Suspicion of Madness

by Barbara Parker

  "Yes."

  "How long had you and she... had this relationship?"

  Holtz passed a hand over his forehead. "I don't know. Three years. Except for when Joan and I were together."

  "How did it start?"

  "My wife was dying. Sandra... it was a little joke. I gave her some money and said... I said, 'Lift up your shirt.' Holtz cleared his throat. He had shaved badly, and white hairs dappled his cheeks. "She was a waitress. It was in the parking lot behind the restaurant. We were both having a little fun."

  "When did you start going to her apartment?"

  "Not at first. She lived with her grandparents. Later on she got a place, but I didn't like going there. It made me nervous. Usually we sat in my car."

  "Did she come to your office?"

  "God, no. Not for that. She came on business for Button- wood, but Doug handles most of that, so I didn't talk to her. I didn't avoid her, I just... all that other stuff was in a different place."

  "You never had intercourse with her?"

  "No. Look, I never hurt the girl. I certainly didn't kill her." Holtz steadied himself with a deep breath. "The night she died I was having some drinks at Papa Joe's. Ask the bartender, he knows me."

  "When was the last time you were with Sandra?"

  "That time I went by her place and somebody saw us, according to you. I know who it was. Had to be whoever dropped her off. Who was it? Arnel Goode?"

  "I can't say."

  "It was Arnel. Wouldn't you know it? The last time I'm there, someone spots me. The last time. She let me in long enough to tell me it was over. She said she was tired of it. Well, so was I. I was tired of the money going out."

  "Did she have other men?"

  "Others?"

  "Did she make a habit of giving sex for money?"

  "It never occurred to me."

  "What about a boyfriend? Billy said she was having sex with someone. Who?"

  Holtz shrugged. "I don't know. We didn't discuss it."

  "What about Doug Lindeman?"

  "Doug?" Holtz sputtered. "No way. She was a kid. I mean... Doug has a woman in Key West he's involved with. And one in Miami. And he has his hands full with the ladies he runs into at the resorts. Doug has a full life, you might say."

  "Apparently so. Sandra never mentioned being interested in anyone?"

  "We never talked about personal matters. We hardly talked at all. Girls that age don't have much upstairs, do they?"

  Holtz was lying, but Anthony decided not to push. He changed directions. "You were going to be the lawyer of record in the guardianship case. Why do you believe that Joan Sinclair is incompetent?"

  "I never believed that, but I could see she wasn't taking care of herself. I thought we could get Joan some help, at least wake her up. I'll tell you something, Quintana. I'm living dangerously today. Doug ordered me to stay away from Joan. He didn't want me giving her a head's-up, what he was doing." Holtz laughed without humor. "It's too late now. She knows, and she's not happy."

  Anthony asked if Joan Sinclair had written a will.

  "Not that I know of," Holtz replied.

  "A person judged incompetent can't write a will, isn't that so?"

  The man's heavy white brows drew together. "If you think Doug's after her money, you're wrong. Joan doesn't have any. Her house and land go to Martin Greenwald when she dies. The money she made in Hollywood, she lost. She's not a wealthy woman. You'll see that when you meet her tonight."

  "And there is no cash or jewelry hidden under her mattress?"

  "It must've dropped out of the sky, then."

  "What does she live on? She's too young for social security."

  "There's a dribble of royalties from her movies and TV shows, about eight thousand dollars a year. Her agent sends me the checks, and I put them in her bank account. I've been doing this for Joan ever since she came back from California. When we split up—and it was her decision, not mine—she never asked me to give back her deposit slips." Tom Holtz had more to say; unsure whether to say it, he looked at Anthony awhile before he spoke.

  "Joan gets some money from... oh, I guess you'd say from a trust set up by her nephew, Teddy Lindeman. His dad was killed in Vietnam. Joan and Teddy were pretty close."

  Anthony remembered what Gail had told him. "Teddy Lindeman was convicted of cocaine smuggling and sentenced to federal prison. He died of lung cancer."

  "That's right, this past June. He got ten years instead of twenty because he cooperated with the government. He gave me enough to take care of Joan until he got out, but there's not much left. When it's gone, it's gone. Doug doesn't know about it. No one does."

