Suspicion of Madness

by Barbara Parker

  "Me either," said Arnel.

  It had become a custom between Gail and her daughter that whenever one of them went on a trip, the other could expect a small gift to appear from the suitcase when the traveler returned home. The gift wouldn't be expensive; humor was valued more highly than cost. At Island Treasures, suffering from low-grade guilt, Gail found two items for Karen. The silly gift was a green plastic change purse shaped like a sea turtle; the other, a piece of polished coral set in a spiral of silver wire that Karen could wear as a pendant on a chain.

  The clerk was still attending to another customer, so Gail set the gifts on the counter and wandered into an alcove featuring tropical clothing for ladies. On the half-price rack she noticed a white linen dress with starfish and shells embroidered around the low neckline. Original price, $195, on sale for $100. She found a mirror and held the dress under her chin. It was beautiful, flaring from a slim waist to mid-calf with panels that would lift if caught by a breeze.

  "That dress would look very nice on you." The young woman had apparently finished with her customer, a fact that was confirmed when the front door opened and shut. "I sold one to a lady who was going to get married. We have a lot of brides come in here. You can't wear a traditional bride's dress in the Keys. Well, you can, but who wants to sweat in all that satin?"

  "It goes so well with my sneakers, don't you think?"

  "Why don't you try it on?"

  "I'm afraid I might end up buying it. Are you Penny Lobianco?"

  "And you're Gail Connor. Emma said you'd be coming in." Penny was in her early twenties, thin as a stick with short blond hair like the fuzz on a poodle.

  "Thank you for talking to me," Gail said.

  "Emma threatened to slash my tires if I didn't. Just kidding."

  "Billy didn't kill Sandra McCoy."

  "I wasn't there, and you weren't either, so who knows?"

  "You don't like Billy."

  "He's a smart-mouthed geek, a spoiled little rich boy. But hey. Why be different?"

  "Was Sandra sleeping with Doug Lindeman?"

  "Do you think he killed her?"

  "I think he might have, yes."

  "Why?" Penny snorted. "They weren't in love." Her tone put quotation marks around the word. "I mean, it's not like if she looked at some other guy Doug would get all pissy-faced about it."

  "They were just having a good time?"

  "You could say that."

  "Did you tell the police about their affair?"

  "They didn't ask." Penny smiled. "Anyway, he didn't do it."

  "Do you have any theories as to who did?"

  "Besides Billy Fadden, you mean? Because he flipped out when she broke up with him? And he hit her and said she was a slut whore who should drop dead?"

  "Yes, who besides Billy?"

  Penny sighed. "Some whacked-out freak. A sexual sadist. A jerkoff who just happened to see her in the parking lot. It happens. You do something as simple as leave your house to rent a video, and you wind up with your throat cut. I'm from Miami. I left there because I got mugged four times, but it's getting crazy here too. We have murders in the Keys. People are killed for no reason except it seems like a fun thing to do. I keep my doors locked, and I always look behind me at night. It could happen to anybody, especially girls with long hair, like Sandra. The psycho serial killers go for girls with long hair, it's a proven fact. That's one reason I cut mine off."

  For a few moments Gail could think of no reply that would not contain the word paranoid. She asked, "Did Sandra ever talk to you about Joan Sinclair?"

  "Jeez-o-Pete, there's a weirdo for you. The way she lives, shit all over the place, talking to herself, freaking out if Sandra wanted to come in."

  "But Sandra did come in. In fact, Doug Lindeman paid her a thousand dollars to look around Joan's house. Did you know about that?"

  "No, I didn't. No way I'd go in there. She said that woman used to be a vampire in the movies."

  Gail asked Penny Lobianco if she knew about the apartment on South Beach. Penny said she did. Gail asked, "Do you know how she intended to pay for it?"

  "She said her aunt died and left her some money in her will. That was probably bullshit, but I don't blame her for wanting out of here."

  "Why do you live in the Keys if you don't like it?"

  "Because everywhere else is totally horrible. We've still got a few good days, mostly when the tourists aren't littering the beaches and running people off the road, you know what I mean?"

