The restaurant kitchen was so quiet. The hum of refrigerators. The clock ticking on the wall over the dish racks. From outside came the steady whisper of rain. Such fickle, deceitful weather. It would let go in screams of wind and thunder, then turn its back and withdraw into polite murmurings.
Lois placed the items she needed on the long wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. Bread. Smoked ham. Swiss cheese. Brown mustard. Whipped butter. A ripe tomato. Two crisp leaves of romaine. She had not eaten breakfast. Martin wouldn't begrudge her a simple sandwich. And she wouldn't leave a crumb. She was not like Teri. This morning at seven o'clock Lois had found dirty dishes all over the place. It had taken over an hour to scrub the kitchen and clean the dining room. Teri had dragged herself downstairs for coffee and had the nerve to say, Lois, I would have done it. Martin had no idea what a lazy, selfish little bitch he had married.
"He wouldn't listen to me, would he? Men are either blind, or they are liars." Lois lined up the ingredients along one of the lengths of wood in the table. Bread, ham, cheese, mustard, butter... She reversed the butter and mustard.
A sob burst from her throat, and the kitchen was blurred by her tears. She wiped them away with a dish towel and picked up the spreading knife. Mustard on the bread. Ham on one of the pieces, cheese on the other.
"I might as well be dead. I should be dead." She who had been betrayed by her lover, ruined by the treachery of her brother's wife, then cast out by her brother, to whom she had selflessly given the last fifteen years of her life. Forty-three years old and not a roof, a job, a family, not even a savings account. Lois had never taken a penny for herself. Everything, everything had been for Martin and The Buttonwood Inn.
She took a long serrated knife from the knife block to slice the tomato. What if she lay down in a warm bathtub and used this knife to cut her wrists? She would leave a note for Martin. Don't grieve for me, my dearest brother. It is you who have been deceived—
The knife blade gleamed through the red flesh of the tomato as paper-thin slices fell onto the table. Lois decided she could not cut her wrists. Hanging would be less bloody. But it would be long and painful. Drowning at sea would not be painful, but it would be terrible all the same. Dear Martin. I forgive you.
She thought of the gun in her desk drawer, and then remembered what had become of it. Billy had taken it to his room to shoot himself. One bullet. Lois didn't think she could open his door, take the gun from his dead hand, and use a second one for herself.
Why? Because it was so useless. Her death would be meaningless. It would be better to kill Douglas Lindeman. Or Teresa Flores. "No, it should be Douglas," she decided. "Billy will be dead soon, and Teri will suffer. If I kill her, Martin would suffer."
Tomato slices on the ham. Then the romaine. Lois realized that she had forgotten to butter the bread. She crossed her arms over her face and wept. What use would it be to kill Douglas Lindeman? He deserved it, and she had no fear of killing him, but she would go to jail and then what? It would be useless. Useless.
Her arms slowly dropped away. She had thought of someone else. Joan Sinclair. If Joan died, Martin would finally have Lindeman Key, all of it. At last he could make a garden for his palm trees, a paradise, as they'd always wanted. He would have the dock, and the boats would come. Douglas would never live in the Lindeman house. Martin, if you ever loved me, tear down that house—
Lois hurriedly threw away the sandwich, cleared off the table, and folded the towel. The ten-inch carving knife slid out of the knife block and made a slight ringing noise as it touched the handle of the cleaver.
Aware of being on the periphery of this crisis, Gail stood and watched as Anthony explained to Teri Greenwald what would happen when the police arrived. Everyone would have to stay out of the way while they searched whatever areas the warrant allowed.
"Billy's apartment, of course, and the grounds of the resort, but not here, and not the office, or any of the areas that Billy doesn't have control over. They will ask for keys to all the vehicles that Billy has access to." Anthony took Teri's hand. "I said to expect this, remember? I am only surprised that Tom Holtz hasn't called them. Maybe it's the storm that's making him put it off, but he will tell them what he knows. I'll make sure of that. You mustn't worry."
Teri took a deep breath. "No, no, I'm not worried."
Martin said, "They're insane to come in this weather."
With a slight shrug Anthony replied, "Baylor is frustrated. With a confession, most cases would be tied up in a pretty little package by now. He said they would be here soon. That could mean in one hour or two or six." Anthony checked his watch. "It's eleven-thirty. Billy should get some rest, but I do need to talk to him. Teri, would you call him for me?"
