She turned. Husband and wife looked at each other across the dining room. Gail wanted to slide under the table out of sight, and Anthony had averted his eyes.
"Go fix your face and come back to dinner." Martin expected to be obeyed.
" Vete al carajo. Go to hell. You and your precious sister! That bitch!"
Teri vanished, and the clatter of her high heels faded.
Martin Greenwald stared into the space his wife had just vacated, and after a few moments remembered he was not alone. "I'm sorry for that. I don't... I don't know what caused... why Teri—" He carefully folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate. "Would you excuse me?"
Anthony stood up. "Martin. You will forgive me, I hope, when I tell you that if you value anything in your life, it should be Teresa Flores."
"I do. She knows that. I've told her."
"Have the nerve to tell her about your heart. She won't leave you."
"My heart?" He seemed confused, distracted, years older. "I'll be right back. No. I might not, but stay. I have to see about my wife. Excuse me."
He pushed back his chair and went out.
After a moment, Anthony sat back down. He and Gail looked at each other.
Gail let out a breath. "Oh, my God. What should we do?"
"Finish our dinner."
"Anthony, how can you say that?"
"Because I'm still hungry."
"Do you think they'll be all right? I mean, considering."
He lifted the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and held it as though he couldn't decide what to do with it.
"Don't give me any more," Gail said. "I am so out of the mood."
Anthony was still frowning. Finally he said, "Yes, I think they will be all right."
"How?"
"They're in love. It's a momentary disagreement."
"Really."
"We've had them, if you remember."
"I remember very well." Gail pushed her glass toward him.
"His wife or his sister. What a choice. Lois has gone too far this time." Anthony smiled and filled Gail's glass, then his own. "We won't see Martin and Teri again tonight."
19
They had been arguing for so long that Tom suspected he had fallen into a loop, the same lines over and over and over. Joan had been drinking even before he got there, and he thought that might be the problem. She couldn't focus on what he was saying.
"Remember two years ago, when I asked you to marry me, and you said yes? What happened, honey? Were you afraid it wouldn't work? I'm not like those guys you married before. This is me talking. Tom Holtz. You've known me all your life."
"I don't want to get married." Her voice was petulant and sloppy. "I like being my own woman. I do what I damn well please."
"Okay, if you don't want to get married, we won't, but you can't live by yourself anymore. I want to take care of you," Tom said.
Joan lifted her glass, frowning when she saw it was empty. How she could see anything in this cave was beyond him. He liked candles, but this was too much. He had tried to turn on a lamp, but there was no power to the house, or she had unscrewed the fuses.
She concentrated on putting her martini glass on the coffee table. With a sudden cry she dropped her face into her hands. "Oh, Tom. What am I to do? Tell me."
He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "Let's quit yakking and go have dinner. You'll feel better. Everyone's waiting for us."
She had come to the door in high heels and a gold dress with shoulder pads. A little out of date, but she looked very pretty. He'd made the mistake of coming in for a drink and talking about marriage.
Tom stood and shook a cramp out of his leg. "Come on, Joanie."
Joan raised her head and stared at him from under the bangs of her Marilyn Monroe wig. "Why do I have to leave? You keep saying you want to take me away."
"We're just going to dinner at The Buttonwood Inn, that's all. We're not leaving Lindeman Key. I'm not going to take you away, I promise. I made a mistake before, wanting you to come live with me, but not this time. No, this is your home, and we'll get it all cleaned up and repaired. How about a nice new kitchen. Wouldn't you like that?"
"Why do people keep barging in and telling me what to do? Billy's father was just here. He came right in and told me my roof was leaking. Arnel can fix my roof. I don't want people running all over my house."
Tom had to walk to let off some steam. He was getting frustrated. "Are you afraid somebody's going to break in and rob you? Is that what you're afraid of? What've you got that's worth taking? Bags of hundred-dollar bills? Diamond tiaras? Mink coats?"
Her eyes followed him as he paced around her living room.
"Look at this junk." From a shelf he grabbed the first thing at hand, a pair of blue birds sitting on a porcelain branch. One of the birds' wings was cracked off and reglued. He turned it over and squinted through his glasses. "Taiwan. My God, Joanie. This must be worth a couple thousand bucks."