  "Did Sandra ever talk about Joan Sinclair being rich? Maybe she had something of value in the house? Jewelry, gold, cash..."

  Penny Lobianco laughed. "Are you serious? The way Sandra talked, if that lady didn't have a house, she'd be on the street with a shopping cart."

  This picture was so at odds with the one that Gail had been developing in her mind that she rephrased the question. "Did Sandra specifically tell you that Joan Sinclair had no money? That she was broke?"

  Penny crossed her thin arms and jacked a hipbone out to one side. "I don't remember what she said, okay? But that's what she meant. Maybe she was wrong. You know, a lot of those old women get taken away by social services, and you find about fifty flea-bitten cats and a big pile of cash in their houses."

  "When was the last time you talked to Sandra?"

  "When? That same night your client, William the Wonderful, slapped her across the face."

  Two days before Sandra McCoy had been murdered. On her last day alive, Sandra may have seen something in Joan Sinclair's bedroom that she didn't get a chance to tell her friend Penny about.

  "Is there anything else you want to know?"

  Gail smiled at her. "No, I guess that's it."

  They walked to the cash register. Penny keyed in Karen's change purse and coral pendant. Subtotal $45.00. She looked up. "Where's the dress?"

  "I don't really need it."

  "Who ever needs a dress? It would look good on you. Plus it's marked down. Last chance."

  "All right, why not?"

  "One thing, though," said Penny. "You gotta lose the sneakers."

  22

  In the false twilight of heavy overcast, Martin Greenwald's boat proceeded slowly into a channel that Anthony barely recognized. He pointed out what he believed to be the correct turn, and Billy swung the long prow of the boat to the left. The houses along the narrow inlet were quiet; no one appeared in the yards; closed hurricane shutters indicated that many owners had not yet returned for the season. The rain came down in a slow, steady drizzle. Wind catchers hung limply from the trees, and a line of seagulls perched miserably on the railing of an upper deck. Standing between the front seats, Anthony told Billy that the house they were looking for would be just beyond the big sportfisherman parked at the next dock.

  Slowly the mermaid lamp came into view. She stood as before on her concrete pedestal of waves, blond hair flowing over her shoulders, one hand demurely at her breast, the other holding a white glass globe. If the light was on, it was too weak to be seen in daylight.

  The boat nudged up against the bumpers. Billy cut the engines, pushed himself out of the captain's seat, and stepped onto the dock. Anthony scanned the house. There were no lights, no movement at the windows.

  "Throw me the lines," Billy said. Martin went around to the bow, and Anthony picked up the line at the stern and handed it to Billy, who knelt awkwardly to turn it around a cleat, protecting his neck from sharp movements.

  When the boat was secured Billy rotated toward the lamp at the far end of the dock and stood there staring at it. Only his fingertips were visible at the cuffs of his shiny green jacket, and his legs seemed too thin for his body. Rain dripped off the curled fins of the mermaid's tail. Salt corrosion had eaten into the light fixture, and rust stained her outstretched hand. Patches of paint flaked from her naked torso. Her smile was a curve of pink, and her faded blue eyes gazed vacantly down the canal.

  Billy abruptly turned toward the house. The oversized jacket and the stick l
egs moved up the slope, then toward a chain-link fence at the edge of the property, then across to the fence on the other side. He made a circle around two of the pilings supporting the house. His sneakers crunched on gravel. He came back, zig-zagging toward the canal. His hood was tilted toward the ground as though to blot out the sight of his lawyer and stepfather watching him. Billy stepped off the seawall onto the dock and stopped with his toes at the edge.

  During this series of erratic movements his companions had come closer. They stood on either side of him. Martin asked if he wanted to leave now, but there was no reply. "Billy?"

  He staggered away from the edge and sat down on the wall. Anthony bent to see inside the hood. Billy's brown eyes were unfocused and his skin was pale. He was taking shallow breaths.

  Anthony asked him if he had heard the dogs.

  He swallowed and nodded.

  Martin put a hand on his back. "Lean over. Get some blood in your head."

  Billy shrugged away from Martin's hand. "This is where Jeremy died. It was here. The dogs were here. They were in the yard barking. Three of them. Three rottweilers. I remember. Barking and barking."

