Suspicion of Madness
Barbara Parker
This one is for Richard Curtis.
My Agent; my umbrella.
KEY:
1. Blue Water Marina
2. Holts and Lindeman, PA
3. Movie Max Video
4. Holiday Isle
5. The rock quarry
6. The Linderman family graveyard
7. The Morgan house
8. Buttonwood Harbor
9. Gail and Anthony’s cottage
10. Billy’s apartment
11. Lois’s cottage
12. The Buttonwood Inn
13. The Greenwald’s suite
14. The caretaker’s cottage
15. Joan Sinclair’s cottage
16. The old dock
1
Billy slid open the file drawer and lifted some papers. The gun was still there, a Smith St Wesson revolver. He'd come into the office a couple of months ago looking around for cash and had seen the gun. He put it in the waist of his jeans, pulled his T-shirt over it, and pushed the drawer shut with the toe of his sneaker.
The lobby was empty and the lights were off, except for a floor lamp that made his shadow dance across the wall. In the restaurant bar he used a key nobody knew he had to open the liquor cabinet for a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He heard voices from the kitchen: his mother and stepfather deciding how many stone crab claws for six people at dinner tonight. Five, Billy silently corrected.
He went out the side door to the veranda and down the steps. The sun had set, and he could see the evening star hanging over the horizon. The pale outline of a sportfisher moved toward Lower Matecumbe Key.
He twisted off the bottle cap and threw it into a hedge. The hotel was closed for renovations, no guests wandering around. The carpenters had quit at five o'clock and headed back to Is- lamorada in their boats. Small landscaping lights illuminated the sandy path that wound through the resort. Billy tipped the bottle up and counted how many gulps of Jack he could take without spewing it. He coughed and wiped his mouth on his shoulder.
Where the path curved back toward shore, and the lights ended, Billy picked up the golf cart tracks that led toward the woods. He came to a chain-link fence marking the end of the property, pushed open the gate, and went through. The trail was barely visible in the tangled underbrush. In summer the mosquitos would be thick enough to breathe, but by now, mid-October, they were mostly gone. In a clearing near the water, mangrove shoots reached up through the soggy ground like long black fingers. There was enough moon to see the exposed rock, and Billy jumped from one to the next until the ground rose and dried out and turned to buttonwood and strangler fig. Shortly he found the path leading to the water and a dock pointing north.
PRIVATE PROPERTY, KEEP OFF. The sign was faded and cracked, but it didn't matter because no one used the dock; no one tied up here except to get high, and there were better places. The sea had chewed into the pilings. A few of the planks were missing. A pile of lobster traps, dumped years ago, had turned black with mold.
Billy reached the end and unfolded the metal chair he kept under the fish cleaning table. He took the revolver out of his waist and set it on the last plank, aligning the barrel with the edge. The dock was bathed in blue light.
Back on shore, leaves rustled. The dogs had followed him. He heard them panting, heard them moving around, deciding whether to come out on the dock or not. Billy didn't look around. He told himself they weren't real. Black dogs with square, heavy skulls and paws as big as his fists, tags jangling on their choke collars. Not real.
He lit a joint and sat there with the bottle on his thigh and watched the stars. The moon wobbled on the ocean.
There was a ripple and splash under his feet, and he leaned over to see what it was. A mermaid with red hair. The moon rested in her extended hand like she was holding a white ball. She turned her head and smiled at him, and her hair floated around her.
It was hard to move his lips. "Sandra. Hey. I'm sorry. You know that, right? Sorry."
A boat hummed toward Tea Table Channel. Its running lights vanished behind an empty mangrove island and reappeared on the other side. Two miles away headlights moved along U.S. 1. A dim glow on the horizon marked Tavernier, and farther away, Key Largo. Miami was over the curve of the globe.
Billy, we've asked Mr. Quintana to come talk to you. He'll be here tonight.
Pinching the joint between his fingertips, Billy sucked in and flicked the last bit toward the water. The gun was still on the end of the dock. He looked at it and slowly released the smoke in his lungs.
