Gail made a note to herself: She would suggest that Anthony give Doug Lindeman a call before he went to see Joan Sinclair. As a family member, Lindeman would have an opinion about his aunt. It wasn't likely to be good. "So... Doug is her only relative?"
"Now he is. Her other nephew Teddy died in f-f-federal prison in Atlanta. Lung cancer."
"Why was he put in prison?"
"He sold drugs."
"Here? In the Keys?"
"Yes. Cocaine."
Gail abandoned any thought of asking for details.
Arnel slowed and stopped as they came to the chain-link fence marking the property line. He got out and opened the gate fully, got back in, drove through, then went back to secure the padlock.
On the Buttonwood side, tires glided smoothly on combed sand, and the little truck hummed around a pond of water lilies, then over an arched wooden bridge painted Chinese red. They came down the other side to a sweeping view of the Keys across sparkling turquoise water. After the wild tangle of the eastern end, the resort seemed as tame as Disney World. They turned west. In only a minute or two they would be back at the hotel.
Gail heard her cell phone softly jangling in her pocket. She ignored it. She asked Arnel, "Did you know Sandra McCoy?"
"Not too good."
"Didn't you see her when she came to Miss Sinclair's house?"
"Mostly she came when I was working over here."
"Well, do you know if Sandra had a boyfriend? Did you ever see her with a man, or hear any talk about her?"
Clear blue eyes, and such a vacant look in them. Then he said, "Tom Holtz, but I don't know… if he was her boyfriend. He's pretty old. I saw him go in her apartment."
Gail turned around on the bench seat. "Who is Tom Holtz?"
"A lawyer for the Greenwalds. He and D-D-Doug Lindeman have an office together. I had to take Sandra home one night, real late. Her car was getting fixed, so… I took her home from the marina in the van. She lived in a-a-a duplex apartment on Plantation Key. When we got there I saw Mr. Holtz's car parked on the corner. I said, 'What's he doing here?' Sandra said, 'M-M- Mind your own business, Arnel.' She went in her apartment. I went around the block, and I saw her let him in."
"Then what did you do?"
"I left."
"When was this? Do you remember?"
He thought about it, then said, "A-A-About a month ago."
"Did you tell the police? When they were investigating Sandra's death, I mean."
"They didn't ask me any questions."
And why should they? A man like Arnel Goode. She let the facts of his story play in her mind. It could mean nothing. It could mean everything. "Is Tom Holtz married?"
"No. His wife passed away." Arnel's brow furrowed in alarm. "Ms. Connor? Don't... don't tell anyone. I d-d-don't want to... m-m-make problems for Mr. Holtz. He didn't kill Sandra. What I think is... somebody g-g-going to K-Key West, a criminal ju-just out of jail, saw her, a p-p-pretty girl like that, and he k-kidnapped her and then... and then he killed her. It wa-wa-wasn't anybody we know."
Gail put a calming hand on his arm. "I'll have to talk to Anthony Quintana about this, but only him. I won't tell anyone else what you said."
The truck swerved left, then braked to a stop. They had arrived beneath a portico alongside The Buttonwood Inn.
Arnel said, "Well. Here we are."
Gail stayed in her seat. "Would you mind talking to Mr. Quintana?"
"I have a lot to do."
"When will you have some time?"
Arnel stared at the knees of his shabby khaki pants. "I said enough already." He put the little truck into reverse, and Gail reluctantly got out.
"You'll talk to Miss Sinclair, won't you? And tell her to return Mr. Quintana's call? Will you tell her?"
He nodded.
"Don't forget."
"I won't."
Gail watched him wheel backward, then hurtle away with a spurt of sand from under the tires. Her phone rang, and she reached into her pocket. The display showed Anthony's number.
She put the phone to her ear. "At last! Where are you?"
"We're about to leave," he said. "We'll be there in half an hour." Gail could hear the low rumble of a boat engine in the background.
"Good," she said, "I have a lot to tell you."
"That makes two of us," he said.
