Suspicion of Madness (11 page)

"I know. That's all right." The woman stood there with the coffee pot. She hesitated, then said, "I heard they're bringing Billy back this morning. They say he'll be all right."

Gail didn't feel she could elaborate. "Yes, that's what I heard too." She smiled at her. "What is your name?"

"Emma." Her short, straight hair was parted neatly on one side, and little gold earrings adorned her ears. "I'm the only one in the kitchen, except for the housekeeper. It's a good thing she cooks, because I don't. The chef will be here Saturday, and all the wait staff Sunday morning. Would you care for anything else?" Gail said no, thank you, but Emma lingered. "You're here for Billy, aren't you?"

"Yes. Well, Anthony Quintana is Billy's attorney. I'm... helping out." Gail could not bring herself to say,
I have nothing to do with Billy, I came along to sleep with his lawyer.

Emma said, "My husband's sister is a deputy sheriff. She told me about Billy calling them yesterday. And what he said? It's not true. It can't be. I don't know why he said that. Maybe he was drinking. He does drink some." Emma shook her head. "But he's such a good person. Miss Greenwald has this rule, we're not supposed to fraternize with the guests or the owners. Billy doesn't care. He's like, 'Hi, how're you doing?' Sometimes he helps out, if we're super busy. He wouldn't hurt anybody, I know he wouldn't. He and Sandra were always joking around. Well. That's all I wanted to say. I hope you can straighten this out."

"Wait. Emma, may I ask you something? Did you know Sandra McCoy?"

"Not well, but yes, I did. She came here about a year ago, and she worked in the office for Miss Greenwald, taking reservations off the computer, answering phones, filing, stuff like that."

"Which Ms. Greenwald? Lois or Teri?"

"Lois. Teri is Missus Greenwald, and Martin is Mister." She laughed. "We just call them by their first names, except in front of Lois or with guests, and you aren't a guest."

"How did Sandra get along with everyone here?"

"All right. Nobody had any reason to kill her, if that's what you mean. I heard she was going to quit because Lois was mad at her." Emma quickly added, "But Lois drives everybody hard."

Sensing there was more to this, Gail said, "Yes, I've met Lois. Why was she mad at Sandra?"

"Because Sandra wouldn't kiss her butt. Lois doesn't own the resort, but she acts like it. Everything has to be perfect. She'll take money out of your pay if a guest complains about service. She wanted us to wear white gloves at dinner, but Teri said no. They argue a lot behind Martin's back. Teri's real sweet. Martin stays out of the business for the most part. He just plays with the new water system and works on his orchids and palm trees. You didn't hear me say that."

"What about Sandra's life off the island? Did you know any of her friends?"

"Actually, we didn't have that much contact." Emma shook her head. "Sandra was in the office, and Lois doesn't like her staff associating with the kitchen people, excuse me very much."

"I see. How can I meet Joan Sinclair? Is there some trick to it? She doesn't return phone calls."

"Sorry, I can't help you with that either. I only saw her one time when she came to dinner with a man she was dating, and that's been... ohhh, two years at least. I think they split up. She hasn't been back since then, as far as I know."

"What does she look like?"

Emma lifted her eyes in the direction of the ceiling fan, remembering. "About as tall as you, but sort of big on top. Brown eyes, gray hair—not
at all
like grandma-gray hair. You'd never guess her age. All those actresses get face-lifts. Billy let me borrow one of her movies to take home.
Bride of Nosferatu.
She still looks like that. Older, and lots of makeup, but you can tell it's her."

"How was the movie?"

A smile broke through. "Kind of lame."

"Do you ever hear people say she's mentally unstable?"

"No." Emma shrugged. "She's just this lady who likes to be by herself. The state the world is in, I don't blame her. A few times a week she orders dinner, and somebody takes it to her. Our chef is really good. Too bad you won't be here when he comes back. Sandra used to drop off Joan's food sometimes and run errands, like to the pharmacy or the grocery store."

"That was nice of her."

"Oh, she got paid for it."

"By Joan?"

