Suspicion of Madness (42 page)

"I understand," Anthony said.

The door opened, and Martin called out, "And speaking of my fabulous wife, here she is now. Where is my champagne, woman?"

Teri's face was flushed, and her chest moved quickly with her breathing.

Martin added, "And where is Billy?"

"He refuses to answer me." She gave a light laugh and tossed back her hair. "It must be the sleeping pill. He said he was going to sleep for awhile. I'd go in, but the door is locked, and I don't have a key. He never locks his door. Anthony... would you come help me wake him up?"

Perhaps she was trying to be brave for Martin—she was aware now of his bad heart—but her fear was written on her face. Anthony and Martin exchanged a look. Had Billy finally accomplished with pills what he'd failed to do with a rope?

Anthony told Teri to wait with Martin. "I'll go get him."

It had taken some effort, but Kyle Fadden had leaned over the cistern and grabbed the chain and pulled and hauled and grunted until he had raised the box. Water poured off. It was about as big as a footlocker, sealed in heavy plastic, and had to weigh over a hundred pounds. Fadden rested it on the edge of the cistern and waited for his arms to stop trembling from exertion.

He had never seen the thing before, but he had shared enough drinks with Teddy to have picked up some information. More information had come from Doug Lindeman, and the rest had been guesses. Fadden had not been certain, until his fingers felt the chain, that he wouldn't reach into that dead water and come out with a handful of slime.

He gave the box a shove, and the chain clanked over the concrete lip of the cistern. The box thudded to the ground and jerked to a stop. The chain was wrapped around it like a Christmas package, and the other end was hooked to a metal circle about a foot below the water level. Fadden took a towel out of his canvas bag and dried his hands and arms. A butane lantern gave enough light to see by.

There was a noise, like a door closing. Then footsteps. Voices. Fadden turned off the lantern and crept up the narrow wooden steps to listen. The kitchen was just above him, but the voices were coming from farther away, probably the living room. He pressed his ear to the door.

A woman was speaking. "—going to get out of this miserable dump and have a good time…. I
adore
Teri and Martin, they're a marvelous couple."

Another person—a male?— mumbled something that Fadden couldn't catch, but he had recognized the woman. When Billy had banged on the front door, Joan Sinclair hadn't been gone. She must have been up in her room sound asleep, probably with a hangover, though she sounded pretty lively at this point. Fadden couldn't tell who was with her. According to Billy, her handyman had gone to Key West.

Who, then? Doug Lindeman? Fadden thought of the revolver in his jacket, which he had laid across the propane tank at the bottom of the stairs.

Quick footsteps came closer. "Give me the Beefeater. I'm going to fix a drink."

"I-I bought you some soup and cr-crackers like you asked me to, Miss Sinclair, so-so you'd have something to eat if the p-p-p-power goes out. Look what I got you."

The handyman had come back. Kyle Fadden heard the crackle of paper bags, the thud of cans and bottles. Two people upstairs, and Fadden didn't know what he was going to do about it.

"I'm
tired
of soup." There was a crash, and something rolled across the floor. "I'm tired of
you.
Go away, Arnel. I have to get dressed."

"But Miss Sinclair, they... they wa-want you to leave so they c-can take your house. It's a plot. If you leave, they'll c-c-come in and st-steal your diamonds and your gold jewelry."

"I said
get out.
Are you deaf?" Wood squeaked, and a door hit the wall. "Out! Go to your cottage and leave me alone. Do not come back until I tell you to. Dear God, I can't
bear
it anymore. Stop crying, Arnel. Don't just stand there,
go!"

Footsteps shuffled toward the back porch.

Joan Sinclair let out a scream of frustration. "Thank you and good-bye!" The door slammed. She crossed the kitchen one way, then another. Something banged down on a table or counter. Ice cubes rattled. And then her footsteps faded away, and at a greater distance moved up the stairs to the second floor.

Under the kitchen Kyle Fadden listened for a moment longer. Music went on. A jazz band, very loud. He laughed. "Thank you, Miss Sinclair."