8
The Greenwalds had a friend with a cabin cruiser who agreed to take them, along with Anthony and Billy, from the hospital to The Buttonwood Inn. Traveling half a mile offshore, the boat followed the line of the highway past Plantation Key, then Windley and Upper Matecumbe, before veering in a more southerly direction. It was a choppy ride, as the wind had risen since morning. Standing up as they approached the island, Anthony could see the line of royal palms along the seawall, the high roof above the trees, then the harbor, several small boats, and Gail under the awning on the dock. The skirt of her blue dress fluttered, then swirled around her legs. Even at this distance he could make out a white flower in her hair. He lifted a hand, and she waved back.
A supply boat was already in the harbor unloading boxes and crates. The Greenwalds' friend found a place for his boat, and a young man in a white Buttonwood Inn shirt helped tie up to the dock. The four passengers got off, and within a minute the boat was on its way back to Tavernier.
Anthony made the brief introductions, and Gail warmly smiled and shook their hands. What did she see? A man and woman in rumpled clothes, pale and exhausted; a gaunt and scowling teenager with a neck brace and bleached hair. The family got into the golf cart for the ride to the Inn. Anthony and Gail walked, taking the path along the shore, stepping aside for a cart loaded with boxes. The racket of hammers and saws had been replaced by air compressors and paint guns. The noise faded as they approached their cottage.
"Are you hungry?" he asked. "They're going to bring us some lunch. Teri called ahead and arranged it."
"My God. If I'd been through what she has, I'd make my guests fend for themselves. Have you heard from Joan Sinclair yet?"
"No, nothing."
They climbed the staircase to the porch, which was shaded by the roof overhang and a trellis laden with pink bougainvillea. Gail had left the windows open, and the soft breeze came through. Hanging up his suit pants in the armoire, Anthony noticed the draped mosquito netting and the soft duvet on the four- poster bed and thought of lying down for awhile. Instead, he made a call to Douglas Lindeman's office. He wanted to know if Lois Greenwald had persuaded Lindeman to delay filing the guardianship. When the secretary answered, she said that Mr. Lindeman would be out of the office until later in the afternoon.
Anthony thanked her and left his number and a brief message that referred only to Lois Greenwald. He punched the disconnect. "Carajo."
He put on shorts and walked into the living room barefoot, buttoning his shirt. Gail handed him a beer. The flower in her hair was real, a white hibiscus with a yellow stamen. She had tied it to a small comb that held her hair back from her face. He kissed her cheek. "That's a pretty flower. Tú eres bellísima."
He had registered the fact that Gail had said nothing about going to the courthouse today. No hint, no reminder. There could be only one explanation: She had since changed her mind. Left alone all morning to work on her files and make phone calls, she had said to herself, What were we thinking?
Anthony decided to ask if this was the case. "Gail, mi amor—"
At that moment the golf cart arrived with the same young man who had driven the Greenwalds to the Inn. He bounded up the steps with an ice bucket, then went back for a tray laden with covered dishes. Gail told him to put everything on the table outside, such a lovely view of the ocean from here, she said.
They sat at a round teak table. The sun winked through the palms and put flashes of light on the turquoise and yellow plates, the lemon slices in the pitcher, the flowers that Gail had found in the yard. Stomach growling, Anthony dug into his lunch. The mango chicken salad had been lightly se
asoned with ginger. Delicioso. He decided to wait until after they ate to discuss this business of getting married.
They talked about Sandra McCoy. Who had she been? Baylor had described a "nice little girl," a hard worker, a member of the First Methodist Church, caregiver for her grandparents. The same girl who had bought liquor for Billy Fadden and had had sex with him. A hard-edged girl who had been sleeping with another man, possibly married. Billy didn't know who; she'd refused to tell him. Sandra wanted to move to South Beach, and she needed money to do it. She had collected a thousand dollars from Douglas Lindeman to run errands for his aunt. A lot of money for running errands.