Recovered from her fright, Teri got up and went to the phone.
Martin brought his hands down on his knees. "Well. I propose that we continue with our day as planned."
Teri turned around and smiled at him. "Would you like strawberries with the champagne?"
"Yummy," said Martin. "She puts strawberries in my glass to reduce the amount of alcohol. She's so clever. Gail? If you're ready, we should go."
"I think I'll stay." Gail came to sit beside Anthony. "Someone needs to pick up Joan Sinclair. You can't let her walk." The men looked at each other. "Lois is on her way to Islamorada, and you and Teri have Billy to look after and the police to entertain. And besides, I want to be here for the party."
Anthony stood up. "Let's go get your suitcase."
"I'm not leaving."
"Yes, you are."
"I am not."
"Didn't we agree you'd go back?"
"But it's going to be such fun, all the champagne and the fireworks. Excuse us a minute, Martin." She walked Anthony over to the open door that led to a study furnished in leather and oriental carpets. "Forget what we agreed to. I'm staying here."
"For the party?"
"No, idiot, because I have to get Joan, and... and because I can't stand being without you."
Anthony was pleased by this, she could tell, but he maintained his stern expression. "And what are you going to say to your daughter?"
Gail draw a line down his chest with one finger. "I'll tell her the truth. That I love you and you need me here. I hope you do."
"Siempre." He put his lips to her temple, and she could feel his warm breath in her hair. "All right. We'll go back tomorrow."
Teri had hung up the phone, and she was waiting to speak to Anthony. Her lovely brows were drawn down with worry, and she was sliding her locket back and forth on its gold chain. "Billy isn't answering. He's such a sound sleeper. Do you want me to get him up?"
"Yes, do that. Gail is staying after all," Anthony announced. "She's going to borrow a cart from you and bring Joan Sinclair to the party."
26
Boug Lindeman slipped getting out of his boat and had just grabbed hold of the ladder on the dock when the damned water dropped the boat out from under him. It came up again and thudded into the piling, scraping across the barnacles, which took a piece out of the fiberglass. He'd barely had time to pull his foot out of the way.
"Jesus H. Christ." Holding the lines in his teeth, he went the rest of the way up the ladder. The wood was soft and slimy with algae. The wind seemed to come from two directions at once, whipping the rain against his waterproof jacket. A few turns of the ropes around the pilings, and the boat was secure. It would get beat to hell on the dock, but it would be there when he got back.
Doug had heard nothing from Lois. Not a damned thing. She wasn't answering her phone. He suspected that she was still testing him, letting him stew. Or it could mean that Joan hadn't left the house yet. Doug had decided it didn't matter if Joan was at home or not. He meant to get in, and if she wouldn't open the door, he'd put a foot through it. If she ran her mouth, throw her in a chair and tell her to shut up. He was sick of waiting, and with Lois Greenwald turning obsessive, he had no choice. He had to get the money now. If he didn't, Kyle Fadden co
uld get to it first and then swear the box was empty, or that Teddy had left only a quarter mil, and here's your share, old buddy. Fadden was not a man you could challenge face-to-face.
With a little jump to relieve the weight, Doug adjusted the shoulder straps of his backpack. He'd brought a steel mallet and a chisel big enough to break an anchor chain, along with a serious hacksaw that would do the job more neatly. He wasn't after neat, he wanted fast. Detach the fucking safe from the chain and drag it out, if he had to.
Head down against the drizzle, he churned up the rocky, weed-tangled slope toward the house. A narrow, sand-packed road led through the heavy undergrowth, and he followed it for another fifty yards or so. He hadn't come this way in years.
"Stop!"
He stopped.
Arnel Goode had come out from behind the old storehouse in Aunt Joan's backyard. A soggy hat drooped over his face, and his gray plastic raincoat hung to the tops of his work boots. "Y-y- you... you're t-t-trespassing. Get out. This isn't your p-property."
Shit.
"Hey, Arnel. I'm Doug Lindeman. Joan's nephew, remember me? Lois Greenwald said you had to run a real important errand, so I said, 'Wow, who's going to keep Aunt Joan company in the storm?' I called her, and she said to come over." Doug would have to tie the little retard up in the storehouse. There would be a rope and something to cram in his mouth to keep him quiet.
