Suspicion of Madness

by Barbara Parker

  "Back up. Did you and Sandra smoke a joint together?"

  "Yes."

  "Where? In the store?"

  "We went out the back door."

  "Were there any customers?"

  Billy shook his head. "Nobody was there, just Chip. He's the night manager."

  "All right. What happened then?"

  "Sandra left, I hung with Chip for a while, and I left at eight-thirty. I drove to the marina, got in my boat, and went home."

  "Did you talk to anyone at the marina? Any other boaters?"

  "No. I just got in my boat and left. I don't know when I got to Joan's. Nine o'clock, I guess. That's what time she expected me."

  "Joan told me you got there at nine-twenty."

  Billy thought about it. "Oh, yeah, I had a six-pack in my apartment, and I went and got it. I walked over to Joan's. She opened her window upstairs and said to wait on the porch because she was still getting dressed. If she says it was nine-twenty, I'll go with that. I didn't look at my watch. I had a beer and waited for her to open the door. The rest is just like I told you."

  "Is it the truth this time?"

  "You fuckin' figure it out." Abruptly Billy walked toward the water.

  Anthony drove his fist into the other palm. He laughed. "I love clients like this."

  "What about that friend of his, Chip? If the police find out he's selling drugs, couldn't they lean on him? He could say that Billy left earlier. He could lie."

  Anthony's eyes shifted to Gail, and he smiled as though she were particularly naive. "Chip could be lying now to protect Billy. Or to protect his own ass so Billy won't turn him in. We can't be sure what time Billy left Movie Max, can we?"

  That question left Gail with the sickening feeling that the truth had once again skittered away from them. She noticed Anthony's attention shifting to something behind her, and at the same moment a car door slammed.

  A portly, white-haired man had parked his Lincoln next to Anthony's black Seville, and he was coming across the ragged grass. Thomas Holtz. Lifting a hand to acknowledge their presence, he headed for the graveyard, stopped, and changed directions for the tree under which they stood. He propped his red-and-white golf umbrella against the bench.

  Holtz said, "I thought I'd find you here. The florist called me to make sure I'd okay what Joan spent. I always okay it." Through his heavy glasses he gazed at the woman still placing flowers on the graves. If she had noticed him, she gave no indication. Holtz said, "Sometimes I park out by the road and watch her, or I buy a drink over there at the bar and sit by a window. I'm feeling brave today."

  Holtz turned back to them with a big smile. "So. How'd it go with Billy? You said to leave Joan be till you got Billy taken care of. Are we in the clear?"

  "We're working on it," Anthony said. "If you want to talk to Joan, be my guest."

  "I'm going to ask her to marry me. What do you think of that?"

  Gail and Anthony exchanged a glance.

  Gail said, "I don't know if she would. She doesn't want to leave the island."

  "That's true," Holtz said. "That's why she turned me down before. She had an emotional attachment to Lindeman Key, and I was trying to break it, you see? Not this time. I'm going to do it on her terms. We're going to fix that house up, add a deck, a pool, anything she wants."

  Tom Holtz looked from one of them to the other as if they had voiced some objection. "She can't live alone anymore. She's got to be sensible. I've already talked to Doug about it. I said, 'Doug, you can forget that guardianship, buddy, it's all over. I'll be taking care of her from now on.'"

  Then Holtz fell silent, turning his gaze once more toward the graveyard. "I love Joanie Lindeman. I've loved her for forty-five years." Swinging his furled umbrella by its wooden handle, Tom Holtz went to speak to her.

  "Ay, Dios mío," Anthony said.

  The gate squeaked, and Joan froze, giving a little glance over her shoulder. When her old lover came nearer, she bent to pluck another rose from its cellophane package. She remained sitting on her heels in the sand, head bowed, while Tom Holtz talked. She stood up and carried her roses to the next grave. He followed.

  They were too far away to be overheard.

  Tom Holtz opened his umbrella and held it over her as she continued to put red roses on the graves. The rain was no more than a slight drizzle, and none at all came through the leaves.

  "Look at them. You can see how much he loves her," Gail said.

  "Is everyone crazy here?"

