Anthony finished the last of the beer in his glass, then set it down. "What if it wasn't an accident?"
That horrifying thought took a few seconds to work its way into Gail's mind. "He couldn't have."
"Why not? He's been a bad kid all his life. That's what they say, isn't it? He burned a house down for fun. Murdered Sandra McCoy for a thrill. He could have pushed his brother into the canal because he was jealous."
"You don't believe that. Billy adored his little brother. He found him floating and couldn't save him. That's enough to make anyone crazy."
Anthony squeezed his forehead. "El loco soy yo." He was the one going crazy.
Gail took his hand away and looked intently into his face. "Billy didn't burn that house down on purpose, and you didn't somehow enable him to kill Sandra McCoy."
The rain fell steadily outside, and the light was dim through the screen. Anthony's eyes were dark, almost black. "We were going to get out of here this afternoon."
"Never mind. We'll stay through Friday. If you need to stay longer, do it. I'll ask Mother to drive down. It's not that far. Don't worry about me."
He leaned over until his cheek was against hers, his lips at her ear. "You know something?"
"What?"
"You are worth more than five dollars an hour. I should give you a raise."
14
The Islamorada branch of The Monroe County Sheriff's Office was located in a concrete-block building about the size of a double-wide trailer. The waiting room contained some molded plastic chairs, but Gail was too nervous to sit. Anthony stood by the window looking out at the highway. He appeared calm, but he was jingling the change in his pocket. They had dropped Billy off at Mangrove Mike's Café half a mile down the road and told him to sit there and drink as many sodas as it took for them to get back to him.
Gail walked around and read the posters about law enforcement and drunk driving. Two men busied themselves filling out a form, one giving instructions, the other writing. A middle-aged woman with a long ponytail was reading a paperback thriller, combating boredom, waiting for who-knew-what.
A uniformed officer sat behind glass at the other end of the room. Gail happened to walk by as the officer got up and opened a door. He left a narrow space through which Gail glimpsed an auburn wig and the back of a double-knit, black-and-white checked suit. A hand with long red nails lifted to take a cup of water from the edge of a desk. A heavy faux-gold bracelet dangled from her wrist.
Joan Sinclair had made an attempt to dress the part: society matron testifying in a courtroom drama, but Gail could almost smell the mothballs. A boxy little suit and black turtleneck sweater, kid pumps, and sheer black hose. The lenses of her Dior sunglasses had immense tortoise-shell frames. Joan hadn't removed them in the fifteen minutes since Detective Baylor had ushered her inside.
Baylor was out of sight but another man leaned against the desk with his arms folded across his sport shirt, a holstered pistol on his belt. Did they believe Joan Sinclair's story? Gail could glean nothing from his expression.
The officer came back, closed the door, and sat down again behind the glass panel. With her view blocked, Gail wandered over to Anthony. She had made him change out of his conservative suit into pleated slacks and a sport jacket so she wouldn't look silly by contrast in her short pink dress.
"What do you think? Joan's been in there a long time."
He said, "I was thinking about a room at the Fontainebleau."
"Lovely," she said, "but we can't skip out on the Greenwalds' dinner."
Teri had called to remind her, and Gail had said she hadn't forgotten, though of course she had. Teri wanted to do a special thank-you dinner, since they were leaving tomorrow afternoon. It remained to be seen if there was anything to thank them for.
The door to the waiting room opened, and Detective Baylor stood aside to allow Joan Sinclair to go through it. She walked with a little swing to her steps. A penciled auburn brow, the same shade as her hair, rose over the frames of her sunglasses, and a smile flitted across her lips. She reached into her bag and pulled out a silver-plated cigarette case and a disposable lighter.
The woman with the pony tail looked over her paperback, which slowly dropped to her lap. "Excuse me, but... aren't you Joan Sinclair?"
Tapping her cigarette on the case Joan said, "Yes, I am."
