The Spook Lights Affair by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller Page A

derby: Homer Keeps, a muckraking journalist with the Evening Bulletin . The other man would undoubtedly be a reporter as well. She might have known that the press would catch wind of the tragedy at Sutro Heights, despite the mayor’s desire that the story not be made public, and come haring to her with a barrage of questions and insinuations.
    Sabina was in no frame of mind for such harassment this early in the day. Quickly she caught up the reticule in which she’d put cousin Callie’s ruined gown and slippers, snatched her jacket from the hall tree—last night’s fog had mostly burned off and the weather would be sunny and mild enough for a light wrap—and hurried through the kitchen to the back door. Down a short flight of steps and she was in the rear yard, which was screened from the street in front by trees and shrubbery. A gate in the black-iron fence beyond the carriage house led to an alleyway that bisected the block. She made her way along there to the next cross street and then downhill. It was still too early to venture downtown; she boarded a westbound cable car instead.
    *   *   *
    The handsome Victorian Callie French shared with her husband was in the fashionable neighborhood just beyond Van Ness Avenue. Sabina surprised her plump blond-haired cousin by her early arrival, and surprised her even more when she presented her with what was left of the borrowed garments. “My Lord,” Callie exclaimed, “these look as if you were playing outdoor tag instead of attending a ball last night.”
    “I was, more or less,” Sabina said ruefully.
    She apologized profusely for the damaged garments, but Callie waved it away. “Stuff and nonsense. The gown was too small for me anyway. What happened?”
    “It’s a long story. You’ll no doubt read about it in the newspapers tonight.”
    “The newspapers? Oh, my! You haven’t gotten yourself in some sort of trouble, have you? And at one of the mayor’s parties, of all places?”
    “In a manner of speaking, yes, but through no fault of my own.”
    “Did something happen with the young woman you were watching?”
    “To her, yes.”
    “Well? What , for heaven’s sake?”
    “That is what I intend to find out.”
    “Pshaw! You’re being very mysterious.”
    “I don’t mean to be. It’s just that I haven’t time to discuss the matter right now—I have an appointment downtown.” Which wasn’t quite true, but close enough to her intention. “I only stopped by to return the gown and slippers and to apologize. We’ll have a luncheon soon and I’ll tell you everything in detail.”
    *   *   *
    F. W. Ellerby’s bicycle and sporting goods emporium was on Powell Street a few doors off Market. The space it occupied was small—an uptown business district showroom rather than a full-sized store. Its plate-glass front window displayed three bicycles—a man’s, a woman’s, and a tandem—and a small selection of other items artfully arranged to attract the attention of passersby. It had just opened for business when Sabina arrived.
    The showroom’s interior was crowded with several more bicycles and a wide range of sporting goods, from firearms to archery and croquet sets to a colorful array of kites. The first employee Sabina encountered was a heavy-set, middle-aged man dressed in a rather garish flower-patterned waistcoat. When she asked for Lucas Whiffing he said somewhat stiffly, “I am not sure if Mr. Whiffing is here today—I’ve only just arrived. Illness or whatever may have kept him home yet another day this week. But I’ll see.”
    Mr. Whiffing was there, having apparently just come in himself. The young man who emerged through a doorway at the rear and approached her was more conservatively dressed than his fellow employee, small of stature, and darkly handsome except for a haggard look around the eyes that might have been the result of recent illness or a simple lack of sleep. The smile he wore under a narrow waxed mustache was