downstairs, tossing off a few comments about some new stereo equipment he was going to take a look at. I got into my car and he squatted down so he could look through the window at me. “Listen, even under the circumstances, I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Come back, okay?”
“I’d like to.”
“I’ll make you veal parmigiana.”
“Sounds great.”
“My lasagna’s not bad either.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
“I don’t usually talk too much.”
“I guessed that.”
He paused, then squeezed my arm and walked over to an antique Jaguar parked at the curb. It was painted a gauche disc-jockey gold. He got in, started it up, and roared past me, waving.
I liked Don Del Boccio. He was bright and funny and had the kind of good looks that had always attracted me. And right now I wished I were next to him in the gaudy Jaguar, taking a long top-down ride up the coast. Instead, I would have to go back to my motel and try once again to contact Abe Snelling.
Chapter 9
Before calling Snelling I checked with Lieutenant Barrow. He told me they had located John Cala sleeping off a drunk in the parking lot of a bar near the waterfront. The fisherman claimed he’d found Jane’s body and then panicked, but Barrow was skeptical of his story.
“What I wonder is why he went out there in the first place,” he said. “He claims he was just taking a look around, but there’s nothing on that pier, nothing around it.”
“Have you established the approximate time of death?” I asked.
“Within an hour of when you found her.”
“Could it have been less than fifteen minutes?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“You said in your statement that the body was cool when you touched it. Even though she was lying half in the water, it’s unlikely she would have cooked that much in fifteen minutes. No, I’d say the time of death was closer to an hour before you found her.”
“Then Cala probably didn’t kill her. I forgot to tell you this last night, but I saw him in Rose’s Crab Shack about fifteen minutes before I went out on the pier. He was there, at the counter, and he left as soon as I came in. But he didn’t look scared or upset-not like he did when I saw him running away from the pier.”
“How come you waited until now to tell me this?”
“In all the excitement I just forgot. I’m sorry.”
“Hmm.” There was a pause. “Anybody else in the Crab Shack then?”
“Just the old man behind the counter. He’ll verify what I’ve told you; we even spoke briefly about Cala.”
“Thanks. I’ll check it out.” From what I’d observed of Barrow, he’d be on it right away. He was a seasoned cop, professional as any big-city investigator.
“Is it okay for me to leave Port San Marco?” I asked.
“You heading back to San Francisco?”
“Yes. My job here seems to be done.”
“Well, go ahead. I know where to find you if I need you.”
“I hung up and sat, once more contemplating the crack in the wall. Cala was telling the truth about not killing Jane, but why
The photographer answers on the first ring. “It’s about time you called,” he said.
“I tried to, last night and then again this morning. You didn’t answer.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“Where were you?”
“In the darkroom.”
“All night?”
“No, of course not. But I like to work in there late at night, and I unplug the phone so if it rings I won’t hear it and be tempted to interrupt my work and answer. And I leave it unplugged until I get up, usually around eleven in the morning. What do you have to report?”
“I’m afraid I have bad news.” Quickly I told him about Jane’s death.
There was a long silence. It stretched out more than thirty seconds. “Abe,” I finally said, “are you okay?”
When he spoke his voice was high-pitched and full of fear. “Dead! She can’t be dead. How could this happen?”
“Abe, I don’t know. But what I can do is stay down here and follow up with the police-”
“No!”
“Obviously you care that someone killed your roommate. Don’t you want to find out who it was?”
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Nothing matters anymore. Nothing. I have to go now, Sharon.” There was a click as he set down the receiver.
I hung up and stared at the phone, wondering about Snelling’s strange reaction. I had expected regret and sorrow-because he and Jane, while not lovers, had been friends. But what I’d heard was shock verging on panic. Why? I wondered. Because Snelling was not too stable? Or was it something to do with how urgently he had needed to speak to Jane? To find out, I’d have to head back to San Francisco.
It took me only a few minutes to pack and check out, and soon after that I was on the pass road heading inland. Once away from the sea, the air became hot and dry, heavy with the bitter odor of eucalyptus. I opened the car windows and vents to create a breeze. It did little to alleviate the heat, and I kept leaning forward to unstick my shirt form my damp back. The road rejoined the freeway and I sped along on the ridge above the Salinas Valley.
Ten years ago there had been no freeway here, just a winding two-lane road that connected the little valley towns like Bradley, San Ardo, and San Lucas. I remembered Sunday nights, coming back from weekends in Santa Barbara or Los Angeles, when the road would be a continuous line of traffic crawling in both directions. In those days I had thought nothing of driving a six- or eight-hundred-mile round trip on a weekend, but now the prospect was unthinkable. I liked to imagine I was getting more sensible now that I’d entered my thirties, but occasionally I wondered how good that was.
In King City, near the midpoint of the valley, I stopped for gas and a Coke. The soda was sticky-sweet and only made me more thirsty. I leaned against the car as I drank it, watching trucks and autos and campers and buses whiz by on the freeway. A prickly, irritated feeling was rising inside me-both at Snelling for reacting to Jane’s death in such an unusual way and at myself for not being able to understand it. I tossed the half-full Coke can in the trash basket and continued north on Route 101, through the ever-present bottleneck at San Jose, up the Peninsula, past the airport, and home.
Watney greeted me vociferously as I entered the apartment. His food bowl was empty, the water dish dry. Tim had obviously forgotten to feed him today. He’d never neglected the cat before, and as I filled the bowls I wondered if perhaps all the beer my building manager guzzled had finally destroyed his few remaining brain cells. The cat taken care of, I got myself a glass of wine-with no consideration at all for my own brain cells-and went into the main room. Everything was the same there-the rumpled quilts, the want ads with the red circles, the books and magazines on the table. I didn’t know why I’d expected it to be different, but the lack of change only heightened my sense of discontent.
I tried to call Snelling, hoping he’d calmed down by now. There was no answer. I dialed my service and
