Suspicion of Madness (46 page)

Baylor watched the woman in the cart check her face in the mirror of her compact.

Gail Connor said, "Take Joan inside and find her a place to sit. You should assign an officer—two officers—to stay with her. I don't think she'll be a problem, but I can't guarantee that. And one other thing, Detective Baylor, if you could—"

"Hold it." He walked closer to the cart. The woman—the person in the cart looked back at him through her sunglasses and smiled. She slid a cigarette out of a silver case and leaned toward the railing.

Her voice was a low purr. "Hello again, Detective." She brought the cigarette to her lips.
"S'il vous plait
?
"

Baylor took a good look as he slowly reached for his lighter. He held it out and thumbed the wheel. She—he—whoever it was cupped her hand around his and drew in some smoke. One of her fake fingernails was missing. Her dress was a crazy mix of green and orange, and she was wearing white plastic boots with high heels.

The smoke came out on a smile. "You are too kind."

He walked back to Gail Connor. She waited for him to say something. Baylor said, "We're going to need a psych wagon."

"Do something for me, though, will you, Detective? Tell them to be nice to her. I think you'll get more cooperation that way."

"Be nice?"

"She isn't Arnel Goode. Look at her. She's Joan Sinclair, the movie star."

31

They left late the following afternoon. Most of the clouds had cleared off, leaving a sky that reflected blue in the puddles of rainwater along the highway. The ocean shimmered with hues of turquoise.

Anthony lowered the windows and opened the sunroof. Gail had put on her new white dress with the sea shells embroidered at the neckline. The skirt lifted in the breeze coming through the car, and Anthony’s hand went around her bare knee.

They would arrive back in Miami about dark. Anthony had suggested they all go out to dinner, but Gail needed some time alone with Karen. At least Karen had worked herself out of her snit. She had left two messages. 5:32
P.M. yesterday:
Gramma told me everything. Why didn’t you call me? This is so totally unfair.
(The phone had slammed down.) Another message at 7:15
A.M.
Mom, it’s me. Your daughter. I’m on my way with Molly to make sandwiches. I apologize for my attitude. It’s okay if you get married. I love you, and I understand. Tell Anthony I said hi.

The car went over the bridge from Windley Key to Plantation Key. Gail stretched her arms through the sunroof and let the wind race through her fingers. It seemed that everything in the world had been put right again, a naive hope, she knew, but there it was.

She dropped her arms. “What should we do about Kyle Fadden?”

Anthony looked at her through his sunglasses. “We testify. The judge puts him in prison. Why should we cut him any breaks? You could have been killed.”

“Don’t pretend to be such a tough guy. You saved his life.”

“I did it for Billy.”

“Sure you did. Is he going to be all right? Billy, I mean.”

“Sharon Vogelhut thinks he has a long way to go, but he will probably get there eventually. Like most of us,” Anthony added.

“He has Martin on his side,” Gail said. “He never believed it before. They’re all going to be all right.”

“I hope so.” The wind lifted Gail’s skirt again, and Anthony slid his hand underneath to caress her thigh. “Where is Joan Lindeman? What do you think? Did she meet the lover of her dreams and go away with him?”

“She’s dead, Anthony. She has to be. Otherwise, she would have married Tom.”

“Did she die of natural causes, do you think? Or did Arnel kill her when she told him to get out of her life? That’s a dangerous thing to say to a man. It sets off his animal passions.”

Laughing, Gail leaned over and kissed Anthony just below his ear. “I’ll watch my step.” She sat back in her seat and stared up through the sun roof. “Did Arnel Goode murder Joan Lindeman? No, because to him she was Joan Sinclair, and he was a total fan. She was his idol, his star. He worshipped her.”

“He did, but her marriage to Tom would have been the end of him. Adios, Arnel.”

“So we’ll never know,” Gail said.

It was Tom’s reappearance that had ignited the war between the two halves of this strange creature. Arnel had won the first battle—he got rid of Tom—but Joan Sinclair had finally triumphed. She had banished Arnel Goode forever.

Anthony said, “There were no other bodies in the mulch pile. Baylor told me they’re going to dig under the house.”

“That’s a depressing idea. Poor Joan.”

“She doesn’t exist, Gail. She died two years ago.”

“God, I keep forgetting.”

“I have never seen anything like it,” Anthony said. “Arnel was a better actor than Joan Sinclair.
Dios mío,
what an actor. He fooled everyone.”

“Not quite everyone,” Gail said. “Sandra knew.”

“You’re guessing, but I agree,” Anthony said.

Perhaps Sandra McCoy had not been entirely sure, leaving Joan Sinclair’s house that day. Perhaps she had only wondered. She had gone back to the resort, her mind buzzing. She had itched to talk to Doug Lindeman about it. On the shuttle to the marina, she’d had time to get a good look at Arnel Goode, and he must have felt the suspicion pouring off her like heat waves. He had keys to the van in his pocket. He had waited for the right moment.

When the handcuffs went on, Arnel Goode had blinked in confusion. “Where are we going? I don’t understand. I don’t
want
to go.”

Teri Greenwald replied, “It’s a movie, Joan. You’re in a movie.”

The officers took him away in the blond wig; they had allowed him that dignity. Last night Baylor called to report that Arnel Goode had made a confession—rather, that Joan Sinclair had explained why Arnel had done it. He had saved her from Sandra, then from Tom Holtz, and finally from Doug Lindeman and Lois Greenwald. And then she—Joan Sinclair—had started explaining to a young female officer how to make it in Hollywood.

