Suspicion of Madness

by Barbara Parker

  "May I get some details about your evening with Billy?"

  "Go ahead."

  Anthony picked up his drink. "Tell me again the movies you watched, and in what order."

  "Rope. Vertigo. The Birds."

  "How do you know precisely what time he arrived?"

  She pointed to the mantel clock, whose hands showed 9:06 P.M., the correct time by Gail's watch. Joan said, "He knocked on my door at eight-twenty-seven. Close enough?"

  "Good. Did you and Billy have anything to eat or drink?"

  "He brought a six-pack of Red Dog beer with him. I had a few drinks. We shared a bag of pretzels."

  "What was Billy wearing? Do you recall?"

  She took a long drag on her cigarette, making an O, careful not to smudge her lipstick. She exhaled to the side. "Jeans and a dark green T-shirt. Hog's Breath Saloon, Key West."

  "Did you already have the movies here, or did he bring them?"

  "They were here. I have every important American picture through 1980 and a lot of the British stuff too. They're filed alphabetically in my viewing room. Name one, I'll tell you the director, the actors, and the year." She tapped her cigarette over the square, cut-glass ashtray. A corner was chipped off. "I have an excellent memory."

  "You do. It's amazing." Anthony nodded slowly.

  She asked him, "Where did you get that accent?"

  "In Cuba. I left there when I was thirteen, but I haven't had too much luck with my English."

  "You speak wonderfully. It's very sexy. You're a very sexy guy. Don't get mad at me, Gail, it's true, and I am ever so envious." Joan Sinclair smiled over the rim of her martini glass. "You're a lovely couple. Do I see an engagement ring?" Gail showed her. "Oh, my. Sparkle, sparkle. When's the big day?"

  Gail glanced at Anthony, then said, "We're not sure. Probably next spring."

  "Good God." She laughed. "What the hell are you waiting for, permission? I married my second—no, my third husband a week after I met him, and it lasted for years. But that was back in the old days, when you couldn't just shack up, or people would talk. Times change, n'est-ce pas?"

  Hiding a smile, Anthony sipped his martini.

  In the dining room, the music grew to a crescendo of trumpet and drums, then blared to a stop. There were some clicks, then silence.

  Gail said, "Miss Sinclair, I mean Joan... I'd like to ask you about Sandra McCoy. I suppose you knew her pretty well. She was here often, wasn't she? Helping you out, running errands, and so forth? Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill her?"

  Black-penciled eyes narrowed. "No, I don't."

  "Did she talk to you about herself? Did she have a lover?"

  "I wouldn't know." Joan took a quick puff on her cigarette, then snapped it away from her lips. "Let's get something straight. Sandra was a two-faced little bitch. She didn't come to help— she came to spy on me. I thought she was all right because she was a friend of Billy's but she was working for my nephew, Douglas Lindeman. I went upstairs and caught her opening drawers. I told her to get out. Douglas is trying to have me put away. How's that for a kick in the pants? I just found out. Someone came to warn me."

  "Tom Holtz," Gail said.

  "Do you know Tom? Of course you do. Everyone in the Keys knows Tom. We've been close friends since we were kids. Tom and Doug are lawyers. They have an office together. That's how Tom found out."

  Gail said, "We spoke to Doug about it this afternoon. He says he's concerned about your welfare, but we're not so sure."

  "My welfare? My ass. He wants my house! He wants to get me out of my house."

  "Why do you think—"

  "Because he's going to sell it to Lois Greenwald." Joan crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray. "She's another bitch. She'd better watch her step around me" Then just as quickly as her rage had appeared, it vanished. Joan Sinclair let out a breath and adjusted the long row of bracelets adorning her arm from wrist to the edge of her leopard-print sweater. She had pale skin, and the tendons and veins showed through, evidence of her age. Even a good manicure couldn't disguise the knobby fingers.

  She spoke, and her voice belonged to a woman who had seen too much of life, too many sorrows, too much pain. She put a hand to her heart. "I left because this was the dullest place there ever was. I've come back for the same reason. All I want is to rest. The world has no joy for me now. People who swore they loved me, betrayed me. Gone. Everything is gone. I don't have much time left, dear God, but at least let me rest."

  Gail could only stare helplessly. She glanced at Anthony and saw the same look of stunned pity on his face.