The clash between Sandra and Lois Greenwald could be worth looking into, but the most intriguing fact, if true, had come from Arnel Goode. Late at night, a couple of weeks before her death, he had seen a man going into Sandra's apartment.
Four years ago Anthony had met him. His name was Thomas Holtz. He was one of the Greenwalds' attorneys. Holtz handled the negotiations with the owners of the house that Billy had burned down. Anthony remembered a stout white-haired man, a widower in his sixties, a regular in fishing tournaments, a lawyer not too hungry anymore, coasting on contacts with local bankers, realtors, and members of the chamber of commerce. His reason for entering Sandra's apartment at that hour could have been perfectly innocent. Could have been. Then why had she told Arnel Goode to mind his own business?
Anthony's watch had swept past one o'clock. "Joan Sinclair should have called by now. You said she gets up at noon."
"That's what Arnel told me. Why don't you call her again?"
"I've already left three messages." Anthony stabbed the last piece of mango with his fork. "If she doesn't call within an hour, I'll go over there. I should talk to Teri and Martin first." He laughed. "I thought this would be simple. I would take Billy to the police station today, perhaps tomorrow, the detective would say, 'Oh, you have no information, thank you for coming, goodbye,' and then you and I, mi querida, would spend the rest of the week lying on the beach. This isn't what you expected, is it? I am sorry."
For several seconds Gail looked at him as if waiting for him to say something else. Her finely arched brows seemed suspended over a question. Her eyes had flecks of gray, like stones, like clouds. He had no idea what she was thinking.
He pushed his empty plate away and reached for his dessert. Some kind of iced cake. He poked at it with his fork and discovered a raisin, which he flicked aside. "Before I see Joan Sinclair, I should find out more about her. And Sandra McCoy. I want to hear what Lois has to say about Sandra."
"It seems," Gail remarked, "that you have your afternoon filled."
He swallowed the mouthful of cake. "What would you like to do?"
Her smile was directed at the ocean. "Well, I brought a lot of work with me. I should get some of it done. In fact, I should be in there right now."
She rose from her chair and went to get the tray the porter had left on a bench near the top of the stairs. She brought it back and began to clear the table. The pitcher thudded onto the tray. Glasses, salt and pepper shakers. Silverware clanged on the dishes. She snapped the crumbs off her napkin.
"Gail." He held out a hand. "Come here." He pulled her closer and put an arm around her hips. "Do you want to apply for the marriage license today? Tell me. What are we going to do?"
She sent a cool little smile down at him, a drop of melted ice. "I think we've more or less decided, haven't we?"
"We'll go now if you want."
"If I want?" She laughed. "You were certainly enthusiastic last night. Oh, it doesn't matter. We don't have to do this now. You have Billy Fadden to worry about."
He shrugged. "If you want to do it, we will."
"Do you want to, Anthony?"
The white hibiscus was falling from her hair. He reached up to straighten the comb it was tied to. "Of course I do, querida. I love you. I want to marry you. There is nothing I want more. But this week is not such a good time."
"I suppose so."
"Do you agree or not? That way, we don't have to rush. You won't worry about Karen missing the wedding—"
"You're right. We'll wait."
He turned her hand over and put a kiss in her palm. He was both relieved and unsettled. He had disappointed her. It couldn't be helped.
"I guess we're back to June," she said.
"Whatever you want."
"June is fine."
He pulled her onto his lap and felt the pressure of her hipbones on his thighs, the warmth of her body. "Mamita, you know I love you." He pulled her face down to his. "Soy tuyo." Her lips were sweet. He tasted icing in the corner of her mouth.
A cell phone was ringing. It took him a moment to disengage his thoughts. He turned his head toward the door. "Whose is that?"
"Yours."
He scooted her off his lap and dashed inside, through the living room and into the bedroom, where he found his cell phone chirping for the fourth and last time before it would switch to voice mail. "Yes?"
"Mr. Quintana?"
He knew this voice. He had heard it three times already today—not a British accent, but not exactly American either. His ear, more tuned to Spanish, couldn't place it.