"Oh, my God, it's Joan Sinclair." The woman stood up, glanced excitedly around the room as if to share this amazing news, then rushed back to her purse. She fumbled for a memo pad, a pen. "Would you mind signing an autograph? If it's not too much of an imposition—"
Joan purred, "Not at all. I'd be delighted."
Baylor said, "Miss Sinclair?" He pointed to the sign. "No smoking."
Hollows appeared in her cheeks when she tightened her lips, but she put her cigarettes away.
"Counselor, could we speak to you a minute?"
Anthony told Joan Sinclair to have a seat. "Gail, come with me."
They went through the door, and Baylor closed it.
"My associate, Ms. Connor."
Baylor made a quick nod in her direction. "Ms. Connor." He was a man around forty with a light brown mustache, short hair, and an open-collar knit shirt. A badge was clipped to his holster. He tilted his head toward the other man, whom Gail had glimpsed earlier, and introduced him as Sergeant Miller.
He led them to a cubicle. There was only one chair, which Baylor rolled under the desk to get it out of the way. Everyone remained standing. The narrow window gave a view of the rain- soaked parking lot and some patrol cars.
"That's quite an actress," Baylor finally said. "She almost had me convinced."
The other detective smiled.
Baylor said, "Miss Sinclair is a nice lady, and kind of a local legend around here, so I won't accuse her of lying. I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt and say that Billy Fadden confused her. Maybe he was at her house. I can buy that. But no way did he get there at eight-thirty. You didn't encourage this little show, did you, counselor? I'd hate to have to arrest you for obstruction of justice."
Aware of being on the periphery of this conversation, Gail ventured a glance at Anthony, wondering if he was as utterly shocked as she. Only a slight narrowing of his eyes revealed his emotions. He asked the question that Detective Baylor was clearly waiting for. "What time did Billy arrive at Joan Sinclair's house, since you seem to have some source of knowledge I am not aware of."
"Oh, probably closer to nine-thirty, ten o'clock." Baylor put a hip on the desk and swung his foot. "We've talked to a few more people since your client's confession. We can put Billy Fadden at Movie Max Video with Sandra McCoy around eight o'clock. She left a little later than we'd initially thought, probably eight-fifteen, and Billy left shortly thereafter. Let's see now. Motive. Two days prior, Billy and Sandra had a fight in the parking lot at Holiday Isle. He accused her of double-timing him, and he slugged her. If you'd like to bring him in so we could talk to him, the welcome mat is out. Maybe he's got some explanation that could clear this up."
"Who are the witnesses?"
"Can't tell you."
"What time did Billy leave the video store?"
"We're not sharing our evidence at this time," said Baylor.
Anthony glanced out the window, mulling the facts over in his mind. He said, "He stayed around for a while, didn't he? If he had followed Sandra out the door, you would be all over him by now. You wouldn't have bothered to speak to Joan Sinclair. Did you hope she would make a mistake? Say the wrong thing and implicate him?"
Baylor unfolded his arms and stood up. "We're going to get a search warrant for every Buttonwood vehicle that Billy Fadden has access to. We want to take a look at his boat, his room at the hotel, and the general area. This would be a whole lot easier if we could secure the Greenwalds' consent. I think a lot of Martin Greenwald, and Teri's a good woman. I'm sorry what they've had to go through. Talk to Martin. See what he wants to do. We'd like to avoid embarrassment for everybody
."
Anthony said, "You want to search, go talk to a judge."
Taking them back to the waiting room, Baylor paused with his hand on the door knob. "Tell Billy to keep his toothbrush handy. He's going down. Ain't nobody you can pay off this time, counselor."
The rain had stopped, though the pavement was shiny and the air cool and damp. Traffic hissed by on wet tires. Walking toward the car, Anthony clutched his umbrella as though he might like to strike someone with it. Joan Sinclair paused to light a cigarette. Gail waited for her.
Exhaling smoke, Joan said, "Well? What did they say? Was I all right?" Her eyes sparkled with triumph behind the big amber-tinted lenses. "Douglas can't use Detective Baylor against me, can he? If Douglas does go through with that damned guardianship, you can call Baylor as a witness for me. He was very nice. I don't like cops, as a rule, but I think I impressed him. Come on. What did he say?"
