"Martin, are you talking about a transplant?"
"Heavens, no, just a valve or two. A couple of new pipes. The first ones they bolted in there aren't holding too well." He looked through the open bar to the water beyond. "It's a pretty day, isn't it? We'll need umbrellas tomorrow."
His sunglasses hung from a cord around his neck, and she could see his deep-set hazel eyes, sad and beautiful, under thick, dark brows. Once he had been a powerful man; it showed in his bones and the way he carried himself. The king was dying—or believed he was.
"Teri has to know," Gail said. "She's your wife. She loves you."
He finished a swallow of beer and set down his mug. "That's precisely why I don't want to tell her. She has too much on her mind already with Billy. We've been through some tough times with him. This is about as bad as it ever was. I hope that psychiatrist can offer some guidance, because I'm at my wit's end. This is something I've tried to fix, and I have failed completely.
"He doesn't like me. I can't fish as well as his father can. I don't push him around, so how can he respect me? He wants to stand on his feet like a man and he can't do it, and he's frustrated to hell and back. Oh, I remember what it's like, being that age.
"What I fear most is that Teri will be hurt. Billy's going to break her heart, and there's not a damned thing I can do about it. I've succeeded at everything else most people put value on. I made my first million at twenty-six. That's true. And I didn't lose it and make it back, I kept it and made even more. Oh, it was great fun stomping the opposition, scooping up deals. We had a fantastic apartment on Central Park West, and I rarely saw it. My daughter wouldn't speak to me. My wife was about to divorce me when she got sick. She died a year later. I went to her funeral and was back at work the next day.
"I was thirty-eight when I caught that first whiff of mortality. It wasn't a bad attack, as these things go. The biggie came at forty-one. Lois flew up to take care of me. She browbeat my doctors for six months of recovery. I couldn't go back to work. It would have killed me. She told me Lindeman Key was for sale. So I bought it.
"The only way I got the deal I got—and it still cost me a bundle—was by agreeing to take the property subject to Joan's life estate. Her nephew, Teddy, talked Harry Lindeman into it. I think it was so Teddy could continue to enjoy the property, too, that's what I think, because he and Joan were pretty tight, but Teddy got himself busted by U.S. Customs and went away for ten years. He never got out. He died in prison."
Gail said she had heard about that.
Martin looked into his beer mug, turning it around and around on the varnished teak bar. "Lois and I had big plans at first. A megaresort with a timeshare condo on the eastern side. Very bad idea. Joan's being there saved me from that. Now I've gone green. I'm working to get everything low impact, totally solar powered, making all our own water. The world will have to go that way eventually. If not, we're all in trouble. You know, Gail, the good thing about nature is that it reminds us we are not in control. The storm is coming, and my trees will be blown away or not, and my heart will go when it decides to, and that's all right. I've learned something: We don't choose our fate, it chooses us.
"I don't know why Teri loves me. I don't know, but I'm grateful, as I'm grateful for the sunshine. Lois gets the resort when I'm gone, but Teri will have enough to live very well and to take care of whatever Billy might require. I don't expect to go tomorrow, but I tread very lightly. I know the odds.
"My beautiful wife. Teri wants another child, can you imagine that? She's young enough, but I put her off. She has enough on her hands with Billy. Wouldn't that be a rotten joke to pull on her? Give her a child and then keel over? I want her to be able to find someone else when I'm gone. I think that's the best gift I can give her. She loves me, but it would be a tragedy if she loved me too much."
Gail felt a knot in her throat. This was so sad. Martin was afraid to tell his wife he was sick because she was young and beautiful and she might stop loving him. Teri was afraid he would see how unworthy she was. Teresa Flores, a Cuban refugee, a maid, a nobody. Her first husband had beat her, and her younger son was dead. If only she had been home instead of working, she might have saved him. She wasn't good enough for Martin Greenwald, so she created an illusion for him, the perfect wife. They were miles apart. Martin would never know who she was or how desperately she loved him. Each of them, an island.
When Anthony finally came back, Gail was so mired in gloom that he had stolen a sip of her beer and was talking to Martin before she realized he was there.
