Free Muller, Marcia - [McCone 04] Games to Keep the Dark Away (v.1,shtml)

trained as a concert pianist."
He rippled his fingers, playing a scale in the air. "Unfortunately,
I'm not very good. And actually the job is fun. Nutty, but enjoyable
in an odd way."
    I'd once had a boyfriend who was a pianist—but he'd ended up
a third-rate rock musician. The job market for serious pianists was
about as good as it was for sociology graduates. "Where did you
go to school?"
    "New York. Rochester, specifically. The Eastman School of
Music. I never finished, though; it was so goddamn cold back there
that my fingers froze and I couldn't play. So I came back to sunny
California and the low-brow life of a deejay."
    "But you keep up with your music." I motioned at the
piano.
    "Yes, ma'am. It's my first love." He paused, studying my
face. "But what about you? You said you're a private
investigator. What can I help you with?"
    I sobered instantly, realizing he probably hadn't heard about Jane
Anthony's murder. "I came down here on a missing person's case.
An old friend of yours—Jane Anthony."
    His mouth twitched beneath the shaggy moustache. "Huh.
Janie?" Then his eyes moved from my face to a point beyond my
right shoulder. "Funny, I haven't thought about her in a long
time."
    "You're not close anymore, then?"
    "No. We're not exactly what you'd call friends either."
    "Why not?"
    He shook his head. "Sorry. My business."
    "It may not be."
    "What is that supposed to mean?"
    "Your relationship with Jane may be police business. She's
dead."
    He jerked his eyes back to mine. "Dead?"
    "She was murdered last night, stabbed to death, at the old
pier in Salmon Bay."
    He flinched. "That can't be."
    "I'm sorry, it is."
    "Jesus." His face was pained and he looked down at the
blue rug. Finally he said, "Who did it?"
    "They don't know."
    "God. Janie."
    "Do you want to talk about her now?"
    "There's nothing to talk about. We went together for a couple
of years. She was a bright woman, knew about music and art. Had a lot
of interests—photography, science fiction. She liked to sail.
She was a strong woman. Knew what she wanted in life."
    I waited and when he didn't go on, I said, "What was that?"
    He raised his eyes to mine. They were moist and sad. "Well,
it wasn't me. If it had been, she'd be here with me right now."
    "It sounds like you cared a lot for her."
    "I guess I loved her."
    We sat in silence for a minute, and then I reached for my purse
and started to get up. Del Boccio put out a hand. "No, don't
go."
    "I thought you'd want to be alone."
    "No. I'd rather not be. How about if I give you breakfast?''
    I'd only had coffee and toast before and, as with Allen Keller's
fried egg sandwich, I couldn't resist. Besides, Don Del Boccio might
tell me something that would broaden my picture of Jane, give me a
clue as to why someone would want to kill her. "All right,"
I said, "but nothing that's too much trouble."
    He jumped up, obviously eager for activity. "You're looking
at one of the world's great cooks, lady. Nothing's too much trouble
for Del Boccio."
    He went to the kitchen and began rumbling around, carrying on a
monologue about his favorite restaurants, both here and in San
Francisco. I wondered if he were the sort who felt a need to be on
stage all the time, or if this was just his way of diverting himself
from Jane's death. Talking nonstop didn't hamper his ability to cook,
however; in less than ten minutes he had produced a feast and spread
it on a large tray between us on the blue rug. I looked with growing
hunger at the scrambled eggs, bacon, bagels, cream cheese, and dry
white wine.
    "No reason we can't be elegant, even if we are sitting on the
floor." He poured wine into delicate stemmed glasses and
motioned for me to help myself. Smearing a bagel with cream cheese,
he launched into another monologue, this time about Port San Marco.
    "Do you like it here? I do, even though the town's changed a
lot since I was a kid. It used to be the home of a whole fishing
fleet. There were several generations of families who