Suspicion of Madness (29 page)

They headed directly for the dark, wooded shoreline, toward lights that indicated a residential area. The channel became a canal branching left and right. The turbulence of the open water was gone. Holtz slowed the boat, and the engine noise dropped. Gail flipped back the hood of her raincoat to see out. Anthony used his handkerchief to mop the water off his face. He tasted salt.

The houses were large, the seawalls long, the yards well-tended. The homes rose two or three stories, constructed on concrete pilings for possible storm surges. Some of the lower areas were enclosed, some not. Expensive motor yachts and sailboats were tied to the docks. The uncurtained windows of one home revealed a woman coming downstairs and a man sitting on a green leather sofa watching television, taking his socks off.

"I feel like a voyeur," Gail said. "Where are we?"

"Anthony knows. Don't you?" Holtz kept his eyes on the canal.

"Not at all."

"The house I'm going to show you used to be the only one on this street, but that was ten, fifteen years ago. This area has been built up since then."

Holtz turned the boat left. They moved slowly along the narrow inlet, which would come to a dead end fifty yards ahead. Their view of the last house was blocked by an immense sport fisher whose upper deck was swaddled in rain panels. A glow fell across the water. They came around the sport fisher and saw where the light was coming from—a white globe held in the lifted hand of a mermaid on the seawall. Her curled tail rested on a pedestal of ocean waves, and long blond hair hung over her breasts.

"There she is," said Holtz.

Gail said, "It can't be. Billy's mermaid had red hair."

"Oh, this is the one, all right." He glanced around at Anthony, and the light in the mermaid's outstretched hand shone in his glasses. "Is it coming to you yet?"

"I have never seen that thing before. I am sure of it. I would remember."

"Then you didn't walk around to the back. You drove by and didn't get out of your car. This is Periwinkle Street. Does that ring any bells?"

Anthony stared at the angle of the house on the lot, the placement of the garage under the main floor, the line of palm trees along the west side. He did know this house. The last time he had seen it, the roof was a heap of scorched timbers and broken tile.

It was the house that Billy Fadden had set on fire.

Tom had something more. "Guess who used to own it."

"The Morgans—"

"No, before the Morgans. I'll tell you. Teddy Lindeman. Teddy lived here before the government sent him to prison." Holtz grinned at the astonishment on Anthony's face. "Ain't this a small world?"

16

Kyle Fadden had just poled his skiff out of sight behind the boathouse at the Buttonwood harbor when his phone rang. He unzipped his waterproof jacket to get to it and saw the name on the lighted screen. Holtz and Lindeman, P.A.

"Yeah."

"Hey, buddy, what's going on?"

Fadden carefully laid the pole back in the chocks. "Nothing much. Waiting to hear what the plan is."

"That's why I called. What happened with Billy at the police station today? Did they get it all cleared up?"

"I don't know yet. I'm going to talk to him."

"Where are you?" Lindeman asked.

"I'm home drinking a beer. Watching TV."

"Okay, good, stay there. I don't want you on the island, not until your kid's lawyers are gone. We're filing the guardianship in two weeks. I've got a judge who can give me an emergency hearing within a few days after that. So we're back to the original plan. Okay?"

"What do we do in the meantime?"

Lindeman said, "We wait. I'll call you."

"When might that be?"

"Next week. Just wait for my call."

Fadden reached for the edge of the concrete seawall to keep the boat from drifting. Water splashed along the hull.

Lindeman said, "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah. I'll wait for your call." Fadden turned his phone off and slid it back inside his jacket.

When Billy got to the harbor, he expected to see his father's boat tied to the dock. The lights were dancing on the surface, and wind rattled the awning over the loading area. His father had said he wanted to talk to him. Billy guessed it was about the meeting with the police. He didn't feel like getting into that, but he couldn't see any way to avoid it.

A figure in a ball cap and a green rain jacket stepped out from behind the boathouse, walking around it and down to the seawall.

"Hi, Dad."

His father smiled and gave Billy's shoulder a firm pat. "How're you doing?"

"Fine."

"Everything went okay at the sheriff's office?"

"My lawyer didn't let me talk to them. Joan talked to them, but I didn't."

"Well? Do they still think you did it?"

"My lawyer doesn't want me discussing the case with anybody."

"I'm your father."

Billy crossed his arms. "Yeah, well, my lawyer told me not to."

"Okay. Whatever you say." His father reached into his jacket for his pack of cigarettes and lit one. "Hey, listen, I ran into Doug Lindeman today. He said he's worried about his aunt when we get that big rain tomorrow. He says her roof might be leaking. He wants me to take a look at it."

"Her roof? I never saw any leaks."

"Doesn't mean there aren't any. We're going to get quite a storm, Billy. That poor old lady in there by herself, rain coming through. Doug wants me to make sure she's all right."

Billy wondered why Doug Lindeman cared about Joan's roof, and why he called Kyle Fadden to fix it. Kyle was a fishing guide, not a carpenter, though he'd built an addition on his own house. Doug Lindeman probably knew that because they went fishing together. Lindeman was a lawyer; he was soft. Kyle Fadden could do anything with his hands.

His father said, "Let's go on over and take a look."

"Now?"

"You know her, Billy. We'll say it was your idea."

"My roof is fine," Joan said at the door. She was looking through the crack, still wearing the clothes she'd had on this afternoon at the police station, her black-and-white suit and her red wig. She had a drink in her hand.

Billy's father said, "Miss Sinclair, you've been a good friend to my son, and it would be my honor to help you."

