Suspicion of Madness (12 page)

"I really can't discuss it. Do you work here too? I thought you worked for the Greenwalds."

"And for Miss Sinclair."

"Is she home?"

"Yes, but... she—she doesn't get up this early. We better go." Arnel started to move away, expecting Gail to follow.

"Could I come back later? Well, it's Anthony Quintana who would see her. Perhaps I would come too, but he's Billy's lawyer." The man's blue eyes stared blankly back at her. "Remember Mr. Quintana?"

"Yes."

With a sigh, Gail came closer. "All right. Billy was watching videos with Miss Sinclair the night Sandra McCoy was killed. The police think he did it. We need for Miss Sinclair to tell them Billy was with her, so they'll leave him alone. That's what we need to see her about."

He nodded, the hat brim moving slowly up and down.

"She saved Billy's life, and I'm sure she'd want to help him again. You would, too, wouldn't you?"

Arnel glanced quickly at the house. "She d-d-doesn't like visitors."

More firmly Gail said, "Whether she likes it or not, we have to see her. We aren't movie fans looking for an autograph."

He noticed a weed and bent down to pull it. His hat was fraying at the crown. "Okay. When she wakes up, I'll ask her to call you."

Gail said, "How will you know when she wakes up?"

"She always calls me. I have a cell phone." Arnel shook dirt off the roots of the weed.

Looking at her watch, Gail said, "It's just after ten. Will she be up by noon?"

"I think so." He took a step toward the corner of the house, arm extended. "You wa-wa-want a ride back to the hotel?"

Seeing she would get nothing else here, Gail said, "Yes, if it's no trouble. Thanks."

They went across the yard, around a thick hedge of oleander, and toward a storage shed made of concrete blocks. Arnel's little electric truck was parked just beyond. Gail hadn't noticed it earlier. A rake leaned against the rear of the truck. Apparently he had been dumping the contents of several black plastic lawn bags into a mulch pile. From within the eight-foot square of landscaping timbers came the heavy, pungent smell of decaying vegetation.

Arnel went over to the truck to take the last of the lawn bags out. He had been polite but not friendly. Gail had questions but didn't know how to approach this man. Was he mentally slow? Or had his halting speech made him shy?

She smiled at him. "This is a lot of work. Do you do all the gardening around here?"

"For Miss Sinclair I do." Arnel propped the rake on the lawn bags and dusted his hands. "At the Inn, there's a... yard crew. I help out."

He got into the truck and Gail sat beside him, holding on to the bar that supported the roof. Glancing sideways, she studied the face of her companion, as much of it as she could see under the hat. His small nose and chin made him seem young, but a closer look put his age past thirty-five. The hands on the steering wheel were encased in blue striped gardening gloves.

Motor whining, the truck made a circle out of the yard. Gail watched the house vanish behind the trees. "How long have you worked for Joan Sinclair?"

"Fifteen years."

"Really. How'd you get the job?"

"Mr. Greenwald hired me... at the resort, but one day I w- w-went over to Miss Sinclair's house and said I could help her and... she didn't have to pay me. She said okay."

"You don't still work for free, do you?"

"Oh, I couldn't t-take money from Miss Sinclair. She depends on me."

Gail smiled back at him, hiding her indignation. Joan Sinclair was using this pathetic little man's adoration to get free handyman service. "I guess movie stars are pretty demanding."

"Oh, you bet. Do this, do that. I told her to buy me a... a cell phone so she could call if she n-n-needs anything. She used to have a mansion and... servants. She was a star. But in Hollywood, people took advantage, and they sta-abbed her in the back. When you're f-f-famous, they want your soul. That's what she says."

The truck rattled down a slope and around the sun-whitened trunk of a fallen tree.

"Why doesn't she ever leave the island?"

"Because her f-f-... her fans are always after her. They won't leave her alone." His brows were as blond as the wisps of hair falling across his forehead. "She doesn't stay in her house all the time. She likes to work in her garden and catch fish off the dock. And... she goes to the f-family graveyard so she can put... flowers on the graves."