With a little nod of comprehension, Arnel said, "You and Lois. She sent me to Key West. You better get out of here."
"Aunt Joan called me, Arnel. She's expecting me."
"You leave. Now."
"I brought her some lunch." Doug swung the backpack off his shoulders. "You can give it to her. Catch." As the bag swung forward Doug gave it an extra push and let go. It hit Arnel in the chest and sent him stumbling backward, colliding with the low wall of a compost pile. He landed in the dead leaves and rotting wood chips. His hat flew off, and thin blond hair fell into his eyes.
Doug sprinted forward to pin him, to flip him over and twist his arm up in its socket, and force him to walk. But in the short interval of time it took for Doug Lindeman to think of this, Arnel had sat up and reached for the pitchfork he had left in the mulch pile.
The knowledge of what was about to happen registered in Doug Lindeman's astonished blue eyes a fraction of a second before he reached the tines of the pitchfork. His weight and his speed were too much. He couldn't turn fast enough. The handle jammed into the mulch, and Doug Lindeman slid forward along the tines, which Arnel Goode had recently sharpened by hand on a whetstone.
The points went through and lifted the back of Lindeman's rain jacket. The handle of the pitchfork remained in place, and Lindeman balanced, then swung sideways and dropped heavily onto the ground.
A whuffing noise came out of his mouth, then blood and a long gurgling moan. He scratched at the tines. Arnel put a foot on his chest and wrenched the pitchfork free as Lindeman's eyes tried to focus.
"I-I told you to leave!" He raised the pitchfork and brought it down again and again until Lindeman was quiet. Arnel let the pitchfork drop and grabbed one of Doug Lindeman's arms.
A little while ago he had heard the boat coming, and he had watched Lindeman get out of it. He wanted to put him back in the boat and push it out, and let the sea take him, but the man was too heavy, and Arnel could only get him about ten yards before he sank to his knees, breathing hard. He thought of the wheelbarrow in the shed.
Arnel walked over to the mulch pile and picked up his hat. He shook the leaves and dirt off and swung it onto his head.
Then he heard another noise, a rattling sound and a hum. A golf cart appeared on the path from the resort. He stood watching as it came closer, crossed the yard, and stopped in front of the house.
Lois Greenwald got out, but she had her back to him, and she didn't notice him standing there in the trees.
She was carrying something close to her body. When she put it behind her back, Arnel could see what it was. A knife.
He picked up the pitchfork.
Martin Greenwald sat in his chair, morosely silent, palm supporting his chin, while Anthony folded his cell phone and put it back into his pocket. The tinted windows turned the approaching clouds into a solid mass of grayish-purple granite. A tongue of blue fire lapped at the equally dark ocean. The half-inch thickness of the glass reduced the thrashing of palm fronds to a muted rustle. Anthony looked at his watch.
"She'll be back soon," Martin said, turning on a lamp. "Twenty minutes at most, I should think. I've sat up here watching storms often enough to make a pretty close estimate of when this one will knock on our door. I give it an hour and seven minutes."
Anthony smiled and came away from the window. "So you confessed to Teri about your heart operation."
"It was a mistake. I should have told her after the storm so I could drink. You wouldn't have a cigar on you, would you? God, I'm dying for a cigar. Teri wouldn't have to know."
"I didn't bring any with me," Anthony said.
"What kind of Cuban are you?" Martin slouched further into his chair. "While Teri is gone I want to tell you something about Kyle Fadden. Whatever his faults, he's a damned good fisherman. I know because there isn't a weekend in the Keys without a tournament. Guess who uses Kyle Fadden as a fishing guide."
"I already know the answer. Doug Lindeman."
"You lawyers know everything. All right, try this. You will recall what I told you about Joan's life estate. I bought this island from her brother, Harry Lindeman, but it was Teddy who suggested that she remain in the house."
"I remember." Anthony thought of the $100,000 that Teddy Lindeman had given to Tom Holtz, along with instructions to dole it out to his aunt. "Teddy wanted to be sure that Joan would be here when he got out of prison."
