There was a pause. “Well, so far she hasn’t. And her mother gave her my message last night.”
“I guess she doesn’t think it that urgent.”
“No, I guess not.” He hesitated again. “Sharon, she’s got to be staying somewhere in the Port San Marco area. Since you’re already down there, would you keep looking for her?”
“I can, but it seems a lot of expense for nothing.”
“I’d appreciate it if you would, though. Don’t worry about the expense. Just find Jane-I must speak to her.”
Snelling obviously had more reason for wanting to talk to Jane than merely reassuring himself she was all right. What? Well, that wasn’t really any of my business and, if he was willing to pay for my time, I didn’t mind pursuing his elusive roommate. In fact, I was enjoying being out of the city. “Okay,” I said, I’ll keep looking.” Then I remembered the man named Don. “Abe, did Jane ever mention someone named Don, an old boyfriend?”
“Don? No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Terrific. There must be hundreds of Dons in the area.”
“Do you think Jane’s with him?”
“Her mother says no, but it’s a possibility.”
“Why can’t you ask Mrs. Anthony who he is?”
“I did; she wouldn’t say.”
His sigh was audible over the wire. “Mothers…”
Then I thought of someone who probably would know-and tell. “Abe, do you know a friend of Jane’s called Liz Schaff?”
He was silent for a moment. “Liz who?”
“Schaff. S-c-h-a-f-f.”
“I don’t recall her.”
So Liz had been telling the truth about not knowing Snelling. Odd that Jane had never had Liz over to the house. But then, her mother had indicated that Jane didn’t make friends easily; maybe once she had one she didn’t treat her the way most people do.”
“Who is this Liz person?” Snelling asked.
“A nurse at S.F. General. She and Jane had a lunch appointment and Jane never showed. Liz was worried about her.”
“How do you know her?”
“I can’t go into that now.” I looked at my watch.
“Listen, Abe, I’m going to check a few things out and then I’ll be in touch, probably this evening.”
“Okay.” He seemed reluctant to hang up. “Keep me posted.”
I placed a second call to San Francisco, to the number Liz Schaff had scribbled on the back of her grocery list. She answered on the third ring.
“It’s funny you got hold of me,” she said when I identified myself. “Usually I’m at work, the noon-to-eight shift, but I’m off sick today.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Just a cold. Have you found Jane?”
“She’s somewhere in the Port San Marco area; at least, she visited her mother last night.”
“Then she’s okay.”
“I guess so. Her mother would have noticed if anything was wrong.”
“Don’t count on it. What did you think of Salmon Bay?”
“Not much.” Everyone was certainly talkative today. “Liz, I’ve got a question for you. Do you know a former boyfriend of Jane’s named Don?”
“Sure, that would be Don Del Boccio. He’s a disc jockey in Port San Marco, on KPSM.”
“Do you think she might have gone to see him?”
“I doubt it. Not after…”
“After what?”
“Well, they broke up quite a while ago.”
“Mrs. Anthony didn’t want to talk about it. She hinted Jane had done something bad to him.”
Liz chuckled. “Probably did. Jane is not exactly easy on her men.”
“Well, I think I’ll talk to him anyway. Thanks for the information.” I hung up before she could further prolong the conversation.
In the motel office I bought a local paper, then walked out on the wharf to the restaurant where I’d eaten the night before. While I was waiting for my shrimp salad, I scanned the radio listings. The show called “Don’s Daily Doubles” was on from two to eight; they worked their disc jockeys hard here. Since it was almost two now, I decided to save Del Boccio for evening and check out The Tidepools this afternoon on the off chance that Jane had visited her former place of employment. When I got in my car, I tuned in KPSM.
Del Boccio’s voice came on, extolling the Golden Forty Hits. He intended to play them all, over and over, two at a time without commercial interruptions, for the next six hours. He had a frantic style that matched the station’s hard rock format-and made me cringe. After a few minutes I switched the radio off. It was enough to know he was on the air and unavailable until eight; I didn’t have to listen to him. And, while Del Boccio was honking, snorting, and screeching his way into the hearts of local teenagers, I might even catch up with Jane. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with him at all.
The Tidepools was as attractive as Liz Schaff had said. A low building of weathered gray shingles, it was laid out in several wings on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. There were great expanses of glass that must have afforded magnificent views of the surf crashing on the rugged reefs below. Groves of eucalyptus and wind-bent cypress were scattered throughout the grounds, and the rolling lawn was immaculate. I parked in a semicircular driveway and went up to the front wing, the windows of which were screened by tall juniper hedges.
I pushed through the heavy carved door into a Spanish-style lobby with a gleaming terra-cotta floor. The rear wall was all glass and opened onto a courtyard with a blue mosaic fountain and fuchsia plants in hanging baskets. The woman at the desk matched the décor: she was as darkly handsome as an Indian maiden brought into a hacienda to wait on the rancheros.
I gave her my card and asked to see the personnel director. She dialed her phone and had a muffled conversation, then replaced the receiver and looked up at me. “Mrs. Bates is in conference right now. Perhaps you’d like to walk around the grounds while you wait? It shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”
A walk appealed to me far more than sitting on one of the hard carved-wood chairs in the reception area. I went back outside and looked around. Eucalyptus bordered the semicircular drive on either side, and farther back, toward the edge of the bluff, clumps of cypress leaned to indicate the direction of the prevailing wind. I cut across the well-manicured lawn toward the cliff. A wooden platform with wicker chairs perched there, and a pair of white-haired ladies sat together, knitting and chatting. They didn’t look ill, and they certainly didn’t seem sad or afraid. In fact, they nodded pleasantly at me and went on with their conversation.
I looked down at the sea. Huge outcroppings of black rock rose from the placid water, up and down, the sheltered beach. A long stairway scaled the side of the cliff from the platform. I climbed down it, noting the high tide line of seaweed and shells. When the tide was in, the entire beach would be submerged. The reefs, with the exception of one or two huge ones, would disappear-and the waves crashing against them would be treacherous. I took off my boots and socks and walked across the damp sand to the water’s edge. When I tested it with my toes, it was as cold as I’d expected.
But so what? Born in San Diego, I’d grown up around the sea. To me, walking on a beach without getting my feet wet was practically heresy and, besides, I wanted to get a look at the tidepools for which the hospice was named. I rolled up my pants legs and waded out to the start of the reefs.
The rocks felt rough even on my feet, which were toughened by my habit of going barefoot whenever possible. I squatted down and peered into one of the pools formed by concavities in the reef. Tiny fish darted through the trapped waters, and starfish and anemones clung to their sides, their delicate arms drawn in and still. Tidepools-microcosms of the unfathomable sea-had always fascinated me. I watched this one for several minutes, until I realized it was time for my appointment with Mrs. Bates.