Games to Keep the Dark Away

“What about you?”

She looked up, fixing solemn eyes on my face. “I don’t mind strangers. At least I don’t mind you. And I like your car.”

“You do, huh?”

“Yes. Could I sit in it, do you think?”

“Won’t that make your mom mad?”

She glanced at the store. “She’ll be in there a long time. She has a big list. Can’t I sit in your car? Please!”

“Okay,” I said. “Come on.”

We went down the road and I held the passenger door open for her. Rachel hopped in and began to examine the dashboard. I remained standing beside the car; I was not going to get myself accused of child-stealing.

“Does this radio work?” Rachel asked.

“Yes. Do you want to hear it?”

“Please.”

I reached in and put my key in the ignition, then flicked the radio on. A disc jockey’s voice filled the air, going on about the fifties sock hop to be held at Port San Marco High on Saturday. His style was not nearly so frantic as Don’s. Don. Thinking of him gave me a momentary rush of pleasure.

“The radio in my dad’s car is busted,” Rachel said. “It has been for years.”

I turned my attention back to the little girl. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” She turned, her forearms resting on the window, and looked up at me. “The real reason I wanted to sit in the car is to talk about what you were asking back there.” She jerked her head in the direction of the Crab Shack.

I’d suspected she had more on her mind than the MG. “Oh?”

“About the cars the night the lady was killed. I’m not supposed to know about the lady being killed, but I do. And I saw something.”

“Tell me.”

She looked around. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“My mom said not to. She said to forget it so we wouldn’t get involved. You’re never supposed to get involved.”

I squatted down beside the car. “Rachel, your mom is right. Sometimes getting involved is a bad thing. But there are other times when it’s important. Times when you can help other people.”

“Like you?”

“Like me.”

She considered this solemnly. “Knowing about the car will help you?”

“Yes.”

“A lot?”

“A whole lot.”

She nodded as if she’d already known that. Then she said, “There’s this Garfield doll at the store. I’ve been saving up for it, and I’ve almost got enough. But I need two more dollars.”

It surprised me so much that my mouth dropped open.

“Only two dollars,” Rachel repeated.

“Did your parents also teach you that tactic?” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I dug in my bag and held up the money. “I give you two dollars, you tell me about the car, right?”

“Right.” She reached for it.

I pulled it back; I didn’t like the idea of bribing a child. But then, she’d proposed it. “Tell me first.”

Her lower lip pushed out. “How do I know you’ll pay me if I tell first?”

Rachel had been watching too much TV, I decided. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay.”

“All right.” She leaned forward through the windows, her small face conspiratorial. “That night I was playing in the front yard of our house.” She motioned down the road, “I wasn’t supposed to be out there; my mom thought I was in my room. But I like it outside when it’s dark.”

I glanced back at the store. Rachel’s mother was nowhere in sight, but I was worried she would come out at any moment. “What did you see, Rachel?”

She pouted again.

I held up the two dollar bills.

“I saw a car go out there. It parked and then its lights shut off.”

“What kind of car?”

“Like my dad’s. That’s why I noticed it.”

“What kind of car does he have?”

“A VW. A dark blue one.”

“And this was a VW?”

“Yes. A blue one, just like Dad’s.”

“What happened then?”

“My mom came out and called me. And I went inside.”

It would be a VW, one of the most common cars on the California highways. Still, it was a lead. I held out the two dollars to Rachel. Her small hand closed over them quickly and she stuffed them in her pocket. I stood up and opened the car door for her.

“Maybe you’d better not tell your mother we talked,” I said.

“I never tell her anything I don’t have to.” She jumped out of the car and started off toward the store. “Thanks, lady!” she called over her shoulder.

What a polite little extortionist! Was it the parents’ fault? I wondered. Television? Something in the water? And what about people like me, who bribed children?

I decided I’d better leave philosophical considerations for another day, and headed back toward Port San Marco.

Chapter 17

I went to the Mission Inn to phone Barbara Smith’s sister, Susan Tellenberg, and check for messages. There was one-from Abe Snelling, of all people. Perhaps the photographer wanted to rehire me. I depressed the receiver and direct-dialed his home in San Francisco. He answered immediately.

“Thanks for calling,” He said. “Hank Zahn told me where you were. It was in the papers about you finding that dead man. He was the one they originally suspected of killing Jane, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“You think he did do it?”

“No. I think he knew who did, and that got him killed.”

There was a long silence. When Snelling spoke, his voice was flat. “So they aren’t any closer to finding the person now than before.”

“Not really.”

“Has anything else come up about Jane?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, anything that might…I don’t know. That might explain why she was murdered.”

I had the impression that Snelling had something specific in mind but didn’t want to say. “Well, I did find out where she was that week. She has a boyfriend down here and she was staying on his boat doing research.”

“Research?” Now he sounded astonished.

“Not of a scholarly sort. I think Jane was looking into an old murder that happened at the place where she used to work, a hospice called The Tidepools. She was going through their personnel files-the boyfriend, Allen Keller, is