"Teddy was a frequent visitor. I'd see his boat coming and going." Martin's heavy brows rose. "I wonder why. The man wasn't a cinema buff."
"You think he was using the island for his business."
His shoulders duplicated the lift of his brows. Martin said, "After Teddy was arrested, a bunch of DEA agents came around. They wanted to know if I'd given Teddy access to any of my buildings. I said no. They went over to ask Joan the same questions. She told me about it later. I'm not the criminal lawyer here. What were they looking for? Drugs?"
"Either drugs or cash. Anything they could seize, as long as they could tie it to Teddy Lindeman."
"There was some talk around town that the government never could find as much as they thought Teddy had. He lived rather conservatively for a man of his calling. He drove an old Chevy pickup truck. A very low-key fellow." Martin put his chin back in his palm. The gray light through the windows reflected in his glasses. "What does a man like that do with his cash?"
"He might keep it in an offshore account," Anthony said. "About two miles offshore."
"That would explain a great deal," Martin said.
"Martin, you deserve a trophy."
"All speculation," he demurred. "I would prefer a cigar, but you say you don't have any."
"I lied. You can stand downwind."
"You're as bad as my wife."
"You think Teddy told Doug about the money?"
"Probably not. They couldn't stand each other."
"What about Lois? Could Doug have learned about it from her?"
"Not likely. Her relationship with Teddy ended twenty years ago. Lois was into the business in a very minor way. People down here almost considered bringing in bales of pot a local sport, but when cocaine started coming through, Lois got out and cut all ties with Teddy. No, Doug didn't get his information from her."
"Or from Joan either—assuming she knows anything." Anthony got up to look through the window again. "And assuming that what we're talking about even exists." The clouds had spread to cover more of the horizon. He turned his wrist to see his watch.
Gail Connor came out of a tangle of white mangrove and strangler fig to find herself on the south side of the island, looking a
t the wall of clouds and rain. The inside of one cloud lit up, and Gail counted off seconds. She got to eleven before she heard the thunder. The storm front was about two miles off. She already had her cell phone out, dialing Anthony's number. The battery indicator was blinking: LOW POWER.
He answered a split-second after the first ring and asked where the hell she was.
"I'm on my way, calm down…. I said I'm on my way…. I took a wrong turn somewhere, and I have to get back on the path…. Ask Teri to call Joan and tell her I'm coming. I'll call you when I get there…. I'll call you."
The static erased most of his reply, but she gathered that he would come for her if she wasn't back in ten minutes.
"Fat chance of that," she said, putting her phone away. Gail looked once more at the sky. The clouds were swelling, growing, becoming blacker by the moment. A veil of rain softened the edges. There was another silent flash of lightning.
How could Anthony come for her if she herself didn't know where she was?
The thunder came, a long rumble that gradually faded.
Gail soon found herself on a wider road. She was encouraged. It had to lead somewhere. She decided that if Joan Sinclair's house didn't come into sight within sixty seconds, she would turn around and go back.
Anthony closed his cell phone and walked to the windows. Lightning went off in a chain, one pulse after another. The palm trees along the seawall were strangely still, but waves exploded into white froth. Anthony felt the thunder more than heard it, a pitch so low it vibrated the heavy glass. "I shouldn't have let her go."
"Don't worry," Martin said. "We'll take a cart and find her if she isn't here soon, but my guess is, Gail and Joan will walk through that door in fifteen minutes. Come here. I want to tell you something else."
Anthony sat on the arm of the sofa nearest Martin's chair with his feet flat on the floor, unable to relax.
Martin said, "When Teri came to work for me, I took one look and that was it. Within days I was thinking of how to have her, knowing damned well she was married, and she wouldn't be interested in an old man like me, but what do you know? Anyway, my sister, God love her, hired a private investigator without telling me. The fellow dug up an arrest for shoplifting in Key West, for which Teri got ten days, suspended sentence. She was a kid, twenty years old. Big deal. I was also given information about Mr. Fadden. DUIs, resisting arrest, drunk-and-disorderly, spouse abuse—I couldn't have turned back after learning he'd beat her up, could I? There was also a bust at Fantasy Fest in 1991 for possession of cocaine, less than five grams. The codefendant was Teddy Lindeman. I see your ears pricking up."
Suspicion of Madness Page 29