A long, low growl came from the shadows behind him.
He stood up with the gun, fitted the end of the barrel in the hollow of his right temple, squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
His arm jerked involuntarily. "Shit." He took a breath and jammed the barrel under his jaw.
Click.
"Jesus!" He turned the gun to look into the chambers. They stared back at him, empty. "Aaaa-a-a-a-aghhhh!" The scream turned to a laugh. Billy staggered, colliding with a lobster trap, which tipped off the dock and made a green sparkle of phosphor as it hit the water. Weighted with concrete, it revolved slowly and went down.
Can't do a damn thing right, can you? What do you use for brains?
The dogs started barking.
"Shut up." Pivoting toward shore, Billy pulled the trigger. Click-click-click. He hurled the revolver toward the trees, heard a thud. Bracing his back against a leg of the fish table, he slid down. Splinters caught on his shirt.
The bottle had turned over. Billy shook it and finished what was left. His stomach heaved. He smashed the bottle on the rusty water pipe running up the side of the cleaning table. The light dimmed as a cloud drifted across the moon and caught there. He picked up a piece of glass and closed his fist around it. He watched drops of purplish liquid leak out and run down his arm. It was warm. It didn't hurt.
In Key West last year a Tarot card reader on Mallory Square had told him he would die suddenly at an advanced age. Billy believed half of it, that he'd go fast, but not the other. The lady had been lying. She'd been trying to spare him the truth. But so what. Everyone lied.
Billy covered his head with crossed arms.
I told you to watch him! I told you! You let him drown, you little fuck! What have you done?
He wondered if the gun had fired. He felt the side of his head, and his fingers came back bloody. But where was the hole?
Lying on the deck he tried not to smell the muck and dead fish and decaying clumps of turtle grass. He raised his head and let it drop, again and again.
"What... is it?" The question was... the question was... Maybe the gun had gone off. Maybe it hadn't. It was hard to say. Maybe he was dead but he didn't feel it yet. What would that feel like, being dead? Like falling asleep. Sinking to the bottom.
The dogs stood on the shore. Their eyes glowed green, and their lips curled back over their teeth. A noise like faraway thunder came out of their chests.
When Billy flopped over on his back the shit-crusted fishing table swam into his vision. He frowned until the tall wooden frame beside it came into focus. Pull your fish out of the boat. Hang it up by the tail or a gaff hook in the gills and gut it.
He crawled over to the lobster traps and broke one apart. Wood rotted fast in the Keys. Nylon rope lasted longer. Billy watched his own hands tying lengths of rope together, making a slipknot.
It was admirable. Damn good job, son. Pat on the back. Thanks, Dad.
He dragged another of the lobster traps between the uprights of the horizontal beam. He threw the rope over the beam and held on to both ends until he felt steady enough to climb onto the box. The woo
den slats creaked under his weight. He dropped the loop over his head, ran the free end of the rope through it, pulled tight, and knotted it.
The lights on the horizon raced away from him, then back. The moonlight was turning the sky silver. So bright. It made the stars fade out.
Billy spread his arms, balanced for a moment, then stepped off the dock.
2
The Florida Keys are a chain of low, ragged islands that serve as stepping stones for the road from Miami to Key West. Drinking water is piped in, Cuban refugees occasionally wade ashore, and with every hurricane warning, cars and boat trailers jam the highway trying to get out. The view of the ocean is stunning, but if you don't fish, there isn't much to do.
This was about the sum of Gail Connor's knowledge of the Middle and Upper Keys. She was more familiar with Key West, which had enough history, banyan-shaded streets, and white clapboard to make it worth a three-hour drive. The small communities along the way she never paid much attention to, except for the obligatory stop at Theater of the Sea so her daughter could feed the dolphins. Gail herself was usually watching the highway for the mile marker signs tediously counting down to zero. Not her idea of a romantic getaway. But just after lunch on Tuesday, Anthony Quintana called with an invitation.
