Suspicion of Madness

by Barbara Parker

  Anthony stared at the angle of the house on the lot, the placement of the garage under the main floor, the line of palm trees along the west side. He did know this house. The last time he had seen it, the roof was a heap of scorched timbers and broken tile.

  It was the house that Billy Fadden had set on fire.

  Tom had something more. "Guess who used to own it."

  "The Morgans—"

  "No, before the Morgans. I'll tell you. Teddy Lindeman. Teddy lived here before the government sent him to prison." Holtz grinned at the astonishment on Anthony's face. "Ain't this a small world?"

  16

  Kyle Fadden had just poled his skiff out of sight behind the boathouse at the Buttonwood harbor when his phone rang. He unzipped his waterproof jacket to get to it and saw the name on the lighted screen. Holtz and Lindeman, P.A.

  "Yeah."

  "Hey, buddy, what's going on?"

  Fadden carefully laid the pole back in the chocks. "Nothing much. Waiting to hear what the plan is."

  "That's why I called. What happened with Billy at the police station today? Did they get it all cleared up?"

  "I don't know yet. I'm going to talk to him."

  "Where are you?" Lindeman asked.

  "I'm home drinking a beer. Watching TV."

  "Okay, good, stay there. I don't want you on the island, not until your kid's lawyers are gone. We're filing the guardianship in two weeks. I've got a judge who can give me an emergency hearing within a few days after that. So we're back to the original plan. Okay?"

  "What do we do in the meantime?"

  Lindeman said, "We wait. I'll call you."

  "When might that be?"

  "Next week. Just wait for my call."

  Fadden reached for the edge of the concrete seawall to keep the boat from drifting. Water splashed along the hull.

  Lindeman said, "Did you hear me?"

  "Yeah. I'll wait for your call." Fadden turned his phone off and slid it back inside his jacket.

  When Billy got to the harbor, he expected to see his father's boat tied to the dock. The lights were dancing on the surface, and wind rattled the awning over the loading area. His father had said he wanted to talk to him. Billy guessed it was about the meeting with the police. He didn't feel like getting into that, but he couldn't see any way to avoid it.

  A figure in a ball cap and a green rain jacket stepped out from behind the boathouse, walking around it and down to the seawall.

  "Hi, Dad."

  His father smiled and gave Billy's shoulder a firm pat. "How're you doing?"

  "Fine."

  "Everything went okay at the sheriff's office?"

  "My lawyer didn't let me talk to them. Joan talked to them, but I didn't."

  "Well? Do they still think you did it?"

  "My lawyer doesn't want me discussing the case with anybody."

  "I'm your father."

  Billy crossed his arms. "Yeah, well, my lawyer told me not to."

  "Okay. Whatever you say." His father reached into his jacket for his pack of cigarettes and lit one. "Hey, listen, I ran into Doug Lindeman today. He said he's worried about his aunt when we get that big rain tomorrow. He says her roof might be leaking. He wants me to take a look at it."

  "Her roof? I never saw any leaks."

  "Doesn't mean there aren't any. We're going to get quite a storm, Billy. That poor old lady in there by herself, rain coming through. Doug wants me to make sure she's all right."

  Billy wondered why Doug Lindeman cared about Joan's roof, and why he called Kyle Fadden to fix it. Kyle was a fishing guide, not a carpenter, though he'd built an addition on his own house. Doug Lindeman probably knew that because they went fishing together. Lindeman was a lawyer; he was soft. Kyle Fadden could do anything with his hands.

  His father said, "Let's go on over and take a look."

  "Now?"

  "You know her, Billy. We'll say it was your idea."

  "My roof is fine," Joan said at the door. She was looking through the crack, still wearing the clothes she'd had on this afternoon at the police station, her black-and-white suit and her red wig. She had a drink in her hand.

  Billy's father said, "Miss Sinclair, you've been a good friend to my son, and it would be my honor to help you."

  "I can't have people going all over my house. I need to get ready for Tom. He's taking me to dinner at the Inn. I have to get dressed."