  The sly smile reappeared, and Joan Sinclair twirled the end of her little gold scarf around her finger. "I am playing with you, my darlings. Ethel Barrymore, The Bells of St. Ann's, 1937. Of course you don't know it. Waaa-aay before your time. Mine too." She took another cigarette and held it between her fingers. "S'il vous plait?"

  Anthony lit it for her, throwing Gail a look as he did so. He was clearly as confused as she about this woman's state of mind. Smoke drifted around Joan Sinclair's head, barely moving in the closed and claustrophobic air of this house. Gail realized that the stereo had been going for a while. Not the same record. She heard a piano and the slow, sensuous voice of a female singer she had heard somewhere before, but the name wouldn't come.

  Bracelets clinked as Joan gestured over her shoulder. "Ms. Connor, there's a telephone on that little table in the hall, see it? The cord is long enough to reach. Bring it over here, will you?"

  There was indeed a telephone by the stairs, a model so old it had a dial, not buttons. Gail said, "Do you want to call someone? I have a cell phone we could use."

  "Fine. Call the sheriff's office. Let's get this over with. Who am I supposed to talk to? A detective somebody."

  Anthony said, "Detective Baylor, but we're not going to call him tonight. I mentioned this to you. We're going to see him tomorrow."

  "What do you mean, see him? At his headquarters? I'm not going to a police station. I've been to police stations, and I don't like them. He can come here."

  "No, it's better if you go with us. Don't worry. It won't take long, I promise you. Martin Greenwald will take us there and back in his boat. You would be gone no more than two hours, probably less."

  "Did you explain who I am? I'm Joan Sinclair. Why can't they come here? The detectives are supposed to come to the person's house. Isn't that the way it's supposed to be?"

  Anthony made a little shrug. "In the movies, perhaps, but in this particular case, I am asking you to go with us."

  "You said you spoke to Douglas. You're working with him, aren't you? That's what's going on here. It's some kind of trick."

  He leaned closer and put a hand on her arm. "Joan, please. We're working for Billy. Please trust us. Nothing will happen to you."

  "I don't like to leave my house. Someone might break in."

  "No one will break in. If you're worried, tell Arnel Goode to watch it for you."

  "Arnel is worthless," she said. "He's worse than Sandra McCoy, sneaking around, eavesdropping, telling me what to do."

  Gail asked, "Was that Arnel who was here earlier, just before we came in?"

  Nodding, Joan let out some smoke and extinguished her cigarette. "I told him to help me get ready. I needed the dishes washed, the floors dusted. He wouldn't leave. He wanted to play bartender. God knows what he wanted. I am getting so tired of Arnel."

  "He's not still here, is he?"

  "He went out the back door, and I locked it."

  "Does he have a key to your house?" Gail asked.

  "No. I have the key. The only key." Joan lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not afraid of him. Arnel is… he's like a child. A puppy. He has no one but me. It's Douglas I'm afraid of. The last time he was here he tried to push his way through the door. He put his foot inside so I couldn't close it. I screamed. I told him I would call the police. He laughed at me. He said I was a crazy woman and I should be put in a mental hospital. I couldn't believe
he would even think of such a horrible thing, but Tom told me it was true. Now you see why I can't leave here. No, not even for Billy. I'm sorry, you tell Detective... Detective Baylor that he has to come here, to see me."

  Anthony gently took her empty glass from her, put it back on the lacquered tray, and reached for her hand, enclosing it in both of his. She stared at his hands, then at his face. "Miss Sinclair, I am going to be very honest with you. You are a woman who appreciates honesty, I think."

  "Of course I am. I can't stand people who lie to me, and there have been so many of them, you have no idea."

  "Well, then. Here is what we are up against. Billy is in trouble. I explained to you already, he confessed to a murder he didn't commit. I don't know why, and probably he doesn't either, but the fact is, he is the main suspect in Sandra McCoy's murder, and the police want to talk to him. But first it would be extremely helpful for you, Joan, to tell Baylor what time Billy arrived at your house and when he left."

  Her eyes were pinned hypnotically to Anthony's, and she leaned toward his soft, resonant baritone.