Gail had politely refused: "Oh, honey, I can't possibly go, not in the middle of the week."
Then he told her where they'd be staying: The Buttonwood Inn. Clients of his, the Greenwalds, owned it. They wanted him to drive down to take care of a small matter involving Mrs. Greenwald's son, Billy.
Gail did know one other fact about the Keys. Among the clutter of RV parks, mom-and-pop motels, and poured-concrete condos, there were a few places so charming, so lush with landscaping and four-star cuisine, that only the wealthy could afford them. Gail couldn't. Anthony could, but he didn't have to. In exchange for his legal advice, the Greenwalds were giving him a room and three gourmet meals a day. Hammocks under the palm trees, a private beach, no alarm clock, no traffic to fight, no phone calls from clients—
"Stop, stop! I have a law practice to run."
"We'll have the island all to ourselves," he said. "They're doing renovations. No other guests. I'm going to ask for the cottage with the private hot tub."
"You've been there before," she said.
"Only once, about four years ago."
"Did you take someone with you?"
His low laugh caressed her ear. "No, I hadn't met you yet. Come with me. Please, amorcito, don't make me sleep alone."
"Anthony, I really can't—"
"You have a secretary, no? A cell phone? A laptop?"
"Karen's school is doing the Biscayne Bay clean-up on Saturday, and I promised to chaperone."
"A stick with a nail in it. Que divertido."
"All right. I'll go, but I have to be back on Friday night. We should take two cars."
"No, no, I'll come back with you." He sighed.
"Te quiero." She made a kiss into the phone.
"I want a lot more of those, mami, for being so good to you."
It had taken Gail the rest of the afternoon to wrap things up at the office, beg Karen's permission to be gone for a few days, and pick out the right clothes. Her mother came in, closed the bedroom door, and leaned on it with her arms crossed. She was a small woman of sixty with curly red hair and bright blue eyes.
On her knees in the closet, Gail pawed through her shoes. What to take? Sandals, flats, sneakers, black ankle-strap stiletto heels— "Karen is fine, Mother. She made a scene because it's in her contract as a twelve-year-old. She adores Anthony."
"I was thinking about you. Every time that man calls, you go running."
"That is not remotely true." She zipped the shoes into a bag.
"Darling, your grandmother Strickland had a saying: 'If a man can have the juice from your oranges, why should he buy his own tree?'"
"Can we please not discuss this right now?"
"I'm just making an observation," her mother said. "Nobody has mentioned marriage ever since he put that engagement ring back on your finger. Or am I wrong?"
"Yes, you are wrong." Gail shoved hangers across the rod. "We're thinking of next June." She turned around with a dress under her chin. "Do they wear black in the Keys?"
"A little short, isn't it?"
Gail laid it on the bed with the others.
It was nearly eight-thirty when Anthony turned off U.S. 1 at a floodlit sign with a leaping swordfish and the name BLUE WATER MARINA. Gail didn't know what key they were on, but the last mile marker she could recall was number eighty, which meant eighty miles to Key West. Boats on trailers filled one end of the fenced lot; at the other, loud music came from the open windows of a restaurant specializing in seafood, no surprise. Ahead were the docks with sportfishermen, cabin cruisers, and sailboats snugged in for the night.
A sign for The Buttonwood Inn directed Anthony to a long green awning that would keep the rain and sun off the cars parked under it. Martin Greenwald had assured Anthony that his Cadillac would be safe for five days.
"Three," Gail reminded him. "I have to come back on Friday."
He leaned across the front seat and kissed her. "Don't be too sure of that."
They rolled their suitcases along the dock, Anthony with a garment bag over his shoulder, looking muy guapo in pleated slacks and an open-collar white shirt that showed off his tan. Guessing wildly at what to wear, Gail had put on a sleeveless dress printed with tropical flowers. Her high backless sandals clicked on the concrete. She carried a big straw hat in one hand. There were three swimsuits and two pareos in her bag, along with her notebook computer, a printer, and a stack of files from her office.