27

Billy wasn't there. Anthony had not taken the time to knock on his door. He had kicked it in with one well-placed foot near the door knob, and the wood had shattered. The apartment was empty.

Anthony stood in the chaos of dirty clothes, beer bottles, torn magazines, compact disks, and video boxes, and trembled with relief. Billy was not lying dead or comatose on the floor. But where was he?

"Ay, carajo, ¿dónde estás?"

And where was Gail?

He ran down the steps and around the building, going back into the hotel through the kitchen, then through a series of hallways to the lobby, up the carpeted stairs that led him to the second floor, then to another hall, at the end of which was an alcove with a set of double doors and a gold plaque marked PRIVATE.

He opened the door and went in.

Billy Fadden was standing in the middle of the Greenwalds' living room with his head buried in his mother's shoulder, her arms tightly around him. Martin Greenwald stood beside them, hovering but not touching, his brow deeply furrowed.
 

Anthony placed his hands on his thighs and pulled in several deep breaths.

Martin glanced around. "He just got here."

The boy was mud-spattered, soaked to the skin, and pale as death. Teri murmured something and led him to the sofa. Billy stumbled on legs that seemed only marginally connected to his nervous system.

Anthony came over. "Where have you been?"

Mouth open, Billy blinked and looked up at him. "I didn't kill Sandra."

His mother hugged him. "We know, Billy. We know you didn't."

Still fixed on Anthony, he gently pushed her away. "I called the police because I
thought
I killed her, but it was a movie. It was one of Joan's movies.
Moon of the Vampires.
The vampire carries this girl's body to the cliff overlooking the sea, and he puts her on the rocks and pulls out a knife and cuts her throat and he catches her blood in a goblet. See? I thought I did that to Sandra, that's why I confessed. I mean... I just figured it out."

Anthony exchanged a look with Martin, then said, "Aha. Yes. A movie."

"You want to hear something else? Mom... Jeremy didn't die at our house."

"Please don't talk now."

"No, listen. He died at that house with the mermaid."

"Oh, Billy. No." Teri spoke as if staring into the face of hopeless insanity.

"It's true. I remember."

Anthony moved some magazines aside and sat on the coffee table. "What about Jeremy?"

Billy's voice was so flat he could have been reading from a newspaper. "My father told us we were going fishing. It was at night, and I didn't want to go because I was tired. When Mom went to work, he took out his belt and made me do all my chores over again."

Teri bit her lip and put her hand over her mouth.

"I went to bed, but then he woke us up, and he said we were going fishing, so we got in the boat, but then he told us to get in the cabin and go back to sleep. He drove the boat, I don't know where, because we were asleep, then he stopped the boat, and I woke up. He said to stay there and watch Jeremy. 'Don't leave this boat or I'll beat your ass.' Jeremy was asleep. When I woke up again he was gone. I was afraid to leave but I got out of the boat to see if I could find him.

"The mermaid was on the dock. I saw Jeremy in the water, and I tried to get him out, but I couldn't, so I called for my father. I was screaming and everything, and the dogs started barking and barking, and Dad came, and he and some other men pulled Jeremy out, and he hit me and said, 'What have you done, what have you done, I told you not to let him go anywhere. I told you. It's your fault he's dead.'"

Teri wept.

"So then we went home, and he told me that Jeremy fell off our dock by accident, and if I said anything else, the police would put me in jail for the rest of my life. He said he would take care of everything, he would make sure they didn't take me away. So he put Jeremy on the sofa, and he called the police."

The gleam in Martin's eyes was fearsome.

Billy grabbed his mother's hand. "Jeremy died where the mermaid was. I remember the dogs. Mom, I remember everything. Why did Dad say that? Why did he say I killed Jeremy? It was an accident. I didn't mean to let Jeremy go out of the boat. I fell asleep—"

Teri hugged him. "
Shhhh
. That's enough." She kissed him then looked fiercely over his head. "
Hijo de puta, mató a mi
baby." Sobbing, tears pouring down her face, she rocked her son. "Kyle might as well have thrown Jeremy in the water with his own hands! He's dead, and Kyle will go to hell for what he did. And Billy! Oh, God. Both of my babies!"

