Suspicion of Madness (13 page)

They sat at a round teak table. The sun winked through the palms and put flashes of light on the turquoise and yellow plates, the lemon slices in the pitcher, the flowers that Gail had found in the yard. Stomach growling, Anthony dug into his lunch. The mango chicken salad had been lightly seasoned with ginger.
Delicioso.
He decided to wait until after they ate to discuss this business of getting married.

They talked about Sandra McCoy. Who had she been? Baylor had described a "nice little girl," a hard worker, a member of the First Methodist Church, caregiver for her grandparents. The same girl who had bought liquor for Billy Fadden and had had sex with him. A hard-edged girl who had been sleeping with another man, possibly married. Billy didn't know who; she'd refused to tell him. Sandra wanted to move to South Beach, and she needed money to do it. She had collected a thousand dollars from Douglas Lindeman to run errands for his aunt. A lot of money for running errands.

The clash between Sandra and Lois Greenwald could be worth looking into, but the most intriguing fact, if true, had come from Arnel Goode. Late at night, a couple of weeks before her death, he had seen a man going into Sandra's apartment.

Four years ago Anthony had met him. His name was Thomas Holtz. He was one of the Greenwalds' attorneys. Holtz handled the negotiations with the owners of the house that Billy had burned down. Anthony remembered a stout white-haired man, a widower in his sixties, a regular in fishing tournaments, a lawyer not too hungry anymore, coasting on contacts with local bankers, realtors, and members of the chamber of commerce. His reason for entering Sandra's apartment at that hour could have been perfectly innocent. Could have been. Then why had she told Arnel Goode to mind his own business?

Anthony's watch had swept past one o'clock. "Joan Sinclair should have called by now. You said she gets up at noon."

"That's what Arnel told me. Why don't you call her again?"

"I've already left three messages." Anthony stabbed the last piece of mango with his fork. "If she doesn't call within an hour, I'll go over there. I should talk to Teri and Martin first." He laughed. "I thought this would be simple. I would take Billy to the police station today, perhaps tomorrow, the detective would say, 'Oh, you have no information, thank you for coming, goodbye,' and then you and I,
mi querida,
would spend the rest of the week lying on the beach. This isn't what you expected, is it? I am sorry."

For several seconds Gail looked at him as if waiting for him to say something else. Her finely arched brows seemed suspended over a question. Her eyes had flecks of gray, like stones, like clouds. He had no idea what she was thinking.

He pushed his empty plate away and reached for his dessert. Some kind of iced cake. He poked at it with his fork and discovered a raisin, which he flicked aside. "Before I see Joan Sinclair, I should find out more about her. And Sandra McCoy. I want to hear what Lois has to say about Sandra."

"It seems," Gail remarked, "that you have your afternoon filled."

He swallowed the mouthful of cake. "What would you like to do?"

Her smile was directed at the ocean. "Well, I brought a lot of work with me. I should get some of it done. In fact, I should be in there right now."

She rose from her chair and went to get the tray the porter had left on a bench near the top of the stairs. She brought it back and began to clear the table. The pitcher thudded onto the tray. Glasses, salt and pepper shakers. Silverware clanged on the dishes. She snapped the crumbs off her napkin.

"Gail." He held out a hand. "Come here." He pulled her closer and put an arm around her hips. "Do you want to apply for the marriage license today? Tell me. What are we going to do?"

She sent a cool little smile down at him, a drop of melted ice. "I think we've more or less decided, haven't we?"

"We'll go now if you want."

"If
I
want?" She laughed. "You were certainly enthusiastic last night. Oh, it doesn't matter. We don't have to do this now. You have Billy Fadden to worry about."

He shrugged. "If you want to do it, we will."

"Do
you
want to, Anthony?"

The white hibiscus was falling from her hair. He reached up to straighten the comb it was tied to. "Of course I do,
querida.
I love you. I want to marry you. There is nothing I want more. But this week is not such a good time."

"I suppose so."

"Do you agree or not? That way, we don't have to rush. You won't worry about Karen missing the wedding—"

"You're right. We'll wait."

He turned her hand over and put a kiss in her palm. He was both relieved and unsettled. He had disappointed her. It couldn't be helped.

"I guess we're back to June," she said.

"Whatever you want."

"June is fine."

He pulled her onto his lap and felt the pressure of her hipbones on his thighs, the warmth of her body. "
Mamita,
you know I love you." He pulled her face down to his.
"Soy tuyo."
Her lips were sweet. He tasted icing in the corner of her mouth.

A cell phone was ringing. It took him a moment to disengage his thoughts. He turned his head toward the door. "Whose is that?"

"Yours."

He scooted her off his lap and dashed inside, through the living room and into the bedroom, where he found his cell phone chirping for the fourth and last time before it would switch to voice mail. "Yes?"

"Mr. Quintana?"

He knew this voice. He had heard it three times already today—not a British accent, but not exactly American either. His ear, more tuned to Spanish, couldn't place it.

He noticed Gail standing in the doorway.

"Yes, this is Anthony Quintana. Miss Sinclair?"

Gail came quickly across the room and tried to put her ear close to his. He held up a hand and turned around. "Thank you for returning my call."

There was a slow inhalation, then the soft snap of a cigarette being pulled away from her lips. "God
knows
you left enough messages. Let me guess what you want to ask me. 'Was Billy Fadden with you the night the McCoy girl was murdered?' Yes, he was. As I told his mother last week, Billy and I were watching Hitchcock films from eight-thirty until two-fifteen the next morning. Do you want a list?
The Rope, Vertigo,
and
The Birds,
in that order."