  Billy felt his father give him a nudge. He said, "It won't take a minute. If Dad sees any leaks, he won't even have to come back inside. What would you do, Dad, put a tarp over it?"

  "That's absolutely all, Miss Sinclair. Billy says you have a long ladder. I'd just throw a tarp over any trouble spots till you can get it fixed properly."

  She said, "I really don't see the need."

  Billy said, "What if the wind tears off some shingles? The rain could come through on your movie collection. You don't want that to happen."

  "Oh, God." She turned her head toward the video room. Her wig was flat in back, like she'd been lying down. "All right, but please be quick." She moved aside so they could come in.

  Billy was used to Joan's house, but when she turned on the lights he could see how shabby it was. His dad looked at the stuff on her shelves, and the dusty floor and torn curtains, and then he wandered into the dining room. He wasn't a big man, but his green jacket took up too much space. "So this is where Billy watches all those movies. That's a nice TV."

  Billy said, "Hey, Dad, the roof is upstairs."

  "Hold on a minute. As long as I'm here, let's see if Miss Sinclair needs any immediate assistance." He pushed open a door and walked through to the kitchen. His boots pounded on the wood floor. "Is the plumbing in good shape? Any electrical problems?"

  He switched the fluorescent light on and off and on, leaving the long, bare tubes glaring down on the peeling linoleum. There were dishes everywhere, worse than Billy had seen lately, and he wanted to turn off the damned lights. His father tested the faucets, which screeched and rattled. Billy whispered, "Dad, get out of here."

  "What's this door to?" He opened a narrow door on the other side of the old gas stove. The wood caught, then let go with a loud squeak. The smell of musty earth rolled up the dark stairs. "What's this?"

  "The cistern is down there," Joan said, rolling her eyes toward Billy. She finished her drink. "And the roof is in the other direction."

  "Dad—"

  "I'll be. Haven't seen one of those in a long time." He flipped a switch but the light was broken.

  "Mr. Fadden, I don't want to be rude, but please."

  He put a shoulder to the door to close it. "All right, let's go upstairs."

  Joan hurried after him, telling him not to go into her bedroom. On the second floor an old rug ran down the hall, and the striped wallpaper was stained and spotted. Billy had never been up here except once when Joan had fallen asleep in her recliner watching a movie. The door to her room had been closed, and he hadn't dared to open it. The other bedrooms were full of old furniture and dust, and the bathroom had a tub with claw feet.

  She stretched her arm across a door at the end of the hall. "This is my room. It's private."

  "Look up." Billy's dad pointed. "Look at the ceiling."

  A bare bulb in the light fixture showed the brown patch in the ceiling where plaster had buckled and water was dripping through. A puddle had formed on the rug. He walked to the other end of the hall, then up a smaller staircase to the attic, and they heard his boots thumping around.

  He came down a minute later shaking his head. "Ma'am, you've got a serious situation up there. I'll be back later with that tarp, no inconvenience to you, I promise."

  Joan leaned against the wall and put her face in her hands. "If you must."

  "I'll get a pan from the kitchen," Billy said. He took his father by the arm and pulled him downstairs. Joan followed and said she would get her own pan, thank you very much, and good night.

  They went out. The front door slammed s
hut behind them, and a lock turned.

  "I don't believe you went all over her house!"

  His father was smiling. "That woman needs some help, and I don't mean with her roof." He swung into the passenger seat of the golf cart.

  "If she wants to live like that, it's her choice."

  "You think so? Rain pouring inside, and that's her choice?"

  Billy said, "I didn't know about her ceiling, okay?" He shifted to get the pills out of his front pocket. He thumbed open the little plastic box.

  "What's that?"

  "Ecstasy." His father's eyes fixed on him. "It's a prescription. Percodan. Okay? For pain." He turned the cart back toward the resort. The lights bounced over the ground. He felt like driving the cart into a tree.

  "Slow down!" His father said, "What's the matter with you?"

  "Nothing." Billy slowed down.

  They got to the fence and went through the open gate. Billy thought about closing it, but Joan expected Tom Holtz to come over. Wait till he saw that kitchen. He would run the other way. Billy felt sorry for Joan. She didn't used to be so lonely and suspicious. It was depressing.

