Suspicion of Madness

by Barbara Parker

  "It was a slap. That's all. It didn't hurt her, she just got mad. When she came to work the next day, I apologized. She's like, okay, it's okay, forget it. I didn't kill her. I didn't." A tear trailed down his cheek, and Billy slowly lifted his hand and wiped it away. Whatever Dr. Vogelhut had given him was having an effect.

  "You left the island with her the day she was killed, didn't you?"

  "Yeah, we took the shuttle to the marina. She got in her car and left. Then I got in my mom's car... and did some errands and things."

  "Did you see Sandra again that night?"

  "No."

  "And you arrived home about eight o'clock?"

  "Yeah." Billy swallowed as if to ease a pain in his throat. "I didn't kill her. I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't. You believe me, don't you?"

  Anthony remembered what the detective had told him. How she had died. The unspeakable violence of it.

  Billy's eyes swam up to focus on Anthony's face. "It wasn't me. I swear."

  He put a hand on Billy's shoulder. "It wasn't you."

  "Mr. Quintana." His mouth twisted as he held back a sob. "I'm really glad you're here."

  6

  The Buttonwood Inn was one of Holtz and Lindeman's biggest clients. Calling ahead from her boat, Lois Greenwald had felt no hesitation in asking to see Mr. Lindeman immediately. He took her into his office and shut the door—such a masculine office, wood and leather, a big desk, neat rows of law books on the shelves. There were two chairs at right angles in a corner. Douglas sat with one leg over the arm of his chair, foot slowly swinging. Deck shoes, no socks. Navy pants. Yellow knit shirt, open collar, gold chain shining on his neck. Lois had been making a mental inventory as they talked.

  She said, "I think Billy's so-called alibi is a crock of bull. He wanted Sandra, I could see it written all over him, but she wouldn't give him the time of day, and the frustration drove him wild, a boy his age, you know how they are, so oversexed and violent. Even if they arrest him, they won't convict him. We'll give Anthony Quintana our last drop of blood, and Billy will walk. Again."

  Doug's brow furrowed. "So... how long do you want me to wait?"

  "Let's say until the police are no longer interested in Billy."

  Doug shifted in the chair, dropping his foot to the floor. "Come on, Lo. That could take weeks. What's going to happen to Aunt Joan in the meantime? I'm worried about her."

  "She's in no danger of starving to death. She's not going to hurt herself." Lois touched Doug's arm and felt the springy blond hairs under her fingertips. "I need your help. Someone from Condé Nast Traveler will be here next weekend to write an article. If you file the guardianship, and if we lose Joan as an alibi witness for Billy, I might as well board up the hotel right now."

  He rolled his head toward her on the back of the chair, and she could almost make out a smile on his lips. "Don't you think you're overstating this just a tad?"

  She held his gaze for several seconds. "How much do I ever ask of you, Douglas? I was the one who persuaded Martin to retain this law firm, when there are a dozen with more clout, and the first time I come to you with a real problem, you make excuses. How about a little appreciation? You told me we have a special relationship. Is that true or isn't it?"

  He scooted down further in the chair, frowning, nibbling on his thumbnail. A big man, six-foot-two. Big hands and feet and long legs. His thighs were curves of hard muscle. He sat with his knees apart, displaying himself, and Lois wondered if this was a sign. He had said he cared for her, but so far he hadn't done much to make her believe it. Douglas was seven years younger, but age didn't matter when two people were fated to be together.

  They had known each other since childhood. She had dated his older cousin, Teddy, in high school. Lois had noticed, even then, that Doug was beautiful. Gold-streaked hair, blond eyelashes, green eyes. Freckles on his face. He was thirty-six years old, and he still had freckles. His lips were round and pink and shiny. Lois would dream of his mouth on her body, and she would wake up, the sensations were that real. Doug knew how she felt about him, but he said he needed time. He was still getting over the death of a woman from Miami he'd been in love with since law school. Jennifer. She had died in a car crash three years ago. Doug wouldn't give her last name, though. He wouldn't talk about her. He said it hurt too much. And yet he kept a framed picture of this Jennifer person on his desk, which annoyed Lois greatly.