  "Maybe it will work." Gail leaned against Anthony's side and felt his solid warmth. He put his arm around her. She murmured into his ear, "You know what we could do?"

  "Tell me."

  "Let's go to the courthouse in Tavernier and apply for a marriage license. It's four-twenty. We might make it. Billy and Joan won't mind. We don't have time to get married in the Keys, but at least we'll have the license. It's something."

  "I think you're serious."

  "It's the sanest idea I've had lately."

  Anthony turned to look at her. "Yes, you are serious." He laughed softly. "What would you tell Karen?"

  "I'd tell her... Anthony and I are getting married. Next week, next month, whenever it's convenient. I love him very much. Please be happy for us."

  His hand was warm on her cheek, and a smile slowly lit his eyes. "Tomorrow on our way to Miami. We'll do it then. No backing out."

  "You either," she said.

  He made an X over his heart. "Te lo juro." He kissed her to seal the promise.

  Leaves rustled, and a drop of water came through, then another. Anthony opened his umbrella. It was not raining hard, but thunder rumbled to the east. A gust of wind sent shivers through the tree, dislodging more raindrops. The wind swept the empty cones of cellophane toward the far side of the fence, where they flattened against the bars. Joan Sinclair ran to pick them up. Tom Holtz shouted at her to leave them, but she grabbed one and then another. He gamely tried to keep up, and the big red-and-white umbrella bobbed and swayed over her head. When she had gathered them all, Tom opened the gate and they hurried toward the cars.

  "Where's Billy?" Gail asked. She looked toward the bay. He was sitting under a palm tree with his back to them. "Go get him."

  Anthony cupped his hand and shouted, "Billy!" There was no response. "He doesn't hear me. I should let him stay there. He can swim home."

  "Go get him, Anthony, before he gets struck by lightning." Gail ran toward the car. She waved to Tom Holtz, who was just closing his door, starting the engine. Anthony sprinted across the field with his umbrella.

  Gail got in and swept her hair out of her eyes. The clouds had not let go yet, but a few drops spilled out, spattering the windshield as if someone had thrown them.

  In the backseat Joan Sinclair was repairing her lipstick, looking slightly cross-eyed into the mirror of a scuffed, gold-colored compact. Her sunglasses were pushed up into her bangs.

  Gail asked, "Did you have a nice talk with Tom?"

  Joan blotted her lips on a tissue. She looked into the mirror again and cleared a smudge from the corner of her mouth with her little finger. "He asked me out to dinner tonight at The Buttonwood Inn."

  "Really?"

  "Really." Brown eyes fixed on Gail for a moment before she tossed her compact back in her purse and put her sunglasses on. The lenses were clear enough on the bottom for Joan to see out. It seemed more an affectation than warranted, given the heavy overcast. Joan took out her cigarettes and lighter. "I need a smoke. Shoot me."

  Gail barely noticed. "What did you say to Tom? Are you going out with him?"

  The interior lights came on as Joan cracked the door open. "I said I'd think about it." Joan's cheeks went hollow as she inhaled. "I'm fond of Tom, but my God, what would I do with a man in my life? I've had so many." She made a deep chuckle. "And enjoyed every one." She blew smoke toward the crack in the door.

  "Joan, do you mind if I ask you something? Why did you change your mind about marrying Tom two years ag
o?"

  She paused with her cigarette at her lips. "Arnel talked me out of it."

  "Arnel?"

  "He said it would be a mistake."

  "Why did he say that?"

  "He said Tom would be like all the others, wanting me because I'm famous. He said Tom is a drunk, and I would be sorry. Arnel's uncle was a drunk. His parents were dead, so he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle, and his uncle beat him. It was terrible for him."

  "Tom never hit you, did he?"

  "No! Tom has been nothing but a gentleman. Arnel is selfish, selfish, selfish. Always whining, demanding, trying to make me feel guilty. 'Don't leave me, Miss Sinclair. Please.' It makes me sick."

  "This sounds very strange. Joan, is he... all right? Mentally?"

  "Why wouldn't he be?" Joan replied.

  The rain had begun to fall faster, drumming on the roof.