She gathered that Martin had asked him if he'd had any luck.
Anthony was saying, "There were two men on duty that night. Neither of them remembers what time Billy left. They can't even remember if they saw him."
"What do you do now?"
"Now we talk to Joan Sinclair and we cross our fingers."
12
At the fence dividing the properties, the cart left the landscaped grounds of The Buttonwood Inn and entered the woods on the other side. The headlights made a circle of light that bounced over the rutted path. Shadows swirled in the trees. Gail sat in the front with Billy Fadden, leaving the rear seat to Anthony. They came to a clearing. The sky brightened and dimmed as clouds drifted across the moon.
Billy looked tense and unhappy, and Gail saw him wincing when they lurched out of a hole. He had not volunteered to play chauffeur. He said Joan Sinclair had asked him to. She wanted to see with her own eyes if he was still alive, or if she had cut him down off the beam for nothing.
The cart reached a smoother patch of ground. Gail asked, "Do you visit Joan often?"
"Not really." Billy added, "Not like I used to."
"Why?"
"I've heard it all."
"All of what?"
"Her stories. What Hollywood was like thirty or forty years ago."
"That could be interesting."
"Well, it's not. We used to talk about how movies were made. She made me watch Citizen Kane about ten times in a row, and she took it apart. But she's changed." Billy steered the cart around a fallen log. "You keep waiting for the director to say 'action.' "
"With your interest in movies," Gail said, "why don't you go into filmmaking?"
"Yeah, right."
"I'm serious."
He shook his head. "There's a million people who want to get into it. You have to know somebody."
"You know Joan."
"Like that's going to help."
Gail wondered if all conversations with Billy dropped into a black hole. She said, "Could you let me borrow one of her movies?"
"Which one do you want? I have them all."
She remembered what the waitress, Emma, had told her this morning at breakfast. "How about Bride of Nosferatu?"
"Okay, sure," Billy said. "It's not her best, but it's the one that got her noticed in the horror-film genre."
After returning with Anthony from Islamorada, and before dinner arrived on a tray, Gail turned on her computer, hooked it up to the phone line, and searched the Web for Joan Sinclair. She got over fifty links, most of them to very strange home pages. "Eric's House of Goth" contained a photo of a young Joan Sinclair with vampire teeth, an abundance of eyeliner, and a drop of blood on her lips. Someone called "Count Shockula" had a Joan Sinclair fan club page that hadn't been updated in three years. A site called "Women of Darkness" featured two streaming video clips: From Black Flame, Joan Sinclair standing outside a dungeon cell, black hair piled on top of her head, breasts straining at the low neckline of a red velvet dress. A terrified, sweating, half-naked man is chained to the stone floor watching her. She smiles.
"You called me evil. Am I? Do you think so? Well, my darling, you're about to find out what evil is. Hendrik! Open the door!" From Dawn of the Undead, a blond Joan Sinclair in a diaphanous white gown, moonlight revealing every curve. She puts a hand to her ear. "Listen. Do you hear the music? It's the voices of the dead, singing to us. La-la-la-laaaa."
There w
ere many insignificant references contained in longer articles. Joan Sinclair's name listed in the cast of a movie. Mentioned in articles about Vincent Price, Christopher Lee, Roger Corman. Joan Sinclair as scream queen and campy comedienne. Joan Sinclair as typical of, example of, or betrayal of, feminist ideals. The most comprehensive biographical data came from the online Guide to American Film:
Sinclair, Joan (born Joan Lindeman, Key Largo, FL, 1940?), a virtual unknown, was given the coveted role of ill-fated mob girl Carlotta Sands in The Edge of Midnight (MGM, John Huston, 1963), which earned Sinclair an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actress. She appeared in three other major pictures (most notably Paddy Chayefsky's Network) but became best known for her work in horror films (Bride of Nosferatu, The Scourge, Hell House, Black Flame, Moon of the Vampires, and others). TV appearances include the occult drama Dark Shadows; Star Trek; and the suburban witch mother in the short-lived 1980 sitcom Skeleton in the Closet. Sinclair had become a cult figure and subject of parody by the time she guest-hosted Saturday Night Live in 1981. Her career suffered due to disputes with directors and other actors, a failed lawsuit against her agent, and arrests for drug possession. Married four (?) times, including actor Sam Jakes and British rock guitarist John Everts.