  The cart rattled and jerked, and Billy's neck was killing him, but he didn't waste any time getting back to the harbor.

  He stopped the cart on the seawall next to the boathouse. It was raining again.

  His father took out his cigarettes and a lighter. He cupped his hand and the flame shone on his face. "That's a nice boat," he said. Martin's Sea Ray was visible in the security lights. "I guess if you're rich you can buy whatever you want."

  Billy told him, "Martin has a fifty-two-foot Bertram docked in Key West."

  "Imagine that."

  "Give me a cigarette," Billy said.

  "Since when do you smoke?"

  "I smoke. You never come around, so how would you know?"

  "I hope to change that, Billy. I haven't been around as much as I should." He held the flame under Billy's cigarette.

  It was time for the dear-old-dad routine. His father was feeling bad because his only son had tried to kill himself. Billy exhaled smoke, and the breeze took it. Rain tapped on the roof of the cart.

  His father propped one waterproof boot on the dashboard. "What are you going to do with yourself, son? You're nineteen. An adult. You need to start making some intelligent choices."

  "I guess."

  "Is that all you can say? Don't you have a thought in your brain?"

  "Actually, Father, I've been considering film school."

  "Film school?"

  "Movies. Directing, screenwriting—"

  "I know what the hell film school is. You just flunked out of a community college, now you want to go to film school?"

  "Why not? L.A., Chicago, New York. They've got a film program at the University of Miami."

  His father smiled. "With your grades?"

  "They'd accept me if I transferred in from Keys Community."

  "Which you just flunked out of. Who's paying for this?"

  "Martin probably."

  "Sure, to get you out of the way. He'd send you anywhere you wanted to go and let you fall on your ass. You aren't cut out for college, Billy. You need to learn a useful trade."

  Billy didn't know what to say to that. He was tired. He didn't want to talk anymore. He wanted his father to leave.

  "I'm going to buy a marina pretty soon. That's right. I'm getting a settlement from a lawsuit. Some jackass up in Miami ran into me, and I hired a good lawyer. If you can get your act together, you can work for me. Would you like that?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know."

  Billy laughed. "You're going to buy a marina?"

  "In Marathon. And a boat—a big one. I'm going to do charters. You can be my first mate."

  "No lie?"

  "Damn straight, son. Are you interested?"

  Billy crushed out his cigarette in the little ashtray bolted to the dashboard. "I guess so." It would be a cold day in July, he thought, before Kyle Fadden had the cash to buy a marina, much less a charter boat. "Sure, let me know. Sorry, Dad, but I need to get back."

  "Do yourself a favor," his father said. "Don't tell Teri I was here. She'd freak out. If it was up to her, I'd never see you. All right?"

  "She's not what you think," Billy said.

  "I know what she is." The ember on his cigarette glowed orange in the darkness. "We were still married when she started cheating on me with Martin Greenwald. He had money and I didn't, end of story. She walked out on me and took you with her, and look where you're at. On pills, flunking out of school, trying to commit suicide. Jesus. Why'd you do such a stupid-ass thing? Why? And if you say 'I don't know,' I'll pop you one. Come here." His father put an arm around his neck and hugged him. Pain shot through Billy's neck and he ground his teeth together. "You dumb kid. You dumb little shit. Don't you know better?"

  Billy pulled away. "Don't say that about my mother."

  "It's the truth."

  "Well, don't fucking say it!" Then for just a second his father's face turned to stone, and Billy flinched—which was stupid, because nothing would've happened. He was too big to get hit.

  His father laughed. "Okay. The boy loves his mother."

  Billy's hands were shaking. He picked at the bandage and lifted it up. The laceration in his palm looked like it was held together by dried black worms. He ripped the bandage off and flung it to the floor of the cart. He wanted to get drunk and pass out and wake up in about a week or maybe never. "I have to go."