  Stretching, Doug extended his arms. Muscles rippled. He locked his hands behind his neck. Lois had seen him in a swimsuit. He had blond hair on his chest, and his nipples were pink and shiny, like his mouth. He said, "I might wait to file the papers if you do something for me. Testify at the guardianship hearing."

  "I don't want to do that," Lois said.

  "Because?"

  "It would look bad. The judge would say I was trying to get Joan off the property so Martin could have it. Anyway, she's not that crazy, not to where the men in white coats would take her away."

  "That's not going to happen." Doug smiled. His teeth were slightly crooked, which made him look vulnerable and boyish. "Aunt Joan will go to the best place available. I'll make sure of it. She's all the family I have left, Lo."

  "Martin wouldn't want me to get involved. He feels sorry for Joan."

  "Then I guess you've got a choice to make." Doug kept looking at her, and Lois fell into his eyes like sinking into deep water. She couldn't breathe. Doug covered her hand with his, big and heavy and warm. "Lois, if you won't testify, the judge might not grant the guardianship. I want you and Martin to have the property, honey, but if I don't have the power to sign a lease, what can we do?"

  They needed the property for its deep water access. The Buttonwood Inn's harbor was too shallow, and the state wouldn't let them dredge. Joan had a deepwater dock. Two years ago she had said she would give it to them, then she had said no, even though Lois had gone over there and practically begged her. Joan had screamed through the door, I said no, now get out! Martin was content to let it go, but if they didn't have deep water, they could never accommodate bigger boats.

  "We need the dock," Lois said, "but I can't testify against Joan. I can't."

  Doug leaned so close she could smell his cologne and count his eyelashes. "Have you seen the house lately? It breaks my heart, how Aunt Joan lets it deteriorate. Do you remember how beautiful the house was when my grandparents lived there? Teddy brought you out to visit, didn't he?"

  "Yes. It was a beautiful house. The chandeliers and the fireplace and the oriental carpets. We used to sit on the porch and watch the moon on the ocean, and the stars—"

  "I want to restore it, Lo."

  Her heart leaped. "Would you live there?"

  "I'd be there on weekends. We'd be neighbors, wouldn't we?" He smiled, and his lips shone. "I need you to make it happen." He took her hand and smoothed her fingers over his. He pressed his lips to her skin. She wanted to moan, to cry. Joy, exultant and giddy, surged through her body. She leaned toward him and rested her head on their joined hands.

  "Yes, Douglas. Yes. If you need me, all you ever have to do is say so."

  "And could you... check on Aunt Joan a couple of times a week for me? Could you do that?"

  Lois raised her head. "Check on her?"

  "You know. See how she is. Take a look around."

  "Joan won't let me in. She doesn't like me."

  "You could take her a casserole or something."

  "Why do I have to check on her? Let Arnel Goode do it. He's over there nearly every day."

  "Listen to me, Lois. Somebody has to say to the judge, 'Why, yes, Your Honor, I visited Ms. Lindeman many times. It's so sad. She recites all the lines from her movies, over and over. She smelled like she hadn't bathed in a week. There was nothing in the fridge but caviar, beer, and moldy take-out from the hotel restaurant. The condition of her house was shocking! There are liquor bottles, roaches, garbage everywhere. She thinks that space aliens are watching her through the TV, and the FBI is tapping her phones.'
"

  "I can't say that."

  "Yes, you can. Sandra was going to."

  Sandra. Lois felt the cold wind of betrayal sliding across her neck. A few times, sitting in her car across the street watching for a glimpse of Douglas, she had seen Sandra McCoy come into this office, and it wasn't to deliver legal papers from the resort. Lois had imagined them on that couch over there, or on the carpet. Maybe Sandra had straddled him as he sat in that very chair, her tarty red hair swinging across his face. The girl had no morals. Twenty-two years old. They could go after any man, girls like that, and make a man lie about it. At the resort, Sandra had made her sly little smiles whenever Doug Lindeman's name had come up, and Lois had wanted to slap her.

  "Were you involved with Sandra McCoy?"

  Douglas blinked, then smiled as if he hadn't heard correctly. "What do you mean? Did I have sex with her?"

