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.”
“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.”