"Would it be possible," Anthony asked, "to discuss this in person?"

"Surely that isn't necessary. I've told you what you wanted to know."

"And I am grateful, but you need to tell it to the police, and we need to decide the best way to do that."

A pause. "I can call them. I'll call them right now if you like."

"I'd rather you didn't. Let's discuss it. I'm free at the moment. I can come to your house."

"Now?" Another pause. "Sorry, but it's not convenient."

"Name a time. Forgive me, I must insist. The police suspect Billy Fadden of murder. Only you can save him."

After a long silence, he heard an exhalation. "Very well. I'll be at home at nine o'clock this evening. Come then. The gate will be open."

Click.

She was gone. Anthony put his cell phone back on the dresser.

Gail raised her brows. '"Only you can save him'? That's dramatic. What did she say?"

"Come at nine o'clock."

"Thank God. I was afraid she'd told you to get lost. How did she sound? Coherent?"

"Completely."

"That's a relief," Gail said. She put a hand on his arm. "I want to go with you."

He shook his head. "Miss Sinclair doesn't expect another person."

"Did she specifically say, 'Come alone'?"

"Gail... no. She might refuse to talk to me at all. I don't want to risk it."

"If she doesn't want me there, I'll leave. It's better if I go with you. It's a test. If Joan Sinclair can't handle the two of us, how can she go off the island and discuss a murder case with a roomful of police officers?"

"Ay, Dios mío."

"You know I have a point. Admit it."

"All right, but sweetheart, what is your connection to this case? What do I tell her? 'This is Ms. Connor, my fiancée. She wanted to meet you.'"

"Don't patronize me, Anthony, as if I were some giggling
fan
of Joan Sinclair. You did enlist me to call her today, remember? She knows who I am. I've left enough messages. I'm trying to help you."

"Thank you, but I'd rather handle it myself."

"Why?" Gail looked at him intently. "Because you don't want anybody to find out you were wrong. You're afraid you might have screwed up last time with Billy. You're afraid you walked him when he should have been pushed into intensive therapy, and as a result, something worse has been created. He tried to kill himself. Not only that. He might have committed murder."

"He isn't guilty."

"Are you sure?"

"Gail, I don't make guarantees about my clients, but I am certain that Billy Fadden is innocent. There's no evidence against him."

"He confessed."

"Falsely."

"He killed Sandra because she started going out with someone else."

"He has an alibi."

"Maybe." Gail waited, then said, "But you don't
know,
do you? You don't, and it's going to eat at you, and you'll start brooding and worrying and be impossible to live with, and we'll both suffer."

"Do you think I
want
to know if my clients are guilty or not?" Smiling, he looked at her a while, then averted his gaze out the window, to the riot of green past the open glass louvers. "I don't care about that. Anyway, the truth is hard to hold on to. You think you have it, then it bites you. I don't even ask."

"Who are you lying to, me or yourself?"

"It's an accommodation I make that keeps me sane," he said. "That and a good billing department at Ferrer and Quintana."

"What are you going to do between now and Saturday, interview all these people yourself? Why don't you hire me? We'll get it done in half the time, then we can play."

"What do you mean, hire you?"

"Let me work on the case. I know how to investigate a case, and I
do
happen to care, for your sake at least, whether Billy Fadden is innocent."

"This was supposed to be a vacation."

"Really? When do we see each other? When you come to bed? Sorry, that's not enough." She went to the closet and pulled out her suitcase. She laid it on the floor, unzipped the top, and started tossing her shoes inside. "You're going to be busy, and I could work so much more effectively at my office. Have you seen that stack of files in the living room?"

"What are you doing, Gail?"

"If there's no good reason for me to be here, I might as well go back to Miami."

"How? Swim?"

"Arnel can take me to the marina. There must be a bus going north."

He sighed. "All right. You can help me work on the case." She turned around and looked at him, swinging her hair off her face. He said, "Don't forget whose case it is. You check with me before you do anything. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly." She tossed a high-heeled black sandal back into the closet.

"How much are you going to charge me for your services?"

"Oh, my fees, I nearly forgot. Let's see. For you, five dollars an hour."

"Que barato.
That is cheap. I would have given you ten."

She held out her hand. "I need a retainer. Come on, let's have it. I don't work for free."

Anthony took out his wallet and gave her a twenty. "That's four hours. I expect you to turn in a time sheet."

Smiling, she tucked it into a side pocket of her dress. The dress was thin cotton that followed her curves. He bent to press his lips to her chest, just at the edge of the low neckline. Her scent filled his head.

"I wouldn't really have left." She put her arms around his neck. "Not unless you told me to. Maybe not even then."

"I know. Te quiero. Nunca te diré que te vayas." He kissed her. "I will never tell you to go. I did it once, to my shame. Not again. Ever."

She outlined his mouth with her fingertip. "Scratchy."

"I'll go shave."

"No, wait. Kiss me again. Do it just like that."

After a minute she pulled away. Her breaths came as quickly as his. "You have to talk to the Greenwalds. When?" She undid the top button of his shirt. Then the next.

"They can wait." He plucked the flower from her hair and tossed it onto the bed.

9

They took the white sand path leading behind their cottage, catching only a glimpse of the cottages tucked into the trees, the white clapboard and pastel gingerbread trim winking through the foliage. A soft breeze brought the scent of frangipani and jasmine. The quiet was broken only by birds and the rustle of palm fronds. The carpenters had left, or had traded their power tools for paintbrushes.