received two messages-a second one from Paula Mercer about the apartment she’d found for me, and another from my sister, this time leaving her name-Patsy. Patsy was my youngest sister and the family rebel. She lived on a farm up near Ukiah, had three children-each by a different boyfriend-and steadfastly refused to get married. The embodiment of the back-to-the-land craze of the seventies, she sold quilts for money, raised vegetables and chickens for food, and seemed perfectly content to do without TV, video recorders, and electronic games. Since she had been living like that for eight years and was so good at it, I figured it had passed over the line from being a media-induced aberration to a genuine way of life.
Much as I loved my sister, I didn’t want to talk to her tonight. And much as I needed a new apartment, I didn’t care to spend the evening looking at one. I ignored both messages and sat, sipping wine, feeling prickly and out of sorts, as dusk fell over the city.
The next morning I drove to the big brown Victorian that housed All Souls. The house was on a steeply sloping side street across from a trash-littered triangular park and, as usual, parking was at a premium. I finally left the MG by a fire hydrant-the meter maids never got there till noon-and hurried up the rickety front steps. The co-op was in its customary morning turmoil: attorneys who didn’t live in the second-floor rooms were arriving; others were grabbing their briefcases and rushing off for court. Hank stood by the front desk, talking with Ted, the secretary, about an office-supply order. When Hank saw me, he mumbled something about some documents and notes on my desk. I started down the hall, but suddenly he called after me.
“Abe Snelling phoned me this morning.”
I stopped. “What did he have to say?”
“He told me to thank you for your good work and asked that we send a bill.”
“How did he sound?”
Hank frowned. “Okay. Why?”
“He was pretty broken up yesterday over his roommate’s death.”
“Well, he recovers quickly, then. This morning he was all business.”
I sighed, irrationally annoyed by Snelling’s recuperative powers and went into my office. On my desk was a thick folder of notes on a pretrial conference for a landlord-tenant dispute that was due to go to court next week. I took off my jacket, curled up in my ratty armchair, and spent the next few hours going over it.
The case was an interesting one. A couple had bought a two-unit house with the intention of moving into the upper flat. They’d sold their previous home and were now living in a motel because the occupants of the flat had refused to leave, even after they had been served with a legal eviction notice. Through striking up an acquaintance with the downstairs neighbors, I’d found out that the tenants had already moved into a new apartment and were merely keeping enough possessions in the flat to make it appear they still lived there. They were now attempting to extort several thousand dollars from the new owners before they would remove everything and give up the keys to the premises.
I’d followed the tenants, gotten pictures of them entering their new apartment, and we’d subpoenaed evidence that they’d changed the addresses on their bank and charge accounts. It promised to be a lively court battle, since the tenants were a surly and unpleasant pair, and I was looking forward-in spite of being a renter myself-to testifying against them.
What other work remained for me that day was not nearly so interesting. My briefcase lay on my desk, fat with documents to be filed at City Hall-one of my less glamorous but important duties. I regarded it with distaste, then left the office and went down the long hall to the big country kitchen at the rear of the house. A couple of attorneys were there, making a salad. I looked into the refrigerator and saw nothing but lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, spinach, and alfalfa sprouts.
“Yuck!” I said.
Anne-Marie Altman, a striking blond who specialized in tax law, looked over at me and grinned. “Too healthy in there for you, huh?”
“You’ve got it. Why don’t you people buy some real food?”
“Like what?”
“Hot dogs. Hamburgers. There are some wonderful new frozen dinners on the market.”
She made a face at me and tossed me a radish. I popped it in my mouth and left the room. Back in my office, I sat at the desk, contemplating the full briefcase. There was a McDonald’s near the Civic Center. I could stop there for lunch, I thought. But, dammit, I didn’t feel like filing documents. If only Jane Anthony’s murder and Abe Snelling’s initial panic and subsequent cooling of interest didn’t nag at me so.
Then I remembered Liz Schaff. I’d promised to let her know what I’d found out. Maybe she could give me some insight into Jane’s relationship with Snelling. Surely Jane had mentioned more about her roommate than his name. I picked up the phone, remembered Liz worked afternoons, and called her at home. She agreed to meet me for a quick lunch and suggested the Blue Owl Cafe, across from the hospital.
Liz was sitting at one of the umbrella-covered tables when I arrived, wearing her coat against the chill, the fall sunlight glinting off her bright blond hair. It was one of those crisp, clear days that make up for the summer fog in San Francisco, and the striped umbrellas and flowers on the tables added a further note of cheer.
When I sat down at the table, I noticed that Liz had a glass of wine in front of her. It surprised me to see a nurse drinking before going on duty, but I reminded myself it wasn’t as if she was an airline pilot. I ordered wine too, and we both chose cheeseburgers. When the waiter had gone, Liz leaned forward across the table.
“Have you found Jane?”
“In a way.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m afraid your friend is dead,” I said gently. “Murdered. I found her body the night before last.”
“You found…” Her face went pale and she reached for her wineglass. “Where?”
“Do you know the old pier in Salmon Bay?”
“God, yes. We used to hang out there in high school, to drink beer and neck.”
“Well, I don’t think she went there for either reason. But someone stabbed her and left her body on the bank, half in the water.”
Liz drained her glass and signaled to the waiter, who seemed to know her, for another. She passed a hand over her eyes, as if to brush away tears. “Someone? Don’t the police have any idea who?”
“No. Do you know a fisherman named John Cala?”
“Yes. He went to the same high school as we did. He was wild, always in trouble.”
“At first the police suspected him. But he’s got an alibi.”
“Why would they suspect John?”
“He found the body before I did, but didn’t report it. He went out on the pier for some reason, but he’s not saying why. I’d give a lot to know.”
Liz looked thoughtful. “When did this all happen? The other night?”
“Yes. Around eight o’clock.”
“And the police arrested John?”
“He’s probably been released by now.”
“And he won’t say what he was doing there?”
“No.”
“God. What a mess.” She sipped from her fresh glass of wine and a little color returned to her face. “So what else are the police doing about it?”
“The usual things, I would imagine.”
“And what about you?”
“I’m off the case. Abe Snelling decided he couldn’t use my services anymore.”
“I see.” Liz paused as the waiter placed our food in front of us. She looked at her burger with unconcealed distaste.
“Liz,” I said, “what did Jane tell you about her relationship with Abe Snelling?”
“Nothing, except he was a friend and helping her out.”
“She didn’t say anything else? How she met him? About his work or their mutual interest in photography?”
“She didn’t say anything. I didn’t even know he was a photographer until you mentioned it the other night. And of course Jane wouldn’t discuss photography with me-she knew I didn’t even know which end of a camera to look through.”