  Crouching beside him Anthony said, "Billy, your brother died behind your parents' house. You were eight years old."

  "No, it was here. I'm sure it was here."

  The rain was coming harder, splashing on the dock, running down Billy's jacket. Anthony looked at Martin. "Let's take him home."

  "Wait. Billy, why do you think Jeremy died here?"

  "I remember the mermaid. The light was shining in the water. I could see Jeremy. I could see him. The light— I saw him because of the light."

  "He fell off this dock?"

  "Yes!" Billy sucked in a long, wheezing gasp of air.

  "Take it easy." Martin touched his shoulder.

  Anthony said, "If Jeremy was here, where were you? Where was your father?"

  "You think I'm crazy. Don't you?"

  "Come on, son, let's go." Water coursed off Martin's fishing hat when he bent to help him up. Billy knocked his arm away.

  "Stop calling me your son! You want to get rid of me. You want to put me back in the hospital. You've been planning it with Lois, haven't you?"

  "No, Billy."

  "My father is taking me with him on his boat. I'm going to crew it for him and you won't have me around anymore. Won't that be a great day?"

  "Billy, for the love of God, I'm not trying to get rid of you. I don't want you to leave. Stay here and let Dr. Vogelhut help you. Don't run away. If you won't do it for yourself, then for Teri. She loves you more than anything in the world."

  "I'm gone. You make me sick. You're an old man, and you think your money can get you anything you want. I won't go in a hospital again!"

  "Nobody wants you to!"

  "You broke up my parents. Yeah, I know about that. They got a divorce because of you."

  Martin stared at him. "Is that what Kyle told you?"

  "It's the truth. You and her cheated on him. Didn't you?"

  "Good God. All right, Billy. Your mother wants to protect you but you need to know what happened. It wasn't me. Your father was abusive to you and your brother—"

  "That was in the past. He apologized—"

  "Be quiet. He was abusive to your mother as well, even worse than he was to you, so thoroughly that she lost the will to fight him."

  "That's a lie!"

  "She had you to think about. She believed she had no alternative but to stay. She came to work for me, and yes, we fell in love. I loved her the first moment I saw her. I said that if she left him, I would take care of you."

  Billy shoved Martin in the chest. "You're a goddamn bastard, and she's a whore!"

  Martin's face darkened with anger. "What did you call her? Teri is my wife. What did you say?"

  "I hate your fucking guts." Billy turned and ran up the slope.

  Anthony shouted, "Billy, stop!"

  "Go to hell!"

  Anthony went after him and got hold of the back of his rain jacket and slung him to the grass. "Get in the boat or I will put you in it."

  "Let me up. Get off, you spic asshole bastard. My neck! Jesus Christ, you're hurting my neck!" He erupted into more curses until Anthony took a fistful of his hair and shook him.

  Billy screamed.

  Anthony came down close to his ear. "I give you two seconds to shut up, or I will call the paramedics and have you shot full of tranquilizers." He tightened his fist. "You will go straight to a mental ward. Do you understand me, Billy? Do you?"

  Billy wept and laughed at the same time. "Ask me about the house. Ask me if I burned it. You never had the guts to ask me straight out if I burned it on purpose."

  "Did you?"

  "Yes! I poured gasoline on the lawn mower and on the workbench and on the clothes in the hamper, and I lit a match. You believed it was an accident, didn't you? You went for it."

  "Why did you do it?"

  "Fuck you."

  "Why did you do it, Billy? You didn't know the Morgans." Anthony shook him again. "Why?"

  "I hated them. I hate all of you! I wish the gun had bullets in it. I should've blown my brains out. I should be dead." His words dissolved into great, hacking sobs. He pressed his face to the ground, and his shoulders shook. "Oh, God, I didn't mean to. I didn't. I don't know... what to do. I don't—"

  Anthony looked back toward the dock. Martin was waiting. He lifted his hands helplessly, a gesture asking what now?

  "Billy, you're going to get up and come with us. Nothing is going to happen to you. You go to your room, you take your pills, and you go to sleep for a little while. Can you do that?"