This was more than slightly strange, Gail thought. The woman never left the island except to visit the dead. "Does she do this often?"

"What?"

"Go to the graveyard."

He shrugged. "Not too often."

"How does she get there?"

"I take her. Or Mr. Greenwald does."

The truck bounced over some ruts, and Gail held onto her hat and braced herself with a foot on the dashboard. She remembered something Emma had told her on the veranda. "Joan has a nephew, a lawyer in Islamorada. Doug Lindeman?" Arnel nodded. "I've heard she won't talk to him. Do you know why?"

Arnel watched the path ahead of them, and for a while Gail thought he would refuse to answer. Finally he spoke. "He wants to... p-put her in a… a home for old people. She said no. She isn't old. This island is her home, why should she leave?"

Gail made a note to herself: She would suggest that Anthony give Doug Lindeman a call before he went to see Joan Sinclair. As a family member, Lindeman would have an opinion about his aunt. It wasn't likely to be good. "So... Doug is her only relative?"

"Now he is. Her other nephew Teddy died in f-f-federal prison in Atlanta. Lung cancer."

"Why was he put in prison?"

"He sold drugs."

"Here? In the Keys?"

"Yes. Cocaine."

Gail abandoned any thought of asking for details.

Arnel slowed and stopped as they came to the chain-link fence marking the property line. He got out and opened the gate fully, got back in, drove through, then went back to secure the padlock.

On the Buttonwood side, tires glided smoothly on combed sand, and the little truck hummed around a pond of water lilies, then over an arched wooden bridge painted Chinese red. They came down the other side to a sweeping view of the Keys across sparkling turquoise water. After the wild tangle of the eastern end, the resort seemed as tame as Disney World. They turned west. In only a minute or two they would be back at the hotel.

Gail heard her cell phone softly jangling in her pocket. She ignored it. She asked Arnel, "Did you know Sandra McCoy?"

"Not too good."

"Didn't you see her when she came to Miss Sinclair's house?"

"Mostly she came when I was working over here."

"Well, do you know if Sandra had a boyfriend? Did you ever see her with a man, or hear any talk about her?"

Clear blue eyes, and such a vacant look in them. Then he said, "Tom Holtz, but I don't know… if he was her boyfriend. He's pretty old. I saw him go in her apartment."

Gail turned around on the bench seat. "Who is Tom Holtz?"

"A lawyer for the Greenwalds. He and D-D-Doug Lindeman have an office together. I had to take Sandra home one night, real late. Her car was getting fixed, so… I took her home from the marina in the van. She lived in a-a-a duplex apartment on Plantation Key. When we got there I saw Mr. Holtz's car parked on the corner. I said, 'What's he doing here?' Sandra said, 'M-M- Mind your own business, Arnel.' She went in her apartment. I went around the block, and I saw her let him in."

"Then what did you do?"

"I left."

"When was this? Do you remember?"

He thought about it, then said, "A-A-About a month ago."

"Did you tell the police? When they were investigating Sandra's death, I mean."

"They didn't ask me any questions."

And why should they? A man like Arnel Goode. She let the facts of his story play in her mind. It could mean nothing. It could mean everything. "Is Tom Holtz married?"

"No. His wife passed away." Arnel's brow furrowed in alarm. "Ms. Connor? Don't... don't tell anyone. I d-d-don't want to... m-m-make problems for Mr. Holtz. He didn't kill Sandra. What I think is... somebody g-g-going to K-Key West, a criminal ju-just out of jail, saw her, a p-p-pretty girl like that, and he k-kidnapped her and then... and then he killed her. It wa-wa-wasn't anybody we know."

Gail put a calming hand on his arm. "I'll have to talk to Anthony Quintana about this, but only him. I won't tell anyone else what you said."

The truck swerved left, then braked to a stop. They had arrived beneath a portico alongside The Buttonwood Inn.