Los Angeles Times movie critic Art Hammersmith (1987): "Even in a string of low-budget bombs, Sinclair's approach was slyly comedic and self-consciously aware, forcing the viewer to go along for the ride."
Though Joan Sinclair sank into B-movie obscurity, she has a quirky and possibly underrated place in American film history. She lives in seclusion somewhere in the Florida Keys.
Such a weak bulb burned in the porch lamp that they had to feel their way up the steps. Only a sliver of light shone through a crack in the curtains. Billy lifted a hand to knock on the door but stopped when a woman's angry voice came from behind it.
"—tired of arguing with you. Why shouldn't I, if I want to? Why must you always—" The voice grew too faint to make out, as though the woman had turned in another direction.
Then another voice, too muffled to indicate its gender.
Billy banged on the screen, which rattled on its hinges. The voices went quiet.
"Joan? It's me, Billy."
From inside: "They're here, would you leave? Get out. Go!"
There were footsteps fading away. Then a door slammed somewhere deeper in the house.
Half a minute later the click of high heels came nearer, and a lock was thrown back. The door opened, and the figure of a woman appeared on the other side of the screen. Soft jazz and cigarette smoke drifted out. The glow of an ember rose and brightened and for an instant reflected in her eyes. Bracelets jangled as they slid down her wrist.
Billy said, "Hi. I brought Miss Connor and Mr. Quintana."
They murmured their hellos. Joan Sinclair leaned for a moment longer against the frame, then pushed open the screen door and moved aside. "Come on in out of the snow, why don't you?" The words were spoken clearly, slowly, with an undertone of wry amusement.
She shook their hands. Her fingers were arched, the grip quick and light. Long black hair fell past her shoulders, and bangs stopped at the level of her wing-shaped eyebrows. Her nose was strong, and her lips were outlined and filled in with red. Dark blush accented her angular cheeks. She wore a loose, leopard-print sweater with the sleeves pushed up, black Capri pants, and high, backless heels with open toes. A gold silk s was tied around her neck.
She held up her cheek to Billy. "Kiss, kiss." With a sigh of embarrassment, he gave her a peck. She turned up her palms though she expected something more. "Aren't you going to say 'thank you'? Or do you want me to mind my own business next time?"
"Thank you, Joan."
Joan gestured toward the bandage on Billy's left hand. "You bled all over my new blouse." She was Billy's height, but his posture was bad, and he seemed smaller. "Billy darling, when I said death was beautiful, I didn't expect you to take it literally." She walked him toward the door. "Now scram. Your lawyer wants to talk to me."
She stood looking out as the hum of an electric cart faded then flicked her cigarette into the yard. She locked the front door when she came in. For her age, she was stunning. The black hair had to be a wig, but a very good one. Her waist wasn't as small as in the photos from thirty years ago, but she still had the curves.
Gail looked around, getting the layout of the house: Living room ahead, hall and stairs to the right. Old furniture, a scattering of threadbare rugs on wood floors. A hanging light fixture with most of its low-watt bulbs missing. A row of candles flickering on the mantel of the coral-rock fireplace. On the other side of the living room a wide opening to another room, probably the dining room at one time, now empty except for two recliners, a big-screen television, and many posters on the walls. In the semidarkness, the outline of a door, perhaps to the kitchen. Had the other guest gone out that way? Was he—or she—still here?
"Bienvenue chez moi." Joan Sinclair's cocoa-brown eyes lingered on Anthony before moving to Gail. "Mr. Quintana brought you along as backup? We'll gang up on him if he gets out of line. Have a seat, you two." She motioned toward the camel-backed sofa, which had been draped with a fringed, green brocade throw. Fake fur pillows had been propped in the corners.
At the other end was a pole lamp with three metal shades, and Gail clicked one after another without result. She smiled apologetically at her hostess. "It's dark in here."
