his shirt pocket. “But while you’re working at it, you enjoy it, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not trying to make a living at it.”
“Lord, no!”
“So why worry about it?” He walked to the center of the room and took a light meter reading. “Come on over here. I want to get some shots of you. You have interesting bone structure.”
I went over to him, and he took another reading, close to my blue sweater. “Sit down.” He pointed at the stool. “And don’t pose, because if you do, I won’t touch the shutter.”
I sat, feeling self-conscious. Snelling walked around me, his footsteps light on the linoleum floor. The stool was a swivel type, and I turned to watch him. “You only use natural light?”
“Yes.”
“What about a tripod?”
“Sometimes. Depends on what I’m after.” He kept moving, watching me through the camera. “Like I said, you have interesting bone structure. Are you Indian?”
“Only an eighth.”
“What’s the rest?”
“Scotch-Irish.”
“What do you think of Stanford’s team this season?”
“What?”
I grinned. “You tricked me.”
“Well, I suppose in your business it doesn’t pay to be.”
“Definitely not.”
“Tell me about it.”
Dammit, this wasn’t working. I was supposed to be pumping him and instead he was going to get my life story. Still, talking about the detective business was a natural lead-in to talking about Jane. I began telling him about my days guarding dresses at the department store.
All the while, Snelling circled me, lithe as a cat, almost on his tiptoes. Gracefully he weaved and bobbed, moving here and there, making me turn the stool or crane my neck to follow him. He continued to catch me off guard when he clicked the shutter. It was like being stalked by a playful lion. And, although there was no menace involved, after a while my uneasiness returned. Finally I said, “Do you think we could stop now? I feel kind of hunted.”
He grinned, obviously unable to maintain his gloomy mood when immersed in his work, and lowered the camera. “You
“I feel like you’re stalking me.”
A strange expression crossed his face and he went to place the camera on the shelf. “I guess that’s what you could say I do to my clients-stalk them.”
“Do they all get as uncomfortable as I did?”
“Some of them. But you’d be surprised how many of them love the attention. Come see my darkroom.” He opened a door next to the shelves.
I got up and crossed to the doorway. Snelling flipped on a red safelight in the ceiling. It illuminated a row of stainless steel tanks, a huge print dryer, and one of the most sophisticated enlargers I’d ever seen. The table that held it was half white Plexiglas, which could be backlit so you could view negatives and slides on it. Water bubbled softly in the washing tank, where several prints floated face down.
“This is wonderful,” I said.
“Go on in.” Snelling flipped another switch, turning on regular white light.
I stepped inside and looked at the enlarger, clasping my hands behind my back, not daring to touch it. Snelling leaned against the counter that held the tanks, watching me with amusement.
I said, “I thought I was the only one who washed prints face down, so the other people using the darkroom wouldn’t see how awful they were.”
“Once I’m done with something I like to go on to the next without being reminded of what’s past.”
“Like with Jane?” The words were out before I could stop them.
Snelling’s mouth pulled down. “Just what do you mean by that? Is it supposed to be a dig because I’ve halted your investigation?”
“No,” I said quickly, afraid that I’d destroyed our rapport. “Of course not. It just seems a similar situation, that’s all. I guess people often approach their work and their personal lives in the same way.”
Snelling folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose so. But you have to remember Jane and I weren’t all that close. I’m sorry she’s dead, but I can’t mount a costly crusade to find her killer. That’s the police’s job.”
I nodded. “How did you meet Jane?”
“Uh, I was giving a lecture on photography at S.F. State. She came up afterward and asked some questions. They were more intelligent than what I usually hear, so I asked her to have a drink with me. And we became friends.”
“And then she moved in with you?”
“Yes, when she couldn’t continue to pay the rent on the room where she was living. We lived quietly and companionably until she disappeared.”
“Did you have many mutual friends?”
“No. We went our separate ways.”
“Did she ever talk about her past, before she came to San Francisco?”
His frown deepened. “Sharon, what is this?”
“I’m curious. I found her body. I feel some sort of…I don’t know, call it a connection.”
He straightened up and started for the door. I went after him.
“Abe, did Jane ever mention The Tidepools?”
He turned, his face lit by the brightness from the studio.
“Did she ever mention The Tidepools?” I asked again. “Or Allen Keller? Or Ann Bates?”
“No.” Curtly he motioned me out of the darkroom and began herding me toward the stairs.
“What about Don Del Boccio? Or a fisherman named John Cala?”
“I’ve never heard of either of them.” He was right behind me, his body forcing me down the spiral staircase so fast that I almost stumbled.
“What about a patient at The Tidepools named Barbara Smith?”
We had reached the bottom of the stairway. Snelling blocked my way into the living room, urging me down the hall instead. “Who are all these people? What do they have to do with Jane?”
“Some are former employers. Don Del Boccio was her boyfriend at one time. I don’t know about Cala-he lives next door to her mother. I don’t know about Barbara Smith, either, except…”
Snelling unchained the front door and opened it wide. “Except what?”
“Except…” I paused, one foot over the threshold. “Except I think Jane may have killed her.”
It had only occurred to me at that moment and it was a wild thrust in the dark, but it hit Snelling hard. His pupils dilated and he went even paler. Then he reached out a hand and shoved me through the door.
“Get out of here,” he said, “and don’t ever come back.”
Chapter 11
Another unpleasant confrontation awaited me at All Souls. As I came through the front door, I ran into Hank. His eyes, behind his thick, horn-rimmed glasses, went from my face to the still-bulging briefcase in my hand.
“You didn’t file those documents yet.”
“Uh, no.’
He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly four-thirty. What have you been doing all afternoon?”