A pelican flapped slowly away from one of the pilings and settled on the tin roof of a tiny house built cutesy Key West style with a wood porch, wicker chairs, and an abundance of potted palms. A gold-lettered sign said GUESS ONLY, BUTTONWOOD INN. The lights were off, and the space at the dock was empty.
"Where's the boat?" Gail swatted at a mosquito on the back of her knee.
"It should be here." Anthony laid his garment bag over his suitcase and opened his cell phone. He had already called twenty minutes ago, as instructed, when they'd reached Tavernier.
A breeze came up, turning sailboat rigging into bells and bringing the aroma of fried fish wafting across the marina. They hadn't eaten on the way down. The Greenwalds were planning a late dinner on the veranda, a simple meal as the chef would not return until the grand opening next week. Gail had taken a look at the Inn's Web site. The veranda would overlook the water. There would be ceiling fans, tiki torches in the yard, good china on the table, a wine list with hundreds of choices. After dinner, a walk along a moonlit beach to their cottage. A soak in the immense bathtub, then to bed. A four-poster, king-size bed.
She backed up: There would be, during dinner, some polite chatter with Mr. and Mrs. Greenwald. The son, Billy Fadden, age nineteen, would be there. So would Martin Greenwald's sister, Lois, who acted as general manager. Unless the Greenwalds mentioned it themselves, in no event would Anthony spoil the meal, or breach his code of ethics, by turning the conversation toward what had brought him there—the murder of a young woman employee of The Buttonwood Inn. Those discussions would wait until morning and be held in private.
Sandra McCoy had been single, twenty-two years old, a local girl. The newspaper had called her "a pretty redhead." She had rented a small apartment on Plantation Key, commuting by shuttle boat to The Buttonwood Inn, where she had worked in the office. A week and a half ago a hiker exploring an abandoned coral-rock quarry on Windley Key had found her body. Her throat had been cut. The last person known to have seen her alive was a clerk at a video store in Islamorada, where Sandra had rented a movie. The receipt had been time-stamped October 3 at 7:52 P.M. Her purse and the bag with the video had been found the next morning on the ground next to her car.
Without leads, Monroe County Sheriff's detectives were talking to everyone who had known Sandra
McCoy. They had been out to The Buttonwood Inn twice, but by circumstances of timing, had spoken to everyone but Billy. They wanted him to come to the substation to answer some questions. Anthony would go along. He had been hired to do what he was so good at: standing between a client and the police. Except that Billy wasn't officially a suspect. He had been in Islamorada that night, but according to the Greenwalds, he'd been home by eight o'clock.
Gail had been curious to know about the family, but Anthony hadn't given her much. Billy an only child; his mother, Teresa, originally from Cuba; his father a fishing guide, an American. The parents divorced and Billy's mother married Martin Greenwald, who had retired early from a Wall Street bond trading firm after two serious heart attacks. Martin had bought the island and built a resort on it.
End of story. Anthony never said more about his clients or his cases than he had to. Gail might have admired this if she hadn't felt so shut out. She studied the diamond on her left hand, a flawless blue-white solitaire. She had seen other people—other women—looking at it enviously. But they must also have noticed that there was no wedding ring to go with it. Sometimes Gail wondered if they thought that she—a lawyer in her mid-thirties, a tall blond with bony knees and elbows but without the compensation of curves that most men prefer in girlfriends they give diamonds to—had bought the ring for herself.
Walking a little farther, she gazed toward the island. It would be two miles south, rising up from the shallows beyond which the bottom would dive into the darker blue waters of the Florida Straits. Her view was obstructed by a jog in the breakwater and the black silhouette of foliage. It would be safe out there. Sandra McCoy had been dragged from her car and murdered only a few miles from where Gail now stood.
Anthony dropped his cell phone back into his pants pocket. "The boat is on its way. It should be here any minute."
"Thank God. I'm starving." Gail looked longingly at the restaurant across the parking lot. "I wonder how fast they do takeout?"
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