"Why are you asking me about my money?"
"I'm not asking about your money. I don't care about your money. I want to help you. Don't you understand that?"
"That's what they all say. 'I love you, baby. Where's your goddamn checkbook?'" Joan reached for her cigarettes and snorted a laugh. "'I'm in trouble with my bookie, Joan, you gotta help me out.' Sure. 'Let's buy that new Caddy convertible, we can afford it.' 'Just one more time, then I'll quit, I swear.'"
"Can't you shut up for a minute and listen?" Tom wanted to shake her. "If you push me away, who've you got? Douglas? He wants you out of here so he can sell the property to Lois Greenwald, or whatever the hell he's doing. Joan Lindeman, I want you to stop this foolishness and come with me. Now. We're going to dinner. If you can't do that simple thing, I'm in a mood to say to hell with it, you deserve what you get."
Her cheeks went hollow as she sucked in smoke. She exhaled on a smile. "Are you threatening me?"
"Holy God, Joanie, look at yourself. Look with your own eyes. Come here." He dragged her out of the chair by an elbow. Over the bar with its collection of dusty liquor bottles, a cracked, gold-framed mirror tilted from the wall. He positioned her in front of it. A dozen or more candles of various sizes and colors wept puddles of wax into mismatched china saucers. "Take a good look. Who is this woman? Who? You're not a Hollywood movie star, you're Joan Lindeman."
She gazed triumphantly into her own dark eyes. "I know damned well who I am! I'm Joan Sinclair!"
It was too much. In an explosion of anger Tom reached out and grabbed a fistful of wig. "Can't you stop acting for once in your life? You're a sixty-two-year-old woman with gray hair!"
Denuded to her stocking cap, Joan became all eyes and mouth for a second before her face crumpled. Howling, she bent over and hid herself behind her arms. "No! No!"
Tom looked down at the wig in his hands, ashamed of his anger. "Oh, Jesus, baby, I'm sorry."
She grabbed the wig and pulled it back on. Blond curls hung sideways. "You son of a bitch, get out of my house. I never want to see you again!"
"Oh, Joanie."
"Get out!"
Tom said, "I'll make sure you're taken care of. Do you hear me? You'll go to a place where you can get some help. I'm still your friend."
Joan slid to the floor with her hands over her face. "I feel nothing for you. You've killed every last shred of love or pity, and all that's left is hatred. I hate you! I hate you!" Her voice caught in a sob, and she looked up at him. Her cheeks were splotched with mascara. "Oh, Tom... don't leave me!"
Carlotta Sands, The Edge of Midnight.
It was hopeless.
"Good night, Joanie." Bracing his back, he picked up her smoldering cigarette from the floor and walked over to stub it out in the ashtray.
She sobbed and slumped against the bar. Bottles and glasses rattled. "Tom."
Shaking his head, Tom took his jacket off the peg in the hall and opened the door. A faint rectangle of light fell onto the porch long enough for him to see rain splatter
ing on the warped boards and twisted columns. The cart waited at the bottom of the stairs. He pulled the door shut and put on his jacket. He walked forward, feeling for the railing. Rain drummed on the tin roof and poured in streams to the yard. Tom wiped his glasses with the palm of his hand. Raindrops hit his hood with a racket like popping corn.
Easing himself down the stairs, he explored the treads with his toe for secure footing. At the bottom he stepped into a puddle and cursed that he hadn't thought to bring a flashlight.
He walked around to the other side of the cart, and as he started to get in, his head jerked backward. For a split second of perplexed confusion he thought that his foot had slipped or that he had caught his rain hood on a spur of exposed metal.
Then came an immense blow over his ear, and the pain shot through his spine into his legs. He struggled to turn around, to see beyond the edge of his hood. The second blow hit, sending him against the cart. Yellow and red dots swam in his vision. He cried out and lifted his arms to ward off another blow that he sensed was coming, and it did. Again. Again. He staggered away to find a telephone, aware that his collarbone had shattered and he needed someone to fix it.