  His father was looking at him. He seemed to have gotten a lot older lately. His hair had turned gray, and there were shadows under his eyes. "I love you, Billy. I don't want to ride you so hard, but... damn. I see you in trouble, and I can't stand idly by like some people do. You know? You need to get off this island. You need to be a man." He gently patted Billy's shoulder. Then he kissed him, and beard scratched his cheek. It was like a stranger doing it, but it was good, too, because it was his father. Billy felt like he might start crying.

  "I just want you to be happy, son. You know that, don't you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Do you? Don't tell me you do if you don't."

  "I know, Dad."

  Finally his father got out of the cart. "Good night, son."

  "See you," Billy said. He turned the cart toward the hotel.

  Doug Lindeman had been standing on the front porch of Lois Greenwald's cottage for almost ten minutes, cursing her for being late and wishing to hell he had thought to bring a raincoat, when he finally heard the sound of footsteps on the path. She came into view, pushing her umbrella through the rain-heavy branches of an oleander hedge.

  "It's me! I'm sorry you had to wait." Lois pounded up the steps in her deck shoes. The hems of her slacks were wet. She shook off her umbrella and leaned it against the wall. "We've been working like maniacs getting everything done before the storm."

  "It's fucking cold out here," Doug said.

  "I should have told you to go in. The door's not locked."

  Doug picked up the plastic bag he had dropped on one of the porch chairs.

  "I'm such a mess!" Lois fluffed her hair. The weather had turned it to a streaky blond mop. She noticed the bag, which had come from the Wal-Mart in Key Largo. "What is that?"

  "The stuff for Aunt Joan." He set the bag on the floor, which was bare wood but for a scattering of brown area rugs.

  The cottage was like an extension of Lois's office in the main building. File cabinets, a computer, a desk. Her beige sofa had a lamp at either end, as inviting as a lobby at the Holiday Inn. The coffee table was taken up with stacks of papers, a calculator, travel magazines, a coffee mug with a Buttonwood palm tree. Her dark blue sweatshirt had a Buttonwood logo over the left breast. He wondered if she had a logo on her panties.

  Lois walked to the other end of the room, where she had made a kitchen out of a tiny refrigerator, a hot plate, and the bar sink. Open metal shelves held some cans, a few boxes of tea, some crackers. A hall led
toward her bedroom. He was relieved to see that the door was closed. He imagined a single bed, a bare light-bulb, and her clothes in gray file cabinets.

  "May I fix you a drink? Some wine?"

  "No, thanks, I need to get right back. I have a meeting to go to." Doug didn't want her to think he was here to socialize. Things were getting dicey with Lois Greenwald. He had kidded around with her, a few jokes, some mild sexual innuendo, but it had gone too far. I'm so sorry, Lois, I sincerely value your friendship... and God knows I value the Buttonwood account, but honey, I wouldn't touch you through a biohazard suit. He had to find a way to tell her without pissing her off. He just couldn't do it now.

  Lois folded her hands at her waist and smiled at him. "You've never been to my house before. I feel like I ought to offer you something. Have you eaten?" Her lipstick was neon pink. She must have put on a fresh coat of it before coming to meet him.

  Doug held up a hand. "I'm taking a client to dinner."

  Her smile was still bright. "A man?"

  "What? Yes. A male client. Two of them. From the bank." He laughed. "Okay, so if you could give the stuff in the bag to Aunt Joan when she comes over— Don't tell her it's from me, she'd spit on it. Say you keep nightgowns for guests who forgot theirs."

  "All right," Lois said.

  "Great. And if you could find a way to keep Arnel Goode from going over there tomorrow too. He could cause a problem if he saw me."

  "How will you get in?" Lois asked.

  "Does it matter? I'll get in."

  Doug had been enraged when his law partner had informed him that he planned to take Aunt Joan out to dinner tonight. Once those two got back together, Doug's chances of getting the property were zero. Then he realized he didn't need the property. He only needed a few hours on the property. Tom Holtz would be doing him a favor. Lois could do him another favor—keep Joan at the hotel for the weekend.

  What Doug had told Lois was that he needed to get into the house to take photographs for the guardianship before Tom could make any changes. Doug had been afraid that Lois wouldn't believe him, but she had. She was in love with him. He could tell her anything.