He noticed Gail standing in the doorway.
"Yes, this is Anthony Quintana. Miss Sinclair?"
Gail came quickly across the room and tried to put her ear close to his. He held up a hand and turned around. "Thank you for returning my call."
There was a slow inhalation, then the soft snap of a cigarette being pulled away from her lips. "God knows you left enough messages. Let me guess what you want to ask me. 'Was Billy Fadden with you the night the McCoy girl was murdered?' Yes, he was. As I told his mother last week, Billy and I were watching Hitchcock films from eight-thirty until two-fifteen the next morning. Do you want a list? The Rope, Vertigo, and The Birds, in that order."
"Would it be possible," Anthony asked, "to discuss this in person?"
"Surely that isn't necessary. I've told you what you wanted to know."
"And I am grateful, but you need to tell it to the police, and we need to decide the best way to do that."
A pause. "I can call them. I'll call them right now if you like."
"I'd rather you didn't. Let's discuss it. I'm free at the moment. I can come to your house."
"Now?" Another pause. "Sorry, but it's not convenient."
"Name a time. Forgive me, I must insist. The police suspect Billy Fadden of murder. Only you can save him."
After a long silence, he heard an exhalation. "Very well. I'll be at home at nine o'clock this evening. Come then. The gate will be open."
Click.
She was gone. Anthony put his cell phone back on the dresser.
Gail raised her brows. '"Only you can save him'? That's dramatic. What did she say?"
"Come at nine o'clock."
"Thank God. I was afraid she'd told you to get lost. How did she sound? Coherent?"
"Completely."
"That's a relief," Gail said. She put a hand on his arm. "I want to go with you."
He shook his head. "Miss Sinclair doesn't expect another person."
"Did she specifically say, 'Come alone'?"
"Gail... no. She might refuse to talk to me at all. I don't want to risk it."
"If she doesn't want me there, I'll leave. It's better if I go with you. It's a test. If Joan Sinclair can't handle the two of us, how can she go off the island and discuss a murder case with a roomful of police officers?"
"Ay, Dios mío."
"You know I have a point. Admit it."
"All right, but sweetheart, what is your connection to this case? What do I tell her? 'This is Ms. Connor, my fiancée. She wanted to meet you.'"
"Don't patronize me, Anthony, as if I were some giggling fan of Joan Sinclair. You did enlist me to call her today, remember? She knows who I am. I've left enough messages. I'm trying to help you."
"Thank you, but I'd rather handle it myself."
"He isn't guilty."
"Are you sure?"
"Gail, I don't make guarantees about my clients, but I am certain that Billy Fadden is innocent. There's no evidence against him."
"He confessed."
"Falsely."
"He killed Sandra because she started going out with someone else."
"He has an alibi."
"Maybe." Gail waited, then said, "But you don't know, do you? You don't, and it's going to eat at you, and you'll start brooding and worrying and be impossible to live with, and we'll both suffer."
"Do you think I want to know if my clients are guilty or not?" Smiling, he looked at her a while, then averted his gaze out the window, to the riot of green past the open glass louvers. "I don't care about that. Anyway, the truth is hard to hold on to. You think you have it, then it bites you. I don't even ask."
"Who are you lying to, me or yourself?"
"It's an accommodation I make that keeps me sane," he said. "That and a good billing department at Ferrer and Quintana."
"What are you going to do between now and Saturday, interview all these people yourself? Why don't you hire me? We'll get it done in half the time, then we can play."
"What do you mean, hire you?"
"Let me work on the case. I know how to investigate a case, and I do happen to care, for your sake at least, whether Billy Fadden is innocent."
"This was supposed to be a vacation."
"Really? When do we see each other? When you come to bed? Sorry, that's not enough." She went to the closet and pulled out her suitcase. She laid it on the floor, unzipped the top, and started tossing her shoes inside. "You're going to be busy, and I could work so much more effectively at my office. Have you seen that stack of files in the living room?"
Suspicion of Madness Page 9
