that saying something bad might make it so, and Jim was the least likely person in the family to succumb to anything.
“That’s too bad.” Keller gave up on the sandwich and pushed his plate away. “How long has he?”
“The doctors haven’t said. The problem is, although he owns his home, he doesn’t have much cash. If he wanted to go to The Tidepools, what kind of arrangement could you make with him?”
Keller drained his beer and went to the refrigerator for another. “You say he owns a house? Does he have any other assets?”
“Some rental properties.”
“That’s simple then. We’d have him draw up a will, with The Tidepools as beneficiary. At the time of his death, we would have first claim on the estate for the amount owing for his care, plus a carrying charge.”
“Carrying charge?”
“To reimburse us for what we’d lost by not having immediate payment.”
“I see.” I also pushed my half-eaten sandwich away. The conversation had killed my appetite. What Keller had just explained made good financial sense, but it sounded somewhat cold-blooded to me. “Well,” I said, “I’ll bring it up to my uncle when it seems appropriate. The Tidepools certainly looks like a pleasant place to, um, spend one’s last days.”
“I can assure you it is.”
“I did hear something that makes me leery, though.”
“Oh?”
“Another of your former employees-Liz Schaff-hinted there had been some unpleasantness there, just before both she and Jane Anthony left your employ.”
Keller frowned. “Unpleasantness?”
“Yes. She wouldn’t elaborate, though.”
His eyes began calculating rapidly. “When did these women leave The Tidepools?”
“Between eight months and a year ago, I think.”
“That explains it.”
“Then you know what she was talking about?”
“Yes, but it was nothing, really. I’m surprised she would even bring it up. It had nothing to do with either Miss Schaff or Miss Anthony.”
“What was it?”
“A problem with one of the patients. Actually, with a member of the patient’s family. I won’t go into it, however; it’s nothing that’s likely to happen again.”
For a closed issue, I thought, people were mighty sensitive about it. “Still, I’d like to know, if I’m to recommend The Tidepools to my uncle.”
“I assure you, Miss McCone, it was nothing.” Keller glanced at his watch and pushed his chair back from the table. “It’s after six, and I have an appointment at seven.”
I stood up. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“And thank
I gave his partially eaten sandwich a skeptical glance and followed Keller down the hall to the front door. As I stepped outside, I remembered some unfinished business. “Oh, by the way, I think you should telephone Ross Brothers, the clothing store, in the morning.”
He frowned.
“I don’t want to go into it, but your billing address is wrong. You’ll want to correct it.”
“My billing address?”
“Uh-huh.”
A slow smile spread across his puffy face. “This must have something to do with how you located me. The Tidepools would never give out my address.”
“You’re right.”
“But I shouldn’t ask.”
“Right again.”
I left Allen Keller standing on the steps of his house, the bemused smile still on his face. The building still reminded me of a house of cards, and I wondered if his messy divorce and the community property laws were what it would take to make it topple.
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.”