Anthony had to get up and pace to the windows and back. He would not have bet on Kyle Fadden's life if he had walked into the room.

Teri closed her eyes. "It's my fault. Oh, God, God."

Martin said, "Teri, you weren't there."

"It is my fault! I should have known. It wasn't the first time! Kyle took me with him before. We needed the money, and he said who would look twice at us, a nice young couple out fishing? Then he wanted to take the boys, and I said no. No, never, and I made him promise to stop. I said I would work double shifts, but don't do this anymore. I should have left him then. Billy, please forgive me. I was too afraid to tell you what I did. I wanted you to think good of me, only good things... to make you happy. I love you so much." She began to cry again.

He looked at her, blinking slowly. "It's not your fault, Mom." Then he pulled in a breath and clutched his hair. "Oh, Jeez. Oh—"

"What is it?" Anthony asked.

"I was supposed to get the boat, but I didn't. I forgot!" He leaned over and moaned, then threw himself back against the sofa cushions. "Stupid! I had to pick up my father in Martin's boat. He is going to be so pissed off."

The cart skidded to a stop on the sparse grass in Joan Sinclair's front yard. Tree tops swayed in the wind, and a piece of loose sheet metal banged on the roof. Gail took the steps two at a time and hurried across the porch. She opened the screen and heard music coming from inside. She rapped on the door and waited. There was no response. She knocked louder. Still nothing.

She tried the door knob, and it turned.

"Hello? Joan?" The music was coming from upstairs: the long, plaintive wail of a saxophone, the throb of a bass. She went across the dark living room to the hall and shouted, "Joan!"

The music went off. There were quick taps of heels on a wood floor. Then Joan Sinclair's voice demanded to know who was there.

"Gail Connor."

"As I live and breathe." A raspy chuckle floated down the stairs. "Come on up." The dim light at the top revealed Joan Sinclair in a red robe with feathers at the hem and around the sleeves. Her thick bangs skimmed the lifted wings of her brows, and her hair was a black curtain on the padded shoulders of her gown. Her makeup was dramatically vivid. "Are you alone? Where's that gorgeous Latin lover of yours?"

"Wondering why I'm not back already. Aren't you dressed yet? I've come to take you to the hotel. We're going to have a party."

"More parties. Tom came by last night, now you. Oh, boy, did he leave in a huff. You haven't seen him, have you? We had a fight, and I think he's mad at me."

"Tom went back to Islamorada. Joan, please hurry. If we don't leave
now
, we'll get caught in the storm."

"I'm not sure if I still want to go. How about a martini?" Joan turned, her robe floating behind her.

"No, thanks." Gail followed, sliding her hand along a wooden balustrade polished by age. The upper hall was lit by a single twenty-five-watt bulb in a screw-in porcelain fixture. Rainwater came through a crack, patting on a runner that moths had eaten to threads. Gail went up the final step. The bathroom door was open, and she saw a bathtub with claw feet. Candles sat in pools of dried wax on the white hexagonal tiles.

Lightning flashed through a window at the other end of the hall. Thunder cracked, grew, then thudded so loudly the balustrade trembled.

The clutter in Joan Sinclair's bedroom was even worse than downstairs. While the living room was crammed with junk, here an attempt had been made at recreating the boudoir of a Hollywood diva. Red embossed wallpaper curled from the walls; velvet swag curtains drooped from cheap metal rods. The same mosquito netting used in the resort's cottages was draped around a four-poster bed. A feather boa hung over the head board, and chenille sofa pillows were piled on a faded blue satin comforter. There were half a dozen movie posters in ornate gold plastic frames. The only illumination came from a flickering bulb in the cut-glass chandelier in the ceiling and the candles on the mirrored vanity.