“She was murdered last night, stabbed to death, at the old pier in Salmon Bay.”
He flinched. “That can’t be.”
“I’m sorry, it is.”
“Jesus.” His face was pained and he looked down at the blue rug. Finally he said, “Who did it?”
“They don’t know.”
“God. Janie.”
“Do you want to talk about her now?”
“There’s nothing to talk about. We went together for a couple of years. She was a bright woman, knew about music and art. Had a lot of interests-photography, science fiction. She liked to sail. She was a strong woman. Knew what she wanted in life.”
I waited and when he didn’t go on, I said, “What was that?”
He raised his eyes to mine. They were moist and sad. “Well, it wasn’t me. If it had been, she’d be here with me right now.”
“It sounds like you cared a lot for her.”
“I guess I loved her.”
We sat in silence for a minute, and then I reached for my purse and started to get up. Del Boccio put out a hand. “No, don’t go.”
“I thought you’d want to be alone.”
“No. I’d rather not be. How about if I give you breakfast?”
I’d only had coffee and toast before and, as with Allen Keller’s fried egg sandwich, I couldn’t resist. Besides, Don Del Boccio might tell me something that would broaden my picture of Jane, give me a clue as to why someone would want to kill her. “All right,” I said, “but nothing that’s too much trouble.”
He jumped up, obviously eager for activity. “You’re looking at one of the world’s great cooks, lady. Nothing’s too much trouble for Del Boccio.”
He went to the kitchen and began rumbling around, carrying on a monologue about his favorite restaurants, both here and in San Francisco. I wondered if he were the sort who felt a need to be on stage all the time, or if this was just his way of diverting himself from Jane’s death. Talking nonstop didn’t hamper his ability to cook, however; in less than ten minutes he had produced a feast and spread it on a large tray between us on the blue rug. I looked with growing hunger at the scrambled eggs, bacon, bagels, cream cheese, and dry white wine.
“No reason we can’t be elegant, even if we are sitting on the floor.” He poured wine into delicate stemmed glasses and motioned for me to help myself. Smearing a bagel with cream cheese, he launched into another monologue, this time about Port San Marco.
“Do you like it here? I do, even though the town’s changed a lot since I was a kid. It used to be the home of a whole fishing fleet. There were several generations of families who fished these waters. This house was built by one. Those must have been the days, I tell you. But of course, it all changed. Those families couldn’t compete with the big companies, and Port San Marco had to turn elsewhere for is bread.”
I was about to ask him where, but he went right on.
“Tourism. High-tech firms. The developments you see all over the hills are a consequence of that. Those hills used to be covered with trees and cows and horses-and now look at them. Of course, they’re expensive homes and in good taste for the most part. And Port San Marco’s never been in the best of taste anyway. The old amusement park is boarded up now. Going to be torn down and replaced by a performing arts center. I don’t mind-I’ll enjoy not having to drive to San Francisco for concerts. But, still, I’m going to miss that park. Pinball. Rides. Cotton candy. Saltwater taffy.”
He bit into a piece of bacon and I seized my opportunity. “Do you know much about Salmon Bay?”
A look of gloom crossed his face. “We’re back to that are we?”
“I can’t help it. It’s my job. And you asked me to stay.”
“That I did.” He smiled ruefully. “You’ve got to excuse me. Normally I wouldn’t babble at you, but…”
“I understand.”
“To answer your question, yes, I do know Salmon Bay. I was born there. My father was a fisherman, his father too…he and my mother still live in Salmon Bay. I don’t see much of them.”
“Are you on bad terms?” I thought of Jane’s relationship with her mother.
“Not really. We don’t have much in common, though, and I hate to go up there. The people in the village have a lot of pent-up hate. They blame Port San Marco for surviving commercially while their town failed. They just sit around talking about the good old days and try not to starve. And they resent anyone who has made good. I guess that includes me.”
“What about The Tidepools? How do they feel about it being so close by?”
He shrugged.
“Were you seeing Jane when she worked there?”
“At first.”
“And then?”
“Then I didn’t anymore”
“Do you know about the problems there?”
He ran a finger over his moustache.
“Please, Don. I need to know about it and no one will tell me.”
Carefully he poured us more wine. “How did you find out about it?’
“A friend of Jane’s who worked there too.”
He nodded.
“Will you tell me?”
“Why not? It’s no secret.” He picked up his glass and leaned back against a pillow, stretching his long legs out. “There was a series of deaths, three of them. Overdoses of the painkilling medicine they use there. With the first two, it appeared the patients had saved up their medication until they had enough to overdose. The staff was blamed for being lax. And, of course, there were the usual rumors.”
“Which were what?”
“That someone at The Tidepools had been deliberately lax, had wanted the patients-they were both old women with no living relatives-to die.”
“Why?”
“Because they had willed large estates to the place.”
I remembered Keller’s description of the arrangements that were often made. “You said three deaths, though.”
“The third was different. A younger woman with cancer. It appeared to be a mercy killing by her husband, a medical technician with the Port San Marco hospital.”
“Why did they suspect that?”
“He disappeared immediately after. With a lot of money. They’ve never been able to locate him.”
“Sounds more like murder than mercy killing-because of the money.”
“Yes.”
“Do they think he might have been responsible for the two older women?”
“There was some speculation, but it doesn’t seem very likely.”
“What about repercussions on the staff?”
“A number of people left afterward, including Jane. The Tidepools wasn’t a good place to work anymore.”
“But things are better now, at least according to Allen Keller, their director. He said-”
Don sat up straighter. “You know Keller?”
“Not well. Do you?”
“Not well.” But his face had darkened and now his eyes grew hard.
“Are you on bad terms with him?”
“I hardly know the man.”
“But-”
“I don’t know him well, and I don’t know anything more about The Tidepools. And, besides, what has Keller got to do with Janie’s death?”
“Nothing, as far as I know,” I admitted. We finished our breakfast in silence. When I left, Don accompanied me