  Gail asked, "Is it true that he saw a man killed in some farm machinery when he was a boy?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Douglas told us that Arnel saw a man ripped apart by a... what was it? A grain auger, and that's why he stutters. Is it true?"

  Smoke drifted toward the door. Joan said, "Yes, it's true. His uncle. He deserved it." Rain dripped inside the car, and Joan slammed her door shut. "I don't want to talk about Arnel."

  The opposite door opened and Billy slid across the seat. He ran his fingers through his hair, lifting it straight up again. Anthony wrestled his umbrella inside. The shoulders of his jacket were dark with rain. He turned around and looked at Joan's cigarette. She opened the door long enough to throw it out but offered no apologies.

  Anthony glanced at Gail, who had allowed this travesty, then started the engine.

  By the time they reached the far end of Upper Matecumbe Key, the wind was still blowing in gusts, but the rain had let up. Anthony parked under the long awning that belonged to The Buttonwood Inn. There were not as many vehicles as three hours ago; the staff was being shuttled off the island. The van was there, and the Jeep that Martin had taken to Key Largo to have his heart checked, a Mercedes with a vanity plate that said TERESA-G, and two other sedans. Consent or not, the police would soon have their forensics people crawling all over them with their tweezers, magnifying glasses, and vacuum cleaners, looking for traces of Sandra McCoy's DNA.

  Anthony locked his car and they walked to the dock, where Billy had tied Martin's Sea Ray. With no extra hands to spare at the resort, Billy had brought them over. The plastic rain panels were in place to keep the seats dry. Billy jumped aboard to help Joan cross the gunwale in her high heels. She vanished below. On the ride to Islamorada she had stayed in the cabin to keep her hair from getting mussed.

  When Billy extended his hand to Gail she said, "Just a second," and dragged Anthony away to speak to him.

  "Let's go see if the guy at the video store is there. We should talk to him."

  He shook his head. "I'll send my investigators on Monday."

  "Don't you want a statement before he changes his mind?"

  "Gail, a lawyer does not question a potential state witness. You know that. What if he says something to incriminate Billy? We could be forced to testify against our own client."

  "How likely is that?"

  Anthony stared at her. "It isn't proper."

  "Fine. I quit. I'm no longer your associate. You wait outside, and I'll ask the questions."

  "The boat is leaving. How do we get back to the resort?"

  "I don't know, we'll... we'll call for the shuttle. Arnel can pick us up. Or Tom Holtz can take us."

  Anthony lifted his eyes.

  "We have to," she said.

  He told Billy to go ahead without them.

  15

  There was so little space in Movie Max Video that two people could not pass each other in the aisles without turning sideways. To brush against the sagging shelves was to risk a cascade of videos and DVD boxes onto the dusty, chewing-gum-speckled carpet. Handwritten signs marked the various sections: the sparse collection of recent releases, long shelves of foreign and independent films, and a great quantity of out-of-date Hollywood movies that could be rented for a dollar-fifty each. Time-faded posters were taped to the walls, and a video game blinked silently in a far corner.

  Beyond confirming that his name was Chip, the night manager exhibited a remarkable lack of recall. He said he remembered nothing about Sandra McCoy's visit to the store on the night of her murder. Chip was not impressed by the fact that the two lawyers standing on the other side of the counter were working for a young friend of his.

  "Was Billy Fadden here that night too? I can't recall." Perched on his cushioned stool, Chip concentrated on entering returned videos into the computer.

  Anthony Quintana had seen witnesses like this, the kind who would venture across the line into petty criminal activities just far enough to make ends meet. They stayed off the police radar screen. This man was in his late twenties with sun-bleached hair, a faded Hawaiian shirt, and a boating tan. Nothing about him would warrant a second glance.

  Two teenagers came in, jangling the brass temple bells over the door. Anthony waited until they had walked past on their way to the video game before he said, "I want to know what time Billy Fadden left here. It's not a hard question. Billy hasn't given you up as his source—yet. You should want to keep it that way."

  Chip's fingers paused over the keyboard before he finished his entry. "Billy didn't leave here for at least fifteen minutes after Sandra. She left at eight-fifteen, he left at eight-thirty, give or take."