  Where Teddy Lindeman had obtained the money, Anthony could guess. It had almost certainly been in the form of cash, and probably delivered in a briefcase or a gym bag. "How much did Teddy give you?"

  "A hundred thousand. He told me to give her ten a year. I've been the family lawyer for a long time. Teddy trusted me to handle it properly. I mail her an accounting every quarter. I figure out her taxes. I don't charge her anything." Finally Holtz began to worry if he had said too much. "If you'd forget you heard this, I'd appreciate it."

  "Of course."

  "You wanted to know what she lives on," Holtz said. "That's it. I'd pay out of my pocket if she ever needed anything, but she has a history of pushing me away." He looked out at the Keys on the horizon as if puzzled to find himself on this side of the water. "She jilted me twice. The first time we were kids, and she decided to seek fame and fortune in Hollywood. I was crazy about that girl. God, how I loved her. I was in law school when she gave my ring back. We could've had a good life together, but she said she just had to give acting a try. Joan had some early success, but it fizzled out. Twenty-five years later, she dragged herself home, not in too good a shape, either, what I heard. Over the years I'd see her in town, and we'd say hello, or she might drop by my office to sign something, but that was rare. When Mary, my wife, passed away I grieved, but she'd been sick for a long time. One day I got the nerve to call Joan. I said, 'Hi, guess who? And guess whose birthday this is? Yours. How about I take you out for a steak dinner?' She said, 'You old son of a bitch, it was last week, but I forgive you. You come on over with those steaks, and we'll grill out on the dock and watch the sun go down. And bring me some champagne. Something expensive. I've just turned sixty, and I damned well deserve it.'"

  Chuckling to himself, Tom Holtz glanced down at the wicker hamper in his boat. "I took her some Perrier-Jouet with the flowers on the bottle, same as I brought her today. She was waiting on the dock in a pair of old blue jeans. Her hair was gray. I expected a glamorous movie star, but she was just herself. Joanie. That's all. She said, 'Tom, I've been on this godforsaken rock long enough to find out who I am. If you're looking for Joan Sinclair, you might as well get back in your boat and shove off.' I said, 'No, you'll do just fine.' A couple of months later I asked her to marry me. She started packing her things. Then a week later, she called me and said she'd changed her mind. I still don't know why. I shouldn't have backed down. I should've— Hell, I should've marched over to that damned house and dragged her out of it."

  Spent, he rested his fingers on his forehead and let out a long sigh. "Maybe there is something wrong with her. I'll tell you one thing, she doesn't need to be put in an institution. That is not going to happen."

  Footsteps sounded on the planks in the dock, and Anthony turned around. Kyle Fadden, his billed cap pulled low, had just walked over to a fishing skiff tied a few yards away. He untied the lines, pretending not to see the two men standing nearby.

  Holtz whispered, "Who is that fellow?" He flipped up his sunglasses. "I know him as well as I know my own name."

  "Billy's father, Kyle Fadden."

  "So it is." Holtz called out, "Kyle! What brings you here?" Walking stiffly, sway-backed, he went over to find out. His clip-ons were upside down on his forehead.

  Fadden gathered up a line and tossed it to the deck of his boat. "I came to see Bill
y."

  "Oh, Jeez. Sure you did. He's doing all right, though. I ran into Teri. She said he's okay."

  "Yeah, he's okay."

  "Do you fellows know each other?" Holtz held out an arm in Anthony's direction.

  "We've met," Fadden said, untying the other line. He gave Anthony a quick nod, then stepped onto his boat and turned the key. His engine coughed and sputtered to life, then settled down to a throb.

  Holtz spoke loudly to be heard. "When are we going out for some yellowtail?"

  "You know my number." Kyle Fadden gave them a salute and turned the wheel. The boat rumbled away from the dock on a widening wake and the faint blue haze of exhaust.

  "He's a damned good guide. A natural fisherman, best I've seen. I don't go out like I used to, though. I passed Kyle off to Doug. Doug's only problem is, he doesn't put in the time. Well. I'd better get back. Untie that line over there, will you?"