"She got paid
twice.
Sandra was always looking out for herself. She wanted to save enough money so she could move to Miami Beach. She goes, 'I'm going to get me an apartment on the beach and go out to clubs every night of the week.' Dream on, I've been there, but Sandra had her mind made up, how great it would be. So she charged Joan, plus she got paid by Joan's nephew. He's a lawyer in Islamorada. He gave her a thousand dollars just to run errands, no lie. Sandra said they wouldn't find out because they didn't speak to each other."

"Who, Joan and her nephew?"

"Yes. His name is Doug Lindeman. She's a Lindeman too. She was born in the Keys, did you know that? She came back and moved into the old family home, and her nephew never did go over there, not till recently, so of course she's not all of a sudden going to welcome him with open arms. She wouldn't let him in. That's why he asked Sandra to keep an eye on her. That's what Sandra told me."

Emma glanced over her shoulder. "Well, I need to get back to work. We're starting lunch. Teri and Martin are bringing Billy home in a little while. And please, if there's anything I can do to help him, you just ask me."

Before leaving the cottage, Gail had glanced at a map of the resort. She knew from having studied Anthony's road map in the car yesterday that Lindeman Key was a slender finger of land about half a mile long. On the resort's map, only the western half appeared. The rest of the island vanished off the right side of the page, marked by the words
PRIVATE PROPERTY.

Gail put on her straw sun hat.

Instead of taking the direct route to the cottage by going back through the hotel, she went down the steps of the veranda. She planned to follow the path along the southern shore, which would take her, she thought, past the orchid house and koi pond, then to the opposite shore, which faced Islamorada. From there she could easily find her way to their cottage, the second to last in a meandering line of twelve.

Through the dense foliage came the faint
pop... pop... pop
of an air hammer, probably a carpenter attaching paneling or lattice. On her way to breakfast she had moved aside for a cart loaded with five-gallon paint cans, then another carrying rolls of carpet. All that activity was a hundred yards away. On this side of the island, she was alone.

She took off her sandals and walked to the water. Too shallow for waves, it lapped at her ankles, warm as a pond. She couldn't dig her toes in. The gritty white sand had worn thin in places, and the rock showed through. Beaches were not natural to the Keys. A pile of new sand had been dumped on the shore, probably from a barge, and workmen would have to spread it. Gail came back onto the grass, then to a path of carefully tended, hard-packed sand that took her past several empty cottages, all on stilts. The path curved out of sight of the water.

Small signs had been placed at the base of various trees and palms with their Latin and common names, but Gail didn't take the time to read them. She noticed the inconspicuous black plastic pipes and spray heads that would provide rain when it failed to fall naturally. There were landscaping lights along the path and electronic devices to trap mosquitos. She came to a painted arrow pointing to the orchid house, but continued straight to see where the path would end. It narrowed, and she ducked under some branches from a tree she had no hope of recognizing.

Left to itself, the island would revert to wilderness. Without fertilizer and water, the grass would burn off, and the fragile exotic species would wither, choked out by buttonwood, white mangrove, strangler fig, and poisonwood. A gruesome name. Gail wondered if any remained on the island, and if lizards and snakes were hiding in the underbrush. Hopping for balance, she dusted her feet and put her shoes back on. Soon the sandy path became rock, and the grass turned to sparse, springy clumps. The breeze dropped away, and sweat dampened her forehead and neck.

Unsure of her precise location, Gail had no fear of getting lost, as the island was small, and all routes circled back toward the hotel at the western end. The path seemed to turn more north, and presently joined with a wider path. Gail soon came to a chain-link fence so thick with vines that she couldn't see through it. From a gate hung a metal sign,
POSTED, NO TRESPASSING, PRIVATE PROPERTY. But the gate was open a foot or so, pushed inward toward the tangled woods beyond.

This was where the map had ended.
Terra incognita.
Joan Sinclair's domain.

A big padlock dangled open from the latch. Gail walked closer to the gate and looked through. The tracks vanished into the trees, which arched overhead in a dark tunnel of leaves, vines, and twisted branches.