  Sex. He could have phrased it some other way, but he had used that word. "Were you? Why else would she agree to spy for you?"

  "Lois. For God's sake. Sandra didn't help me because she liked me. I paid her. She was planning to move to Miami. Anyway, I've been completely celibate since... you know."

  Lois looked toward his desk, where a framed picture of the woman named Jennifer smiled back at her. "Doug, you need to get past this."

  He nodded and let out a breath. "I'm trying to."

  "Don't you think that by having that picture on your desk, you prolong your attachment to her?"

  "My therapist says it helps me face my fears."

  "Your therapist isn't doing shit for you."

  "Lois, I can't talk about it now." Doug dropped his face into his palm.

  "Let me help." She rubbed his shoulder. "Tell me what you want from me. Anything."

  With a gasp he noticed his watch. "Damn! I've got a client coming in. Lois, I'm sorry to do this, but…."

  Lois looked up at him for several seconds, then said, "Someday, Douglas, when you're ready, I'll be here for you."

  "I'm aware of that." He backed across the room. "Thank you, Lois. Call me in a couple of days, let me know what you find out from Aunt Joan."

  "I'll keep in touch." Lois lifted her face, expecting him to kiss her cheek. He did, but she turned her face and he kissed the corner of her mouth before he could pull back. At the end of the hall she turned around and looked at him. Her long black dress hung straight from her shoulders, and the fish printed on it swam around her body in irregular rows. A few strands of hair drifted across her high forehead, and her mouth was a pink line across her face. Doug lifted a hand, then shut the door.

  He wiped his fingers over his mouth as he walked to the window and tilted one of the slats in the blinds. The light blazed on the white gravel parking lot. A few seconds later a dusty Jeep Cherokee appeared, waiting at the edge of the highway. The rear tires spun, and it shot across traffic. It dodged other cars parking at the grocery store and went to the back under a shade tree, circling around so that the windshield faced the law office. The sun glared on the glass.

  The miniblind gave a metallic snap when he let it go.

  The bitch was stalking him.

  He'd first noticed this about a month ago, looking to see if Sandra had arrived yet. Across the highway, headlights in the parking lot had swept across a dark green Jeep and he had seen Lois Greenwald's face at the driver's window, staring out. It hadn't really grabbed his attention until he noticed she was still there an hour later, as Sandra was leaving.

  A year ago, Martin Greenwald had been dropping hints about wanting new lawyers, so Doug had flirted with Martin's sister. A goof, a joke, some innocent flattery. He'd never imagined she would take him seriously. Now she was circling, closing in. He went to his desk, picked up the framed photograph, and shoved it into a drawer. The photo had come with the frame. One of these days, Lois Greenwald was going to take a closer look and figure it out.

  Doug didn't like waiting to file those damned papers, but he didn't have much choice. It would mean a delay, but he could deal with it.

  His father's people, the Lindemans, had been Conchs, original settlers, scavengers of shipwrecks, smugglers of rum. Lindemans had helped put the railroad through in 1912, and Lindemans had died in the storm that had swept it away. Their bones were buried at the foot of the 1935 Hurricane Monument. A few had hung onto the rocks by their fingernails. They had survived. They had stayed and prospered. Doug planned to get the hell out. He invented daydreams about leaving the Keys. Walking away, not looking back. Clients asking his secretary, What about my case? Fuck your case. Fuck everything. Drive to Miami International Airport, leave his car with the keys in it, fly to Hawaii, no forwarding address.

  Soon. Oh, Christ, let it be soon.

  Doug went down the hall to Thomas Holtz's office.

  The old man didn't usually get to work so early. He spent too many hours with his pals in one bar or another to get here before ten, most days. Doug's father, who had died a drunk, had been one of those pals. Graduating with mediocre grades from a third-tier law school, Doug had leaned on Tom to take him in.

  Tom Holtz was sixty-eight, a barrel-shaped man with white hair and glasses. Broken veins reddened his cheeks, and gold glinted on his molars. His wood-paneled walls were decorated with ancient civic-award plaques, fading color snapshots of himself in fishing tournaments, and amateurish seascapes done by his late wife. If Doug had thought he would end up this way, he would do what Billy Fadden had done, but get it right.