  Bending to take the line off the cleat, Anthony said, "Tom, I have a question. It's about the case four years ago, when Billy Fadden was arrested for arson."

  Tom Holtz stepped into his boat and felt around in his pants pocket for his keys. Anthony repeated, "Billy was arrested for burning down a house in Islamorada."

  "Yes, I remember. What's the question?"

  "You know the owners, the Morgans. That was why Martin asked you to handle the settlement negotiations with them."

  "They've moved away," Holtz said.

  "All right, but four years ago you knew them. Correct? Were you aware of any dispute or argument existing between the Morgans and someone Billy knew? His father, for example?"

  Thomas Holtz stood with his arms folded over his stomach. The sunglasses were still up, and his eyes registered confusion. "That's a funny question. I'm not sure I follow."

  How to explain to this man? How, when his own mind was teeming with contradictions? Anthony said, "I believe that the fire was an accident. Billy was filling the gasoline tank while the lawn mower was running. A stupid thing to do, but he was fifteen. However, Billy had at that time some severe psychological problems—as he does now. You are aware of all this. The Morgans were on good terms with Billy, but were they angry at someone Billy cared about? A friend? His mother or father? Even Martin Greenwald?"

  Holtz stared back at him.

  Anthony said, "If it wasn't an accident, where is the motive?"

  That brought a short laugh. "Why did he burn their house? I'll tell you why. He wanted to see something go up in smoke, and Hal and Betsy's house was convenient. They never did anything to that boy. They were the sweetest people you'd want to meet. I'm sorry to say this, but Billy Fadden scares the hell out of me. He never showed the slightest remorse for destroying a home and everything those people took a lifetime to accumulate."

  Standing at the wheel, Thomas Holtz turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life. He let it run, then turned back to Anthony.

  "I hope that Billy was with Joan when Sandra was murdered. I pray he was, but I'm not going to stand here and say he couldn't have done it. He confessed. Maybe he's psychotic, and he thought he killed her. Maybe he's playing with us, and he confessed to see if he could get away with it like he did last time. Let me tell you. He could have strangled Sandra just like he spilled that gasoline. No more thought behind it than a desire to see what it feels like."

  At the cottage, Anthony stood at the bottom of the steps, a hand on the stair rail, feeling curiously fatigued. What was it? Lack of sleep? His age catching up with him? Not that, because only last week he had run up four flights of stairs at the federal courthouse to avoid a slow elevator. What, then? He wondered if fatigue was a sign of something more ominous. He felt his pulse. Normal.

  Disgusted with himself for such thoughts, he trotted up the steps. He found the front door open for the breeze and Gail at the desk in the living room. Her files were stacked beside her, and her fingers flew on her laptop keyboard. He picked up the Go- diva chocolate box and raised the lid. Empty.

  "You didn't save me any?"

  "Not one. And they were so good." She lifted her face to be kissed. "I'll make it up to you later."

  He tossed the box back on the desk and took a look at her computer screen. She was working on a complaint in a commercial lending case. "How exciting."

  "Well, you weren't around, and I needed some fun." She saved her work and turned around in her chair. "What did Tom Holtz have to say?"

  "He admits he was the man Arnel saw, but he says he didn't kill Sandra. He has an alibi. We could check it out, but I believe him."

  "They were sleeping together?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Meaning... what?"

  "For three years he paid Sandra to let him see her naked. He never touched her."

  With a grimace Gail said, "Oh, that's bizarre. Three years? If he didn't touch her, what did they do?"

  "I did not ask."

  Gail reached for Anthony's shirt and pulled him closer. "Did she talk dirty to him?"

  Against her lips he murmured, "I'm sure she did. What do you think she said?"

  "She said... 'Oh, Daddy, you make me soooo hot.'"

  "Not bad. Keep going."

  "'I want to roll you in sugar and lick it off.'"

  He smiled. "Sugar?"

  "Okay, then. Melted, amaretto-flavored, bittersweet chocolate."

  "Que sabroso."

  "I could turn off the computer."

  He kissed the top of her head. "No, keep working. I'll tell you everything later. Right now I'm going to find someone to take me to Islamorada. Doug Lindeman is in his office. I want to ask him about his aunt before we meet her."