"I can't have people going all over my house. I need to get ready for Tom. He's taking me to dinner at the Inn. I have to get dressed."

Billy felt his father give him a nudge. He said, "It won't take a minute. If Dad sees any leaks, he won't even have to come back inside. What would you do, Dad, put a tarp over it?"

"That's absolutely all, Miss Sinclair. Billy says you have a long ladder. I'd just throw a tarp over any trouble spots till you can get it fixed properly."

She said, "I really don't see the need."

Billy said, "What if the wind tears off some shingles? The rain could come through on your movie collection. You don't want that to happen."

"Oh, God." She turned her head toward the video room. Her wig was flat in back, like she'd been lying down. "All right, but please be quick." She moved aside so they could come in.

Billy was used to Joan's house, but when she turned on the lights he could see how shabby it was. His dad looked at the stuff on her shelves, and the dusty floor and torn curtains, and then he wandered into the dining room. He wasn't a big man, but his green jacket took up too much space. "So this is where Billy watches all those movies. That's a nice TV."

Billy said, "Hey, Dad, the roof is upstairs."

"Hold on a minute. As long as I'm here, let's see if Miss Sinclair needs any immediate assistance." He pushed open a door and walked through to the kitchen. His boots pounded on the wood floor. "Is the plumbing in good shape? Any electrical problems?"

He switched the fluorescent light on and off and on, leaving the long, bare tubes glaring down on the peeling linoleum. There were dishes everywhere, worse than Billy had seen lately, and he wanted to turn off the damned lights. His father tested the faucets, which screeched and rattled. Billy whispered, "Dad, get out of here."

"What's this door to?" He opened a narrow door on the other side of the old gas stove. The wood caught, then let go with a loud squeak. The smell of musty earth rolled up the dark stairs. "What's this?"

"The cistern is down there," Joan said, rolling her eyes toward Billy. She finished her drink. "And the roof is in the other direction."

"Dad—"

"I'll be. Haven't seen one of those in a long time." He flipped a switch but the light was broken.

"Mr. Fadden, I don't want to be rude, but
please."

He put a shoulder to the door to close it. "All right, let's go upstairs."

Joan hurried after him, telling him not to go into her bedroom. On the second floor an old rug ran down the hall, and the striped wallpaper was stained and spotted. Billy had never been up here except once when Joan had fallen asleep in her recliner watching a movie. The door to her room had been closed, and he hadn't dared to open it. The other bedrooms were full of old furniture and dust, and the bathroom had a tub with claw feet.

She stretched her arm across a door at the end of the hall. "This is my room. It's private."

"Look up." Billy's dad pointed. "Look at the ceiling."

A bare bulb in the light fixture showed the brown patch in the ceiling where plaster had buckled and water was dripping through. A puddle had formed on the rug. He walked to the other end of the hall, then up a smaller staircase to the attic, and they heard his boots thumping around.

He came down a minute later shaking his head. "Ma'am, you've got a serious situation up there. I'll be back later with that tarp, no inconvenience to you, I promise."

Joan leaned against the wall and put her face in her hands. "If you must."

"I'll get a pan from the kitchen," Billy said. He took his father by the arm and pulled him downstairs. Joan followed and said she would get her own pan, thank you very much, and good night.

They went out. The front door slammed shut behind them, and a lock turned.

"I don't believe you went all over her house!"

His father was smiling. "That woman needs some help, and I don't mean with her roof." He swung into the passenger seat of the golf cart.

"If she wants to live like that, it's her choice."

"You think so? Rain pouring inside, and that's her choice?"

Billy said, "I didn't know about her ceiling, okay?" He shifted to get the pills out of his front pocket. He thumbed open the little plastic box.

"What's that?"

"Ecstasy." His father's eyes fixed on him. "It's a prescription. Percodan. Okay? For pain." He turned the cart back toward the resort. The lights bounced over the ground. He felt like driving the cart into a tree.

"Slow down!" His father said, "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing." Billy slowed down.

They got to the fence and went through the open gate. Billy thought about closing it, but Joan expected Tom Holtz to come over. Wait till he saw that kitchen. He would run the other way. Billy felt sorry for Joan. She didn't used to be so lonely and suspicious. It was depressing.

The cart rattled and jerked, and Billy's neck was killing him, but he didn't waste any time getting back to the harbor.

He stopped the cart on the seawall next to the boathouse. It was raining again.

His father took out his cigarettes and a lighter. He cupped his hand and the flame shone on his face. "That's a nice boat," he said. Martin's Sea Ray was visible in the security lights. "I guess if you're rich you can buy whatever you want."

Billy told him, "Martin has a fifty-two-foot Bertram docked in Key West."

"Imagine that."

"Give me a cigarette," Billy said.

"Since when do you smoke?"

"I smoke. You never come around, so how would you know?"

"I hope to change that, Billy. I haven't been around as much as I should." He held the flame under Billy's cigarette.

It was time for the dear-old-dad routine. His father was feeling bad because his only son had tried to kill himself. Billy exhaled smoke, and the breeze took it. Rain tapped on the roof of the cart.

His father propped one waterproof boot on the dashboard. "What are you going to do with yourself, son? You're nineteen. An adult. You need to start making some intelligent choices."

"I guess."

"Is that all you can say? Don't you have a thought in your brain?"

"Actually, Father, I've been considering film school."

"Film school?"

"Movies. Directing, screenwriting—"

"I know what the hell film school is. You just flunked out of a community college, now you want to go to film school?"