Anthony opened the rear door of his Seville. "I don't allow smoking in my car."
"That's why they make ashtrays, dear."
"Put it out." A muscle twitched in his jaw, betraying his mood.
With a sigh, she dropped her cigarette to the pavement and rotated the toe of her pump on it. The shoes were old, with pointed toes and sharp heels. Gail noticed with some dismay how ropy this woman's calves had become. The years had not been gentle with her body. Only the face was still young, or seemed so, with face-lifts and makeup to assist the illusion.
Gail opened her own door.
From the backseat Joan Sinclair said, "What's eating him?"
Anthony got in and turned on the engine for the air conditioner. The windshield was fogged. He turned around and shifted so he could look at her directly. "Miss Sinclair. You want to know what they said. They said you were lying. They have a witness who saw Billy talking to Sandra at the video store at eight-fifteen. He could not have been at your house at eight-thirty. What time did he arrive?"
"I don't know exactly."
"Guess. You have a good memory."
With an elaborate shrug, hands lifting, she said, "Nine-twenty?"
"Did he say he had seen Sandra?"
"No, he didn't."
"Did you offer to lie, or was it Billy's idea?"
She was a silhouette against the back window. "I'm loyal to my friends, which is more than I can say for some people."
Letting out a breath between his teeth, Anthony put the car into gear.
Joan said, "Billy didn't kill Sandra."
"How do you know?"
"He was completely normal when he got to my house. There was no blood on his clothes. He wasn't nervous. I didn't notice anything wrong, and I have a sixth sense about people. He didn't do it."
"Why did you lie? If we'd known the truth, we could have worked with it. Now Billy looks guilty, and you look like a conspirator."
"Yes, I lied. I would have done anything, killed if necessary, to keep them from desecrating his grave."
Anthony's eyes moved to the rearview mirror. "What grave? Is that from one of your movies?"
"The Moon of Stonehenge. I filmed it in England with Christopher Lee in 1967. I was quite good in that part."
"Me vuelvo loco." The tires spun on gravel when Anthony backed out of the space.
Joan Sinclair scooted forward on the seat and put a hand on his shoulder. "Anthony, darling, as long as we're on the subject... Do me a favor. Take me to Plantation Key. Do you mind?
It's up the road just a few miles. I want to buy some flowers and take them to my family cemetery."
"We're going to the resort," he said.
"But I tried to help Billy. God knows I tried." She pulled a tissue from her purse.
Gail said, "We're not in a rush to get back. I'd like to see the cemetery."
Anthony shot her a look.
"Oh, come on. Aren't you in the least curious?"
They collected Billy from Mangrove Mike's, then went by the florist that Joan Sinclair designated. She bought every rose in the shop, $263.52. She smiled at the clerk. "Send the bill to Tom Holtz." The woman replied, "Yes, ma'am, I know. Just sign here, please."
Gail assumed that Holtz would pay the bill out of the money he gave Joan from her late nephew Teddy's trust fund. The money would run out soon. And then what?
Joan told Billy to put the flowers in the trunk.
They all got in, and Anthony turned in the other direction on U.S. 1. The windshield wipers swept away the mist churned up by the car ahead of them.
Billy asked Anthony what had happened at the sheriff's office. Anthony replied he would talk to him about it later. Gail noticed Billy look toward Joan Sinclair, but Joan only reached over and patted his hand.
A mile down the road they passed Movie Max Video. Neon lights shone in the window. Gail saw the place where Sandra had left her car. If the police were right, she had rented the video but had stayed to talk to Billy. She'd finally left about eight-fifteen. Billy had left later than Sandra, or the police would have been all over him. Whom had they talked to? Someone at the store. It wouldn't be hard to find out.
