughter. Possibly I could steer the conversation around to the mysterious trouble at The Tidepools-an unanswered question that was beginning to bother me in much the same way a hangnail does.

When I got to Hydrangea Lane, a light-colored compact was parked in the driveway of the Anthony home. The house itself was dark. I went up to the door, crushing a blue blossom that drooped over onto the steps, and knocked. There was no sound from inside.

I turned and looked over at the car in the driveway, wondering if it might be Jane’s. Snelling had said she drove a white Toyota. This was one of those boxy-looking Hondas, but he’d also said that all cars except for VW’s looked the same to him. I went down the steps and tried its door. Locked. I peered inside, looking for something that might identify the owner, but the front and backseat were empty.

Turning, I glanced up and down the narrow unpaved street. Lights shone in the other houses and from one of them I could hear the howl of sirens and blare of horns from a TV cop show. Otherwise it was quiet: there were no dogs barking, no children calling, no music or laughter. It was a desolate silence and it made me think fondly of San Francisco’s light-hearted vitality.

I left my MG where it was parked and walked through the lanes to the road by the marina. Rose’s Crab Shack, a weathered establishment set on stilts over the water, was open, and I went inside. A counter with stools ran along one wall and a couple of rickety tables occupied the rest of the floor space. Hand-lettered signs advertised beer, bait, and burgers.

The only customer was the bearded fisherman I’d spoken to that morning at the boatyard. He glanced at me, then stood up, fumbled some coins onto the counter, and left. A frail old man with shaggy white hair was sitting on a folding chair next to the grill. He raised his head from his newspaper and gave me a cursory look. I ordered a cup of coffee. It was terrible, and I added two spoonfuls of sugar, hoping to kill the bitter taste.

I cleared my throat and said, “Interesting little town you’ve got here.” The words seemed ridiculous as soon as they were out.

“No, it ain’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said it ain’t. About the most interesting thing hereabouts is the new fall TV shows, now that we’re over the summer reruns.”

“Oh.”

He picked up his newspaper again. “Of course, today the most interesting thing hereabouts is you.”

“What?” I stopped stirring the coffee and set the spoon down.

“I don’t know as we’ve ever had a private detective before. Especially a woman private eye.”

“How did you-”

“John Cala told me.”

“John Cala?”

“Him, the one that just left.”

The fisherman, of course. “But how did he know?”

“Sylvia Anthony. John lives next door.”

“Does everybody here know everybody else’s business?”

He shrugged. “Why not? Keeps us honest.” Then he rustled the paper and disappeared behind it.

I idled away ten minutes, barely touching my coffee. Then I started back to Sylvia Anthony’s house, feeling as if the eyes of Salmon Bay were upon me. It was after seven-thirty; if Mrs. Anthony was still out, I’d just go back to Port San Marco and talk to Don Del Boccio.

I was at the corner of the side street that led to Hydrangea Lane when I heard the sound of running footsteps. They were farther up the road, coming toward me form the direction of the old pier. I stopped and made out a bulky figure. As it came closer, I recognized the fisherman, John Cala. I put out a hand to stop him.

“Hey!” I said. “What’s going on?”

He pushed my hand away and kept running. As he passed me, I glimpsed his face-it was twisted with fear. He turned into the side street, probably heading for his house.

Now, what was that all about? When I’d talked with him that morning, Cala hadn’t seemed a man who would scare easily. But he was plainly frightened. Frightened enough to make me want to know why.

I considered going after him, but decided he’d had too great a head start. After all, I didn’t know for certain that he was running for home. Instead, I went on toward the pier. There was no place else out here that he could have been coming from.

It loomed in the dusk, leaning at an unsteady angle on its pilings. Looking around, I saw no one. I stepped on to the planking and tested it to see how it held my weight. In spite of its appearance, the pier was remarkably sturdy. I started forward, feeling with each step for loose or missing boards. The water sloshed beneath, but otherwise I heard nothing. I got to the end and looked down into the blackness. Here, in the bay, the tide was low. There was nothing frightening down there that I could see. If anything, it was a peaceful place. Far off in the channel I could see a ship’s lights. The horizon was a faint line of color, the pinks and reds of the sky paling quickly to indigo. I watched for a moment and then, as I was about to turn to go, I heard a small bumping sound.

I listened. It came again. From under the other end of the pier, I reached into my bag for my small flashlight and started back, shining it through the boards at my feet.

The shape below was pale colored, half in and half out of the water. The part in the water bumped up against the pilings with the motion of the waves. I went over and squatted down on the edge of the planking, shining my light closer. It was a woman, dressed in jeans and a bulky white sweater. She lay on her face on the bank, one arm outflung, her body in the water from the waist down. I sucked in my breath, ran down the rest of the pier, and scrambled over the rocky bank to her.

Her flesh, when I touched her wrist, was cool but pliant. I felt carefully, but could find no pulse. Brushing aside her long dark hair, I touched the spot where the big artery should have throbbed. Nothing. I grasped her shoulder, rolled her on her back.

And looked down into the lifeless face of Jane Anthony.

“No!” I said. The word sounded loud in the stillness.

How had it happened? I picked up my flash from where I’d dropped it next to Jane’s body and shone it on her. There was a red stain on the front of the white sweater. She had not fallen from the pier and broken her neck. She had been murdered. Stabbed, maybe. Or shot.

I looked around for a weapon or some other evidence, but saw nothing. Standing up, I began breathing hard and for a moment was afraid I’d hyperventilate. Police. I had to call the police. Remembering a phone booth in front of the Shorebird Bar, I scrambled back up the bank and started running.

Of course there was no 911 number. The operator, spurred by the urgency in my voice, connected me with the Port San Marco Police. I told them who and where I was, then left the booth. As I waited for the police to arrive, I resisted a strong urge to go into the bar for a drink.

It was ten minutes before I heard the sirens and, by the time the cruiser pulled up, I had been joined by a crowd of weathered men in work clothes who had been inside the bar. I climbed into the police car and directed the officers to the old pier. The crowd followed on foot.

I pointed out where Jane’s body lay on the bank beneath the pier, then returned to the cruiser. A plainclothes detective named Barrow spoke briefly with me and said we would talk more later. An ambulance arrived, and lab technicians. The crowd grew larger. After a while I got out of the car and began to pace up and down beside it.

The compact in Sylvia Anthony’s driveway must have been Jane’s. Yes, Jane had gone to see her mother again. But where was Mrs. Anthony? And why had Jane come here, to the deserted pier? And what about the fisherman I’d met running down the road? Had he found Jane’s body? Or had he…

The police had set up floodlights and now they illuminated the ambulance attendants as they brought the body up the bank. The crowd moved forward, as if it were one person. The lights’ glare picked out eager faces, eyes greedy for a glimpse of the body. Young and old, male and female, they all wore expressions of undisguised anticipation.

My anger rose as I watched them, and I was about to turn away when my eyes met a pair of familiar dark ones. John Cala and I stared at one another for several seconds before he stepped back and vanished into the crowd.