  "Hey, Tom. Here's a news flash for you."

  Doug told him about Billy Fadden's confession, how he'd tried to hang himself. It looked bad, but the kid had an alibi. He claimed he'd been watching movies at Aunt Joan's house. Doug, as a favor for the Greenwalds, would hold off on filing the guardianship papers until this was cleared up. Otherwise, the sheriff might not believe Billy's alibi, if they thought Joan was incompetent.

  Tom asked a couple of questions, making Doug go over it again. The old guy was slowing down. He couldn't hold a thought anymore. Finally Tom nodded. "I'm mighty relieved, to tell you the truth."

  Doug said, "It's not off. We're just going to wait a while."

  "Are you sure this is the right thing?" Tom leaned back in his chair. His hard, round stomach strained the buttons on his shirt. "I agreed to act as attorney of record because I wanted to see Joan get some help, but there's got to be some other way. If we say she's incompetent, it'll wound her pride."

  "She can't live alone anymore, Tom. You know that."

  Tom shook his head. "Have you asked what Joan wants? Have you even considered it? You get to a certain age, you need to feel you still have some control. She doesn't want to leave Lindeman Key. Maybe she needs to have her house fixed up. Some paint. New kitchen, new windows. Make it pretty for her."

  Doug paced across the office, hands in his pockets. "That's a waste of money. She doesn't own it, Tom. She has a life estate. My dad set it up that way. When she dies, her interest goes to Martin Greenwald."

  "Yes, yes, but that isn't going to happen for a long time. Here's what you do. Fix the place up and send somebody out a couple of times a week to clean house and look after her. Wouldn't that work?"

  "Tom—"

  "The woman who took care of Mary when she was so sick. A good woman, very reliable. I've still got her number."

  "Aunt Joan would never go for it."

  Tom held up a hand. "We'll personally introduce them. She'd like this woman. What if I go talk to her and explain things?"

  "You haven't seen Aunt Joan in two years. I'm telling you, she's different. She's gone downhill, Tom."

  "How do you know? When's the last time you were out there?"

  "Not lately. She won't let me in because she's under the delusion that I'm going to steal something. There's nothing to steal. Her house is a junk heap."

  Tom swivelled to keep focused on Doug's progress across the room and back in the other direction. "How do you know so much? Sandra McCoy? Is that who you mean?" He was satisfied to see Do
ug's head snap around.

  Doug said, "She liked Aunt Joan. I asked her to see if she was all right."

  How in hell had he opened his office to a man like this? Tom said, "Let me tell you something. It's not right to keep Joanie in the dark. She ought to be told. I should do it myself."

  "Stay away from my aunt."

  The tone was so sharp that Tom jerked. "What?"

  "Stay away from her. She's not to find out until the court orders an investigation and they send somebody out there." Doug stopped directly across from where Tom sat, still stunned. Doug spoke slowly, as if to a child. "If you tell her, Tom, she'll get the place cleaned up. She'll have time to bathe and put on a nice dress. She'll convince them she's perfectly sane, and she isn't."

  "She is! She's fine. At least she was, last time I saw her. Don't pretend you give a damn about Joanie. I looked the other way when Sandra McCoy came around, and you telling the cops that you hardly knew her. You're a liar. If I decide to drop in on Joan, you'd best not interfere."

  Doug leaned on Tom's desk, his muscular, curly-haired arms making pillars for his chest. His face was white with anger, and the freckles were brown dots. "Don't threaten me with Sandra, you pervert. What were you doing with her? Keep away from Aunt Joan. Do you understand me? Are we real clear on that?"

  Doug went out, and Tom stared at the empty doorway. He sat for several minutes without moving. Confusion and shame overtook him. His chest ached. He couldn't breathe. He sobbed once, then held it back with a knuckle pressed against his lips. Sandra had told Doug. They must've had a good laugh. But it hadn't been so terrible, what he'd done. He wasn't a pervert. He had never touched her.

  It had started when Mary was dying. She had a woman to come in and help her so Tom could get out of the house. The smell of medicine and bandages and the sight of her body hadn't driven him away, though that had been bad enough. No, he hadn't wanted to be there when she died. He'd prayed to come home and she'd be gone.