Another blow put him on his knees, staring into the darkness. Warm liquid ran into his eyes. He heard a distant splash and tasted the grit of mud. Tom moved his lips, but the words gurgled in his throat like water.
20
Beyond the dark glass in the bedroom window a palm frond trembled, then swirled in the wind. Gail crossed the room to close the wooden louvers. Walking past the nightstand she turned on the lamp to make the room even brighter. She was alone in the cottage. Anthony had stayed after dinner to talk to Billy, and Gail had decided to start packing since they would be leaving in the morning. She had noticed Bride of Nosferatu and brought it into the bedroom to watch while she worked.
It was a cliché-ridden, low-budget horror film. Too much mist on the ground, too many candles, squeaking hinges, and footsteps echoing in stone passageways. The music track consisted of screeching violins and mallets on open piano strings. The aging male lead was a cadaverous, former Shakespearean actor of minor pedigree with a silken British accent. "Sup with me. We shall dine on bones and drink our fill of blood." It was silly... and yet Gail found herself pulled into the plot, jumping at every strange noise, staying away from the bed in case something was under there to grab her ankles.
Whenever Joan Sinclair appeared, Gail stopped packing and watched her. Joan had been in her mid-twenties when the movie was made but had looked younger, with big eyes, pouty lips, and a pretty little valentine of a face that spoke less of innocence than of voracious sexuality.
So far Nosferatu had seduced Katerina, brought her to the lonely mountains of an unnamed Central European country, and had failed to satisfy her thirst. He lured travelers to his castle, one of whom, conveniently, was Katerina's former lover, Charles. He had become engaged to someone else but was still in love with Katerina.
Gail watched the movie as she laid clothes out on the bed to be folded.
Sundown, a narrow road through the mountains. Charles in the carriage with his new fiancee and a group of fellow travelers. The horses are nervous. They bolt, and the carriage careens into a ditch and breaks an axle. It will take some time to repair it. Count Nosferatu offers them lodging. A warning from the coachman, but no one listens. From there, a plot littered with blood-drained corpses.
Dinner with the count. A gloomy dining room, black velvet curtains. Enter the bride of Nosferatu in a trailing white gown. She sits at the other end of the table. Shock! Charles recognizes his former betrothed. He still carries a small photograph in a silver frame of the two of them together in Katerina's virginal, prevampire days. He vows to bring her back from the legion of the undead. His fiancée, Anna, sweet as pie, has no objection to this. "You must, Charles. You must save her."
Then a long scene with Nosferatu going after one of the other female guests. Uninterested in this, Gail took Anthony's pajamas from the armoire and folded them around his T-shirts to prevent wrinkling. She didn't mind; it made him happy. He also liked his socks folded, not rolled into balls.
Anna was walking down a long, empty hallway. Footsteps tap on stone. "Charles? Charles, where are you?" Candles flutter in the wall sconces. Shadows loom. Anna senses something behind her. She turns around. It's Katerina, whose lips curl back like a dog's. Anna screams, runs away. Katerina is waiting in the next room.
Gail heard a noise at the front door and froze, then let out a breath. She called out, "Is that Nosferatu coming in to ravish me?"
A deep voice answered, "It is I." A second later Anthony appeared at the bedroom door. His head turned toward the television. "You're watching that movie. How is it?"
"Great, if you like over-the-top B-movie melodrama. Katerina has sucked the blood out of most of the men in the cast already. I'm waiting to see if Charles can bring her back from the undead."
"Who is Charles?"
"The man she was engaged to before Nosferatu carried her off."
"Ah, yes." Anthony saw his suitcase open on the floor. "What is this? Oh, thank you, sweetheart, but don't do any more packing for me. I will probably stay through the weekend."
"Why?"
"Two reasons. First, I want to make sure Tom Holtz talks to Detective Baylor. And second... Billy wants to see the mermaid lamp."
"He remembers it?"
"He says no." Anthony went to hang up his jacket in the closet. "Four years ago he was at the Morgans' house at least twice mowing the yard, but he says he has no memory of the mermaid being there. So tomorrow, first thing in the morning, he wants to see it for himself. Martin will take us in his boat." Anthony kicked off his shoes.