  "Did the police suggest to you that you were mistaken, and that Billy left earlier?"

  "They suggested, but I told them he left when he left. It was obvious to me that he couldn't have killed her. Sandra was long gone by the time Billy took off." Chip glanced to the back of the store to see where his customers were. "The cops told me he confessed. Is that true?"

  "They were playing with you."

  That produced a short laugh. "Typical."

  "Did you hear what he and Sandra talked about?"

  "I don't remember anything specific. I told the detective there was no shouting, no threats. It was a friendly conversation. Billy didn't rush out of here to follow her."

  "How well did you know Sandra?"

  "I knew her to say hello to, that's about it. She didn't come in here often."

  "Did you ever see her with a man?"

  "Not that I recall... but she wasn't the kind of girl to be alone, if you know what I mean."

  During this conversation Gail had been going through a box of old videos for sale. She looked over at Chip and gave him a little smile. "Do you happen to remember what movie Sandra rented that night?"

  "I can check the records." Chip tapped on his keyboard. "McCoy, McCoy. Here it is. Bride of Nosferatu with Joan Sinclair. She asked for it by name."

  "Why that particular video?"

  "Who knows? Oh, I do recall one thing she said—that it was probably the last video she'd be renting from us."

  "The last video?"

  "She was moving to Miami Beach and buying an apartment right on the water. So she said." Chip shrugged.

  "Buying an apartment?" Anthony asked. "Or renting?"

  "Buying. As in... purchasing?"

  "Did she say where she was going to get the money?"

  "No, and I didn't ask." The bells over the door jangled again when the teenagers went out. "In the Keys, people mind their own business. That's one of the benefits of living here."

  Gail asked, "Do you have that same video in the store now?"

  "I believe we do. The police found it in the parking lot and gave it back." Chip came around the counter and walked to the section marked HORROR. A small plastic skeleton and a bat dangled from the sign. Chip studied the densely packed shelves for a few seconds before locating Bride of Nosferatu and handing it to Gail. On the box a young Joan Sinclair gazed hungrily at the viewer. Gail turned the box over and read the other side as though she expected to
find something she had missed before.

  Chip said, "If you give me your credit card information, you can rent it."

  She smiled and gave it back to him. "No, thanks. We have this one."

  It was almost six o'clock, and heavy clouds lumbered northward. A beam of sunlight broke through with such force that Anthony had to pull down the visor. Reaching into his pocket for his cell phone, he told Gail to call Arnel Goode to come pick them up at the marina. "You'll find his number in the directory."

  Anthony let his head fall back on the head rest. Had it been only two days since they had arrived here? Not even two days, and he was exhausted. Why? Lack of sleep? More likely the lack of progress. It didn't bother him particularly that Billy Fadden's alibi witness had lied, or that Billy had lied, or that the video store clerk's statement couldn't be trusted either. Such things happened too frequently to be surprising. What irritated him was the looming certainty of an arrest, and his own inability to prevent it. Jack Baylor would scratch around until he found some combination of facts that he could take to the state attorney for a first-degree murder indictment. Billy had confessed; they would start there and work backward, discarding the facts that didn't fit the conclusion.

  Tonight the Greenwalds expected them for dinner at The Buttonwood Inn. Anthony had hoped to have some good news. Instead, they would all sit there and discuss the weather.

  Gail said, "I left him a message to call us back."

  "What?"

  "Arnel didn't answer, so I left a message. Want me to call Martin?"

  "No, I don't want to bother Martin." Anthony turned into the Blue Water Marina and brought his car to a stop under the Buttonwood awning. "Carajo."

  "Call Billy, then," she said.

  "I've seen enough of Billy Fadden."

  "How about Lois?"

  "Forget it. Come on, I'll pay someone at the marina to take us." He opened his door.

  "Wait. What about Tom Holtz? If he's having dinner with Joan at the hotel tonight, he can take us. We can ask him about Sandra McCoy." Gail's blue eyes were alight with an enthusiasm that Anthony found incomprehensible.

  He said, "Ask him what?"