Wordlessly the owner of these gloomy environs moved around Anthony to switch on a lamp at the nearer end of the sofa. The wooden base was carved into a vaguely female shape. The scarf draped over the shade allowed a soft pink light to come through. "Better?"
On the coffee table, incense curled upward from a brass burner, masking the smell of cigarettes, mildew, and unwashed laundry. A jazz trumpet was coming through the built-in speakers of a cabinet in the dining room. Gail remembered her mother had owned one of those. She walked a few steps nearer and saw a stack of phonograph albums.
"Do you like Dizzy Gillespie?"
Gail looked around. "Is that who it is? Yes, it's very nice."
"What can I get you to drink?" Joan Sinclair's breath revealed that she herself had already had one or two.
"Do you have white wine?" Gail asked.
"Wine. Wine. I have red wine. Wouldn't you rather have a martini? I make a mean martini, my own secret formula." Her voice was a breathy alto, and each word she spoke seemed to carry the weight of some hidden meaning.
"Just some club soda, then."
"She's being a good girl tonight." Dark eyes shifted to Anthony. "How about it? Want to join me in a martini?"
"All right."
"Sit down, will you? Get comfy."
The bar was on the wall near the dining room, an oak cabinet on claw feet. Over it, an ornate gold mirror tilted from the wall. The striped wallpaper was curling down at the ceiling. Joan Sinclair found a rocks glass and used aluminum tongs to drop in a few ice cubes from a metal refrigerator tray. She bent over to search behind some doors for the club soda. Her Capri pants fit snugly. She had slender legs and a round butt.
Anthony was staring at her. Gail leaned closer and whispered, "You think she's hot."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, passing a hand over his hair. His lips barely moved. "I think Billy is in trouble."
"One club soda. Tee martoonis." Joan Sinclair's tilted image in the mirror smiled at them. "I learned to drink martinis when I was in Vegas shooting The Runner's Club. I got to know Elvis Presley. He wasn't in the film, but he came by the set to see what was going on. He was a lot of fun, but I'll tell you something. If he sang like he made love, he'd be a frog." She laughed.
Bottles clanked as she searched among them. "Life in the fast lane. I'm not gonna lie to you about it."
She set out two glasses.
"Okay, boys and girls. How to make a Sinclair martini. Premium gin, a wet kiss of vermouth. And a few drops—don't overdo it—a few drops of Rose'
s Lime. Gives it some sass." When she finished she clamped on the strainer and poured with a flourish, raising the shaker high, then down, filling both martini glasses to within a quarter inch of the rim. She brought over the drinks and some cocktail napkins on a black lacquer tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The napkins were printed with a pirate's grinning face and the words CAP'N BOB'S TAVERN, MARATHON FL. Someone must have pocketed a stack of them and brought them here.
Now that her eyes had adjusted to the lack of light Gail could see that the entire room was filled with oddities, cast-offs, and assorted junk. Every surface was crammed with ancient and dusty knickknacks of the sort that remained when everything else at the garage sale had been sold.
"Where the hell are my cigarettes?" Joan found them on the end table, a pack of Salem menthols. She sat down in a rattan chair at right angles to Anthony and slid a cigarette out of the pack. He picked up a tarnished, silver-plated table lighter and clicked the wheel. She cupped her hand lightly around his. Her nails were crimson. A green stone, too big to be real, twinkled in its setting of cubic zirconias. She blew out smoke. "Thanks."
Gail sipped her club soda from a smoky-gray glass trimmed with silver. The ice tasted like it had been in the freezer too long.
Anthony said, "Miss Sinclair, we need to ask you about Billy Fadden."
She settled back in her chair and crossed her legs. "You want me to tell the police that Billy was with me when someone murdered Sandra McCoy. He arrived here at eight-thirty, we watched three movies, and I sent him home around three-thirty in the morning. And I'd like it if you called me Joan."
"All right. Joan. When we speak to Detective Baylor, it's important that you remember as much as you can and that you tell the truth."
"I swear." She held up a Scout salute and took a sip of her martini.
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