Arnel said, "Well. Here we are."

Gail stayed in her seat. "Would you mind talking to Mr. Quintana?"

"I have a lot to do."

"When will you have some time?"

Arnel stared at the knees of his shabby khaki pants. "I said enough already." He put the little truck into reverse, and Gail reluctantly got out.

"You'll talk to Miss Sinclair, won't you? And tell her to return Mr. Quintana's call? Will you tell her?"

He nodded.

"Don't forget."

"I won't."

Gail watched him wheel backward, then hurtle away with a spurt of sand from under the tires. Her phone rang, and she reached into her pocket. The display showed Anthony's number.

She put the phone to her ear. "At last! Where are you?"

"We're about to leave," he said. "We'll be there in half an hour." Gail could hear the low rumble of a boat engine in the background.

"Good," she said, "I have a lot to tell you."

"That makes two of us," he said.

8

The Greenwalds had a friend with a cabin cruiser who agreed to take them, along with Anthony and Billy, from the hospital to The Buttonwood Inn. Traveling half a mile offshore, the boat followed the line of the highway past Plantation Key, then Windley and Upper Matecumbe, before veering in a more southerly direction. It was a choppy ride, as the wind had risen since morning. Standing up as they approached the island, Anthony could see the line of royal palms along the seawall, the high roof above the trees, then the harbor, several small boats, and Gail under the awning on the dock. The skirt of her blue dress fluttered, then swirled around her legs. Even at this distance he could make out a white flower in her hair. He lifted a hand, and she waved back.

A supply boat was already in the harbor unloading boxes and crates. The Greenwalds' friend found a place for his boat, and a young man in a white Buttonwood Inn shirt helped tie up to the dock. The four passengers got off, and within a minute the boat was on its way back to Tavernier.

Anthony made the brief introductions, and Gail warmly smiled and shook their hands. What did she see? A man and woman in rumpled clothes, pale and exhausted; a gaunt and scowling teenager with a neck brace and bleached hair. The family got into the golf cart for the ride to the Inn. Anthony and Gail walked, taking the path along the shore, stepping aside for a cart loaded with boxes. The racket of hammers and saws had been replaced by air compressors and paint guns. The noise faded as they approached their cottage.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "They're going to bring us some lunch. Teri called ahead and arranged it."

"My God. If I'd been through what she has, I'd make my guests fend for themselves. Have you heard from Joan Sinclair yet?"

"No, nothing."

They climbed the staircase to the porch, which was shaded by the roof overhang and a trellis laden with pink bougainvillea. Gail had left the windows open, and the soft breeze came through. Hanging up his suit pants in the armoire, Anthony noticed the draped mosquito netting and the soft duvet on the four- poster bed and thought of lying down for awhile. Instead, he made a call to Douglas Lindeman's office. He wanted to know if Lois Greenwald had persuaded Lindeman to delay filing the guardianship. When the secretary answered, she said that Mr. Lindeman would be out of the office until later in the afternoon.

Anthony thanked her and left his number and a brief message that referred only to Lois Greenwald. He punched the disconnect. "C
arajo."

He put on shorts and walked into the living room barefoot, buttoning his shirt. Gail handed him a beer. The flower in her hair was real, a white hibiscus with a yellow stamen. She had tied it to a small comb that held her hair back from her face. He kissed her cheek. "That's a pretty flower.
Tú eres bellísima."

He had registered the fact that Gail had said nothing about going to the courthouse today. No hint, no reminder. There could be only one explanation: She had since changed her mind. Left alone all morning to work on her files and make phone calls, she had said to herself,
What were we thinking?

Anthony decided to ask if this was the case. "Gail,
mi amor—"

At that moment the golf cart arrived with the same young man who had driven the Greenwalds to the Inn. He bounded up the steps with an ice bucket, then went back for a tray laden with covered dishes. Gail told him to put everything on the table outside, such a lovely view of the ocean from here, she said.