"So Martin came downstairs after all?"
"No, I called him. He was not happy to be disturbed. He and Teri were... busy."
Gail said, "I don't want to leave you here during the storm."
"Martin made this resort to withstand a force-five hurricane, so a little tropical storm is nothing. You need to get back, Gail. You have a date with your daughter on Saturday morning. You and Karen and stacks of bread and jars of peanut butter. Come back for me on Sunday, if you can, and if not, Martin said he could arrange someone to take me home."
She looked at him a while. "Fine." She took his socks and briefs out of the suitcase and carried them back to the armoire. "I'll see you on Sunday."
Laughing softly, Anthony caught her hand and pulled her around. "I wasn't finished. Tomorrow, after Billy sees his mermaid, you and I will go to the courthouse in Tavernier. We apply for the marriage license, you go on to Miami, and I return here. But we'll have to hurry. You need to be on the road by noon."
"The marriage license." She couldn't hold back a smile. "You still want to do it."
"Yes, bonboncita." His hands slid down her back, pressing her close. "Did you think you could escape?"
"I thought you were trying to."
"Never. When you called Karen today from the marina, did you tell her about it?" When Gail replied with a grimace, he shook his head. "¡Qué cobarde!"
"A big fat coward," Gail agreed. "I'll talk to her this weekend."
"Is that a promise?"
"I swear." She put an X over her heart.
He kissed her. "Let's go take a shower."
"Soon as the movie is over. Come on, watch the ending with me."
They turned off the lights and propped pillows against the headboard as Katerina told Charles to meet her in her chambers at midnight. She would be his for eternity. But Nosferatu waits in the shadows. Charles guessed this in advance, clever man, and he carries an altar cloth sewn with garlic and wolfsbane. He throws the cloth over the vampire and weights it with crosses to keep him from escaping. The vampire thrashes and howls.
Katerina's eyes gleam with desire. Her breasts strain at the low neck of her nightgown. She moistens her lips, exposes her teeth. Charles is tempted but in a surge of manly fortitude he pulls the cork from a bottle of holy wa
ter and douses her with it. Katerina screams and writhes on the floor. Charles leaps on her and in a single thrust throbbing with metaphorical significance, plunges a sharpened stick into her heart. For a brief moment her face softens. Her eyes fix on him. "Charles." Her eyelids drop.
"Ay, Dios mío." Anthony laughed.
Charles running with the body of his beloved in his arms, grabbing a torch, setting fire to the curtains on his way out. They burst into flames, no doubt soaked in gasoline by the special effects crew. Closeup on Nosferatu trying to claw out from under the altar cloth, flames engulfing him.
Anthony pointed. "No, that's wrong. You can't kill a vampire that way."
"He can come back in a sequel," Gail said.
A graveyard near a church. Overcast sky, bare trees, a small group of mourners. Charles kisses the portrait of himself and Katerina. He tosses it into the grave. The gravedigger steps forward with his shovel. Closeup on the coffin, the photograph of the lovers gradually being covered with dirt.
Credits roll.
"Well." Anthony stared at the screen as if waiting for something more. "Did you find out why Sandra McCoy wanted to show this movie to Doug Lindeman?"
"I have no earthly idea," Gail said.
"Maybe she learned a new way of sucking blood." Anthony turned on the lamp on his nightstand and began to unbutton his shirt.
Gail got up and went over to press the rewind button. "Joan was good, though, wasn't she? Completely overqualified for this film." On the video box Joan Sinclair's sin-black eyes stared back at her. The points of her teeth made indentations in the red pillow of her lower lip. "You have a secret that you're not telling. Don't you?"
"Señora, are you coming with me or not?" Anthony tossed his pants over the back of a chair.
"What? Oh, yes." Gail set the video box upright. "I meant to ask you. Did Tom and Joan ever show up?"
"No, they didn't. Martin found the cart parked under the portico, where it always is, and Tom's boat wasn't at the dock. He must have gone home."
"But it's odd, don't you think, that he didn't tell anyone?"
Suspicion of Madness Page 24