  He said, "Yes, the police could come here. If I asked them to, they would. However... and please listen to me before you say anything. You've been living in this house for so long that you don't see it as other people do. It's so disorganized, so dark and cluttered, that if the police came here, they could believe your mind is the same. They would say, 'Look at this place. How can we trust what she tells us? There is something obviously wrong with her.' I'm not saying it is true, only that they could think it is true, and if they do, what have we accomplished for Billy? Do you see?"

  "Is it so bad?" Her long black lashes brushed her cheeks, and she pulled up her shoulders as if to hide in them. "I used to have maids and people to do things for me. I lived in the most beautiful home. It had marble floors."

  "I'll give you another reason to be brave," Anthony said. "Your nephew. He believes you're unbalanced. He's going to file a petition for guardianship to say you're incompetent. Joan, come with us tomorrow. If you tell Detective Baylor clearly and calmly what you've just told us, you do two things. You prove that Billy is innocent. You also prove that Douglas Lindeman is wrong about you."

  Her dark eyes filled with intelligence and resolve. "The lousy bastard. He never was any good."

  "Will you go with us?"

  "Maybe. You have to do something for me. I need a lawyer. My goddamn nephew is trying to steal my house, and I need somebody on my side. I'll pay you." She reached out to grip Anthony's arm. "I have money. I have four thousand dollars in the bank, and my agent sends me royalties every six months."

  It wasn't so much, Gail thought. Joan Sinclair must indeed have come down in the world if she thought that four thousand dollars was a lot of money.

  Anthony said, "I am sorry, I don't know anything about this area of the law, but Ms. Connor does. Don't you, Gail? Gail Connor is one of the toughest lawyers in Miami. She scares me, she's so tough."

  Gail looked at him, then said, "I'd love to help you, Miss Sinclair. It would be an honor."

  "Good. I like women with brains. In my career I refused to play syrupy, mealy-mouthed housewives or idiotic sex kittens. No way, no how. A woman has to stand up for herself in this world or she gets walked on. Right?"

  "Absolutely," said Gail. "And don't worry about fees. I'll send my bill right to Mr. Quintana."

  "You've got a deal." Joan Sinclair stood up with her empty glass. "Who wants another drink?"

  "Thank you, but no more," Anthony said. "It's been a long day, and we—"

  "Oh, sit down. You just got here." She wobbled back to the bar in her high heels and opened the gin. "What time should I be ready to go tomorrow? Warning. I don't get up early."

  Anthony said the afternoon would be all right. He would arrange something with Detective Baylor and let her know, and the boat could leave from her dock.

  Gail ventured to ask, "What do think you'll wear?"

  Joan Lindeman turned around and looked at her. "I have an extensive wardrobe."

  "Well, I just thought... since you haven't been off the island in so long—"

  "I do get out, Gail, I just don't blab it to everyone. Sometimes I ask Arnel to take me for a ride. It's beautiful here. The sun, the ocean, the stars. I didn't always appreciate such things. I was only nineteen when I left. I couldn't wait to get out. I went to California with two thousand dollars that I borrowed from my father. He said, 'When it runs out, start waiting tables.' To hell with that. I was destined to succeed. Thank God I didn't know how many people with talent go to Hollywood and fail."

  "How did you get your start in the movies?"

  As soon as the words spilled off her lips, Gail knew she shouldn't have asked. It was late. Anthony was exhausted.

  "I succeeded because I knew I could." The ice cubes rattled in the cocktail shaker. "Does that sound arrogant? Too bad. When you've got it, you've got it, and the only thing separating them that do and them that don't, is not lettin' nothin' stand in your way. I didn't wait around to get lucky. I worked my ass off. I took classes at the Film Institute. I didn't eat, but I had money for school. My boyfriend was a stunt double, and he got me onto the Paramount lot. I stayed out of sight and watched the actors and listened to the director. I slept with a casting agent. I did what I had to, and I'm not going to apologize for it. He got me a nonspeaking part in The Time Machine, a wretched picture. They used about fifty girls in blond wigs, and everybody looked exactly alike. I did a couple other things, then finally got a part where I could open my mouth. What was it called? Who cares?"