  He buried his face in the crook of his elbow. "Don't tell my mother what I said. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

  "You should apologize to Martin, not to me. Get up." Anthony gently helped him to stand. His eyes were puffy slits, and his nose was running. Bits of wet grass stuck to his cheeks. He leaned on Anthony as they walked across the grass. He felt fragile and small. Martin pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and gave it to Anthony, who handed it to Billy. "Here. Wipe your face."

  Martin boarded the boat and started the engines. "Anthony, get the lines."

  "I'll do it," Billy said.

  He was away before Anthony could grab him. He went to the cleats and fumbled to free the ropes, tossing them onto the deck. His movements made it obvious that he was in pain. He gave the boat a shove, got back aboard, and sat in the seat directly behind Martin with his head bowed and his hands pressed between his knees. Anthony supposed this was his form of an apology.

  In the narrow canal Martin maneuvered the boat around to go back the way they had come. From the first-mate's seat Anthony kept his eyes on Billy, unable to decide if he wanted to put his arm across his shoulders in sympathy or to backhand him. As soon as they returned to the hotel he would call Sharon Vogelhut. He knew what she would say: that they begin the commitment process immediately.

  Billy had deliberately burned down the Morgans' house. He had known what he was doing. He had gleefully lied; he had joyously put one over on everyone, even his lawyer. Anthony's state of mind wavered between anger and shame. He had been wrong. Four years ago he should have taken the prosecutor's offer: Send the defendant to a state hospital. But Anthony had wanted to win the case. He had allowed himself to believe, as Teri did, that Billy would be fine, that his therapist could fix him, that $200,000 to the Morgans would make the problem disappear.

  Anthony thought of Sandra McCoy lying at the edge of the rock pit, her throat slashed, blood pouring out. A crime that Billy had confessed to. Perhaps for once he had told the truth, and the possibility made Anthony feel sick.

  He looked off the stern. The mermaid stared back at him with her empty eyes and cryptic smile as the rain came steadily down.

  23

  Kyle Fadden tossed the plastic tarpaulins onto Joan Sinclair's dock. He steadied himself against the up-and-down movement of the water and lifted his toolbox. It
was like standing on the back of a horse. The boat shifted. Fadden fell on his backside against the bait well, and his toolbox crashed to the deck.

  He let out a long curse, stopping abruptly when he heard the deep roar of engines.

  There was a boat about a quarter mile out, coming from the direction of the Whale Harbor Channel. It was bouncing over the chop and kicking up spray, aiming straight at the island. They weren't likely to see him with the dock in the way. Fadden watched as the boat closed the distance. Its trajectory sent it past him toward the Buttonwood harbor. Not a small boat, maybe a thirty-footer, taking the seas fairly well. Before it disappeared behind the trees, Fadden had decided whose it was: Martin Greenwald's. He wondered if Martin Greenwald was out for a pleasure cruise.

  Rain dripped off the brim of Fadden's hat. He got a grip on the toolbox and, between lurches of his boat, heaved it onto the dock. He followed that with the canvas bag, which landed with a clanking thud. Breathing hard, Fadden climbed up the ladder to the dock.

  A few minutes later everything was on shore, wrapped inside one of the tarps and shoved under some bushes. Fadden got back into his skiff, cranked the engine, and nosed along the mangroves until he found a little cove. He stepped ashore and dragged the boat out of sight. The propeller scraped on sand and turtle grass.

  It would be a bitch getting across the water again, running a flats boat on eight-foot seas. Fadden thought he could do it. He felt lucky. He would be long gone before the storm hit.

  Gail was able to catch a ride back to Lindeman Key in Martin's boat, as she had hoped to do. Whatever happened when Billy came face-to-face with his mermaid, no one talked about it. Wanting to avoid the salt spray, Gail had joined Billy in the cabin. White-faced and silent, he sat on the forward bunk with his arms wrapped around his knees.

  Once back in the cottage, Anthony flung his damp clothes into the bathtub and took a fast shower while Gail poured them both a brandy. She took the glasses into the bedroom. Anthony was getting dressed.

  "Are you going to tell me what happened or not?"