Gail took out her cell phone and picked through the buttons until her next-to-last call showed on the screen. She hit
REDIAL. Waited. After the fourth ring she heard the alto drawl of a woman who couldn't be bothered.

"Hi. If you don't know who this is, you've got the wrong number. If you're selling something—"

"Oh, come
on."
Gail disconnected. Joan Sinclair had to be home. She was always at home. Maybe she kept her phones off. If that was the case, it could be days before she called back.

Gail took off her hat and went sideways through the gate.

The land on the other side seemed to rise slightly, then dip, and at that point the tracks diverged. One way left, the other up a gradual slope. Reasoning that a house would not be built on low ground, Gail continued straight. The thickets opened up to a sort of clearing. Even with the hat, she squinted in the merciless sunlight. A breeze came up, and the long grass bent and shivered. Gail spun around when a bird cawed behind her, then laughed at her own skittishness. She continued along the rocky trail, which presently split into three. Right, left. Straight. The land continued to rise.

She came to woods, but here the underbrush had been cleared, and the trees opened up on an area that had known the careful hand of a gardener. There were groupings of thatch palm and native mahogany, pink oleander and yellow lantana. The ground was soft with shredded mulch. She rounded a thick stand of traveler's palm and saw the house directly ahead. It seemed to rise up and up, two stories of dark clapboard resting on concrete pilings, with gabled windows in the roof.

Shade trees surrounded the house, their heavy limbs draped with air plants and fern. Walking around to the front, Gail could see down a slope to the ocean. There was no beach, only heavy rocks for a breakwater and tangles of mangrove. If ever the house had enjoyed a clear view of the sea, it had been lost to the overgrowth of foliage.

At the bottom of a long wooden staircase, Gail looked up at a porch, shuttered windows, a screen door, and behind it the dark, fan-shaped glass of an entrance door. There was no noise from inside. Her eyes traveled to the second floor, a balcony, and windows with closely drawn curtains. Not a movement. At a distance the house had appeared sturdy. A closer look revealed abandonment and decay. The balcony supports had been patched with cheap lumber, the window putty had dried and fallen out, and the eaves were rotting. Decorative lattice had been put up to hide the pilings, but this was falling away.

At the foot of the stairs, Gail put a hand on the ball-shaped finial post. A crack ran through it, and a leaf had caught there. She picked it out as she considered what to do next. Bang loudly on the door? Admit defeat and let Anthony handle it?

A muffled ringing reached her ears. Gail took out her cell phone and saw the name on the screen. Irene Strickland. She leaned against the finial post, a foot on the bottom step.

"Hi, Mom…. No, you didn't have to call back…. I'm
fine….
Nothing's wrong. In fact, Anthony asked me if I'd like to get married down here…. Yes, before we come back. Isn't that insane?... I told him yes…. I know, I know…. We didn't discuss it, but we'd probably move back into his house, which I don't think Karen would appreciate…. I can't tell him that, Mother, after I've already said yes…. Of course I want to, just not
now….
There's no way he's going to admit he made a mistake, and if I try to suggest anything so reasonable as waiting for a couple of months, we'd be on our way to the courthouse within five minutes…. Oh, you don't
know.
He is so sensitive."

She noticed a movement to her right and jumped, taking a breath. A man in a straw hat was looking back at her. The boat pilot. Arnel Goode. How long had he been standing there?

Cell phone at her mouth, Gail said quietly, "Listen, I can't talk right now. Call you later…. Love you too."

Arnel Goode held his hands up to show he intended no harm. "I-I didn't mean to scare you, but you shouldn't be here. This is Miss Sinclair's property."

"I know, I'm sorry, Arnel." Gail took her foot off the stairs. "I need to speak to her. I've been calling, and she doesn't answer."

The man wore gardening gloves, and rings of perspiration darkened the underarms of his dust-covered, long-sleeved shirt. The weather wasn't cool enough to require so many clothes, but his pale skin appeared fragile, susceptible to sunburn, which explained the hat. "Wh-Why do you want to speak to her?"