Gail remembered that Doug Lindeman and Lois Greenwald had been discussing business at his office, located half a mile west of Movie Max. Lindeman said they had left at eight-fifteen. Lois would have driven past the video store on her way to the marina. She might have noticed Sandra coming out. Martin Greenwald had seen Lois at the resort around nine-thirty. An hour and fifteen minutes. It didn't take that long to get back to the island.
Out the window Gail saw the Whale Harbor Inn, then a bridge over a channel, then Holiday Isle, a sprawling complex with hotel, marina, restaurants, and outdoor bars. The parking lot was almost empty. Wrong time of year, bad weather, and a storm coming this way. Two weeks ago in that parking lot Billy Fadden had slapped Sandra McCoy. The friend of Sandra's— Penny something—who had witnessed this had just talked to the police. Gail wondered if she could be found. Friends confided in each other. The girl might have something to say about Sandra and Doug Lindeman.
The road took them past the Windley Key state geological site. Someone had driven this way with Sandra's body, then had turned off the road—Gail saw the opening in the brush—and had dragged or carried her to the quarry. Could Lois have done that? It would take more strength than most women possessed, not only to twist a rope hard enough to break bones, but to drag a body through dense foliage on a moonless night.
Another bridge put them onto Plantation Key. Joan tapped Anthony's shoulder and told him where to turn left.
The Bay Harbor Resort owned several acres of rocky ground dusted with short, brittle grass. The hotel was a plain, two-story, flat-roofed building on the bay side of the highway. Sailboats and powerboats were tied at the docks. They drove along a sandy road that led to the eastern edge of the property, where a slight rise in the land was marked with several shade trees and some headstones.
The Lindeman graveyard was about twenty feet square with a black iron fence around it, painted and rusted and repainted. More than a century ago a pioneer family named Lindeman had chiseled out rock to a depth of eight feet and filled it with sand. There was a brass historical marker announcing this, as well as the fact that the resort had promised to take care of the graves "in perpetuity." There were thirteen of them. A few were enclosed in low walls of coral rock or concrete. The oldest headstone was a wide piece of cracked granite with the names Hiram and Felicity, who had died in the 1890s. Six graves were dated 1935, victims of the hurricane. There were three very small graves with angels or lambs carved into the headstones. One grave was marked with four concrete paving stones laid in a row, no name at all.
The gate squeaked when Joan went through it. Billy followed with the armload of flowers. He gave one of the packages to Joan and laid the rest on a mildewed concrete bench. She turned back the cellophane and took out a long-stemmed rose. The color was too red, too lurid against the gray and unhappy backdrop of headstones, heavy clouds, and threatening rain.
Anthony motioned for Billy t
o come with him and Gail. They walked to a tree a dozen yards away. There was a bench, but too damp to sit on. As Joan Sinclair put the roses on the graves, crossing herself, saying her prayers, Anthony told Billy what the police had said.
Avoiding eye contact, Billy stared out at the bay as if following the lone sailboat motoring toward the harbor, sails tightly furled.
"I told you in the beginning, Billy, there is one thing I demand: Don't lie to me. When I ask you a question, I want the truth. Did you see Sandra at the video store?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me what you were doing there. I don't want to hear it in the state attorney's opening argument at your trial."
Looking at him coldly, Billy said, "You think I killed her."
There was only a slight hesitation before Anthony said, "No. Talk to me, Billy."
"I went to rent a movie."
"What did you get?"
"There was nothing worth watching."
"I am not surprised. You have a thousand pirated videos in your room, and Joan has more than that. I ask you again. What were you doing there?"
Billy clenched his teeth. "I bought some weed, okay?"
"From whom? Don't tell me 'some guy.'"
"His name's Chip. If anybody finds out they'll fire him. That's why I didn't tell you before."
"Ah. At last the truth, or closer to it. I'm going to accept that for now. What time did you get there?"
"I got there as Sandra was leaving. We said hi, then she came back in."
"After she had already rented her video?"
"Yes. After."
"Go on."
"We talked for a while, then she left. It was about... I don't know, ten after eight, eight-fifteen. I hung out with Chip—"
Suspicion of Madness Page 18