  Joan Sinclair carried her drink across the room, stopping halfway. "You ever see a sound stage? My first time was such a thrill. Cables and equipment, and the actors, and dozens of people running around. The ceiling is so high you can't see where it ends. 'Give me a number three warm gel on Miss Sinclair!' 'A little more to the right!' Then here comes the camera, ro-o-oolling toward me on a dolly. My first line: 'Hello, Mrs. Potter, how's Jeff doing today?' I was brilliant.

  "Word got around that John Huston was looking for a girl for The Edge of Midnight. I wanted that part, I would die for that part. I saw him in the hall at the Institute, and I said if he didn't let me try out, I would kill myself. He'd been thinking of Natalie Wood, but she was too sweet, and when they saw my test, they cast me. It wasn't easy. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. I had a voice coach and an acting coach, and they were tearing their hair, but when the picture was done, I knew it was good. The reviews! 'Joan Sinclair... a stunning newcomer... she sets the screen aglow.' Except for this one cretin I insulted at the premiere. He said I had the talent of a potato. I called him up and told him to kiss my ass. After that he went out of his way to trash me whenever he got the chance. Petty, petty, petty.

  "I didn't care. I was nominated for an Academy Award. Best Supporting Actress. They threw us a party the night before, all the nominees. Everybody was there. Audrey Hepburn congratulated me. She said, 'I hope you win. You were wonderful!' Then the awards ceremony the next night. I arrived in a limousine, naturally. Photographers and flashbulbs, and lines of police and screaming fans. Smile and wave, wave and smile. All the reporters ask the same dumb questions. 'How do you feel?' 'Do you think you'll win?' I didn't win. Margaret Rutherford won for The V.I.P.s. Can I be a bitch and say she didn't deserve it? Yes, I can. She didn't deserve it, I did, but they gave it to her because she was old and that was her last chance.

  "After The Edge of Midnight I was besieged with offers. Columbia wanted me, MGM wanted me, Fox wanted me—if I'd take a deferred percentage of the profits. The studios are such thieves. They never show a profit! The studio execs didn't know what the hell they were doing. When Runner's Club came out, they publicized it like a goddamn romantic comedy. It flopped, so the next picture, they hardly spent anything on advertising, and that one flopped even worse. As if the studios weren't bad enough, my agent screwed me over. Mike Nichols wanted me for Carnal Knowledge but they were only paying SAG wages, an
d my idiot agent turned down the part without even telling me about it! They gave it to Ann-Margret."

  Joan flopped into the rattan chair. The blues singer on the stereo sang softly, It's been so, so long... since my man's been gone... and my tears come down... like rain.

  "I could've saved my career if I'd learned how to pucker up and kiss ass. You have to work at being a phony. Go to the parties, doesn't matter how bored you are. You go and you make small talk and you smile. I knew it was horseshit so I stayed away. They called me cold and stuck-up. The other actors snubbed me. The tabloids said I was having affairs with everybody. Probably true."

  She finished her drink. "Then I got a part in Bride of Nosferatu. I had no money and no pride, so why not? After it came out Vincent Price called me up and he asked me to costar in his next picture. I adored Vincent. He taught me not to be so goddamn serious. I played a vampire princess in The Scourge." Joan Sinclair narrowed her eyes and lowered her head. "'No man holds de rrrreins off my soul, nor woman either, nor beast, nor Gott. I am guided by my own desires.'

  "The critics haaaaa-ated it." She laughed. "I had a damn good time doing those silly pictures. I got lots of fan mail, made lots of money. A lot. Don't know where it went. I had a TV show, a sitcom. Oh, God. Forget that. Cancelled after four episodes. I did Hollywood Squares. I was on Saturday Night Live. John Belushi and I did Samurai Vampire. Big deal. Then what?... I don't remember. This and that. I got married again. Unmarried. It wasn't pretty. They evicted me... from my goddamn apartment and nobody... would take a phone call. Kick in the pants, huh?... What do you do?... So I came home." She blinked. "I could've stayed here. I could've married Tom, but I didn't want to. I wanted to be a famous actress... and I did it, by God."

  Her eyes closed, and her glass tipped in her hand. Anthony reached out to catch it before it fell.

  13

  It could have been the flutter of bird wings that awakened her, or the soft rustle of palm fronds against the windows. Or rain. Yes. A light, steady tapping on the leaves. Gail opened her eyes and noticed the clock on her nightstand. The numbers came into focus.