“How good a friend of Jane’s were you?”
“Oh, we were pretty close. We palled around at The Tidepools, had drinks after work. Sometimes we’d have dinner.”
“And here, in the city?”
“We saw each other occasionally.”
“After the patients died, you left The Tidepools first, right?”
Her eyes widened a little. “So you found out about that.”
“It wasn’t hard. I gather it was public knowledge.”
“Yes, it was.” She picked up her burger, took a deliberate bite, and began chewing as if it were hard work.
“The person who told me about the deaths mentioned a drug they use there,” I said, “a painkiller that the patients overdosed on.”
“Look, I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Just tell me about the drug. Then we’ll drop the subject.” I didn’t exactly know why I was prying into the matter of the deaths at The Tidepools, but I had long ago learned to trust my instincts.
Liz sighed and set her burger down. “It’s a variation of something called Brompton’s Mix, which was developed in England. It consists of morphine, alcohol, and one of the phenothiazines.”
“The what?”
“Thorazine, Compazine, or-Look, this can’t possibly mean anything to you.”
I had to admit it didn’t. “It’s a strong enough mix to kill a person, though?”
“Obviously, if taken in sufficient quantity. Which the patients did.”
“How could they have gotten hold of that much of the drug?”
“The police thought they must have saved it up from their daily dosages.” Liz’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Of course, they only came to that conclusion after thoroughly grilling the staff. But they could see for themselves that the pharmacist kept tight control over all the drugs. There was no way he would have allowed anyone to get his hands on more than the authorized dosages.”
“Did you know any of the patients who overdosed?”
“I knew all three. But I wasn’t on the medical team that was assigned to any of them.”
“Was Jane?”
“I don’t…” She paused, a strange look passing over her face.
“Was she?”
“I think so. I’m not sure if she worked with all three of them, but I know she was assigned as Barbara Smith’s social worker.”
“Which one was Barbara Smith?”
“The last one. The one whose husband…” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get to work.”
“Liz-”
“I’ve got to go.” She stood up, placing some money on the table. “Thank you for telling me about Jane.” Quickly, she strode out of the railed-off cafe. I watched her cross the wide street, her white shoes moving swiftly, her brown coat billowing open to reveal her starched smock and pants.
I looked down at my cheeseburger, then at the briefcase that sat on the floor beside my chair. I should go to City Hall and get those documents filed. I should forget about Jane Anthony and the Tidepools. If it didn’t take too long at City Hall, I could spend the remainder of the afternoon hunting for a new apartment.
Instead, I left my lunch untouched and went to Abe Snelling’s house.
Chapter 10
By the time I reached the half-demolished block on Potrero Hill, I’d come up with a strategy for approaching Snelling. Like most artistic people, the photographer had a passion for his work and probably enjoyed talking about it. After all, hadn’t he and Jane originally become friends because of her interest in his art? If I could tap into that enthusiasm-and it shouldn’t be hard since I was an amateur photographer myself-I might gain enough of Snelling’s confidence that he would talk freely about Jane and his urgent need to find her. It might even lead to him reopening the investigation.
The demolition crews were working today and I had trouble finding a place to work. Finally I sandwiched the car between two trucks near the dead end and walked down the street toward Snelling’s house. The neighborhood was noisy with the grating sounds of pounding, ripping, and prying. A couple of the workers shouted and whistled at me as I passed, and I smiled at them. More militant feminists than I would have taken offense, but what the hell- some days I could use all the admiration I could get.
I pushed through the gate in the redwood fence and went down the path to Snelling’s door, feeling as if I had stepped into a jungle. The palms rustled overhead and amid the tangled vines, bright, mysterious flowers bloomed. I was trying to figure out what they were when the photographer opened the door a crack and looked out over the security chain.
“Sharon.” His voice was shaky. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I just want to talk to you.”
“Oh.” He hesitated and then I heard the chain rattle. When he opened the door, he was running his hand through his thinning blond hair. He looked even more pale than usual, and his thin face was ravaged, as if he’d spent a bad night.
I waited for him to speak and when he just stood there, I said, “I was in the neighborhood, seeing a client and I thought…” I paused, surveying his faded jeans and stained shirt, similar to those he’d worn the first time I’d come here. “I guess I caught you in the darkroom.”
“Not really.” His shoulders drooped with resignation. “I was just cleaning up. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come to the door at all. What can I do for you?”
He didn’t look in any shape to talk about Jane Anthony, so I began in on the story I’d thought up on the way over here. “Well…I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t have dropped in like this. But I thought maybe if you had a little time you’d show me your darkroom and studio. I do some photography myself-not a lot and not very well-and, frankly, I’ve been dying to see how a real professional operates.”
Snelling looked relieved and wary at the same time. “I see.”
“I can come back some other time-”
“No, no.” He made a dismissing motion with one hand. “I’d be glad to show you.” He started off down the hall and I followed.
We went through the living room-where the draperies were still closed in spite of the sunlight-and up the spiral staircase. It led to a large room that was glassed in on the far end, the one that faced the Bay. There were skylights in the roof and the walls were painted the same stark white as downstairs. The room was devoid of furnishings, except for a stool in its center. Shelves on the rear wall held photographic equipment.
I went over there and looked at the cameras. There were three, one of which was similar to mine. “Which of these do you use the most?”
“The Nikkormat.”
“That’s what I have.”
“You like it?”
“Yes, very much. It’s light and easy to handle. And when you’re as clumsy with a camera as I am, that’s important.”
“Have you been at it long?” He came over and took the Nikkormat off the shelf.
“Forever, it seems, but I never get any better. I work at it for a while, drop it, then take it up again six months later. When I’m into it, I spend hours and hours in the darkroom at Dolores Park and sometimes I get the feeling I’m improving. But, then, I’ll shoot a few rolls and let them sit for months without developing them. I’ve got film in my camera left over from a visit to my family last May. My mother keeps demanding copies of the photos and I keep putting her off.” Surprised at the rush of words, I reined myself in. Snelling was the one who was supposed to be doing the talking.
My monologue seemed to have relaxed him, however. He took the lens cap off the camera and stuffed it into