  "You're going by yourself?"

  Anthony gave a little shrug. "It doesn't take two of us to ask one question."

  Gail's blue eyes stared up at him.

  "Sweetheart, you want to help me, and I sincerely appreciate it, but go ahead and finish your work. I don't want to hear you complaining that you never have enough time."

  Her mouth opened, and a little laugh of disbelief came out, before she said, "Anthony, do you ever listen to yourself? That is the most condescending, patronizing—"

  "Ay, Dios mío."

  "It's not that I'm insisting on going with you, but it would be nice if you asked"

  "Gail, I don't have an appointment. Lindeman hasn't returned my phone calls. To try to see him will probably waste the rest of the afternoon, and you told me you had to work. Didn't you tell me that?" She said nothing. Anthony let out a breath. "Do you want to go with me, Ms. Connor?"

  "I'd love to. Thank you." She stood up and put her arms around his neck. "Since you've been so agreeable, I'm going to share a totally useless piece of information with you. This is from Teri. Her sister-in-law, the lovely and charming Lois Greenwald, used to smuggle marijuana. She and Doug Lindeman's cousin, Teddy, who later went to prison for importing cocaine."

  "No me digas."

  "Don't you love it? I'm billing you a whole hour for that one."

  Anthony called Martin Greenwald to see about getting to Islamorada. Martin said he would take them himself. They agreed to meet in the lobby in half an hour.

  This gave Gail and Anthony time to change into something they could wear to a law office without looking like tourists. Having expected to do nothing serious on this trip, Gail had only her sleeveless dress with the tropical flowers. It wouldn't have worked in the city, but it would do for the Keys.

  She put on her makeup and related her conversation with Teri Greenwald, a woman whose life had veered between horrific and hopeful and now hung suspended while her son was suspected of murder. How her sister-in-law plotted to ruin her. How she loved her husband but feared she would lose him to a heart attack or to a fate nearly as bad: indifference. He would grow tired of it all.

  Touching up her mascara, Gail could sense Anthony's attention wandering. As she described Teri's quandary, Anthony searched through his shaving kit for his comb. He wasn't in the mood for domestic drama.

 
Anthony said the main goal at present was to find out why Douglas Lindeman thought his aunt was incompetent. If he had a good reason, it meant trouble. Sooner or later, even if Joan Sinclair swore that Billy had been with her when Sandra McCoy's throat was cut, the police—or even worse, a jury—would wonder.

  Anthony leaned closer to the mirror and turned his head slightly. The gray was beginning to show at his temples. He noticed Gail watching him and went back to his list of things to do. Find someone at the Blue Water Marina who remembered seeing Billy Fadden get into his boat and head south toward Lindeman Key between seven-thirty and eight P.M. on October third. If Billy couldn't get an alibi from Joan, he would need a backup. And lastly, since Gail had brought her camera, she could take some photographs of the crime scene.

  Anthony put away his comb and turned off the bathroom light.

  When they reached the lobby of the hotel, Martin Greenwald was just coming down the stairs. He was dressed for going out in a boat, wearing shorts and leather deck shoes. Gail thought his hangdog face looked a little more rested than it had three hours ago. His heavy eyebrows lifted when he saw her, and he took her hand.

  "Teri says you're working with Anthony now. He's calling in reinforcements, is he?"

  "We have a lot to do before tomorrow," Anthony said. "If Joan Sinclair will make a statement in the afternoon, we hope to get Billy cleared at the same time. Martin, do you own a gun?" He explained what Billy had said this morning, that he might have tried to shoot himself with Martin's gun, but wasn't sure. He could have imagined it.

  Martin said he had a rifle upstairs and a .38 revolver in the office.

  "Would you mind checking to see if the revolver is there?"

  They followed him around a corner past the front desk, into a side hall, then through a door into an uncluttered room whose color scheme ranged from gray to paler gray. A glossy, poster-size photograph of The Buttonwood Inn at sunset, taken from half a mile out, provided the only clue that this office was not in a government building. A woman of about sixty with glasses sliding down her nose sat at a desk with a calculator. She glanced up, said, "Hi, Martin," and went back to her work.