At the southern edge of Key Largo Anthony’s cell phone rang. He looked at the display. “It’s my grandparents’ house.”

Holding it to his ear, he said. “Hello? Ah,
¿Que tal, abuelita?”
He frowned, glanced over at Gail, then listened. She gathered that his grandmother was on the other end, but could make no sense of the conversation. Anthony appeared mystified, then amused. He told his grandmother good-bye and
besitos, abuela
and hung up.

Gail looked at him but said nothing. He stared through the windshield, and a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” she said.

“My grandmother called to congratulate us on our marriage.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your mother called her last night with the news. We were married yesterday afternoon. Digna was not happy that I neglected to tell her, but how could I have, when I myself hadn’t heard about it?”

“Wait! Wait a minute.” Gail held up her hands. “She thinks we’re
married?”

“Yes, you called your mother and told her that we were getting married on Friday afternoon—“

“I did not!”

“Gail, I am only repeating what Digna just told me.”

“I didn’t tell my mother anything of the sort. We don’t even have a license. I told Mother we were
planning
to get our license yesterday. The phone reception was bad, but she couldn’t have misunderstood to that extent.”

“Apparently she did, and since she couldn’t get back in touch with you, she called Digna to see if she had heard from
me.
No, she hadn’t, and this is why Digna is a little put out, you see? Her grandson was married in secret. But she forgives me. She wants to have a little party for us, just the family. Twenty or thirty people, nothing too elaborate. She says you should invite your family too.”

“What did you
tell
her?”

“I said... ‘
Gracias, abuela

“What do you mean? You let her think we’re
married
? Are you insane? Everyone in Miami will know. My mother already believes it. And
Karen.
Oh, my God. She must have told all her friends.”

Anthony broke into laughter.

“It isn’t funny.”

“Yes... it is.
Ay, Dios mío
... you have to laugh. Gail—“ He snapped his fingers. “I know what we can do. We tell them we flew to Mexico on the way home and got a fast divorce.
¡Qué chistoso!”
He wiped his eyes.

“Anthony, we can’t do this.”

His laughter slowed to a stop. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not true!”

“Well... technically, but I think it would be wrong of us to cause our families any more confusion. We can take care of the details later.”

She looked at him. “You’re really serious.”

He smiled. “It would be so easy.”

She found herself smiling back at him. “So... when do we do it for real?”

“Whenever we feel like it...
Señora
Quintana.” Still watching the road, he took her hand and kissed it.

Gail put her chin on his shoulder. “I’m not sleeping with you without a ceremony. It just wouldn’t be right.”
 

“No?”

“No. And I can’t go home without a wedding ring.”

They made a stop at a jewelry store in Key Largo just as the place was about to close and bought two plain gold bands. From there they went across the street to The Sundowner, an outdoor bar that looked out on the water.

Anthony told the bartender to open a bottle of champagne. Champagne for everybody.

One of the waitresses took the yellow carnations from a vase on the bar and put a napkin around them to make a bouquet. They all went down to the beach barefoot, a ragged group of locals, half-drunk tourists, and people curious about what was going on. The clouds on the horizon had turned pink.

Anthony rolled up his pant legs and Gail lifted the hem of her embroidered white dress. The cool, clear water lapped at their feet.

“I love you,
Señora
Quintana.”

“Te quiero.”
She smiled. “Don’t I get a kiss?”

He gave her a long, slow one. Then he swept her into his arms, and she shrieked as he swung her around. Everyone applauded. Anthony put her down and someone poured champagne. Someone else took a photo. They got a copy in the mail a week later.

Gail smiled as she pulled it out of the envelope and showed him.

He laughed. “Look at that, we had a sunset wedding after all.”

The flash lit up their grinning faces, the champagne frothing over the rims of the glasses, the white sand, the bouquet of carnations. Behind them the fiery orange ball of the sun slipped into the ocean.

Epilogue

"I would love a cigarette. Do you have one?"

I "No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"Who did you say you work for?
Variety?"

"Well... I write articles for journals."

"Now, listen. When you do the article, for God's sake don't say I'm Joan Sinclair, the star of eleven vampire pictures. That's how most of my fans know me, but talk about my Oscar nomination. Carlotta Sands,
The Edge of Midnight,
1963. I've got to get a new publicist. What
is
this place?"

"What does it seem like to you?"

"One of my movies was on TV the other night.
Rage of the Vampire.
Everyone saw it, and the next day—my God, they wouldn't leave me alone. 'Joan! Joan! You must hear this
all
the time, but I love your movies.' I'm not complaining, I
adore
my fans. It comes with the territory, the price of fame and all that. Could I have one of your cigarettes?"

"I don't smoke. Have you heard from Arnel Goode?"

"Arnel. My absolute, all-time, number-one fan. He traveled
all the way
from Indiana to find me."

"Have you seen him lately?"

"No. I haven't. What newspaper did you say you worked for?"

"I'm freelancing. Do you remember Anthony Quintana? Billy Fadden's lawyer?"

"Quintana... Of
course
I do.
Rrowrrr."

"Mr. Quintana wanted to know about Sandra McCoy. For a time the police thought that Billy Fadden killed her. They no longer believe this, but Mr. Quintana wants to make sure you had nothing else to add."

"Billy! How is Billy? What's up with that kid?"

"He wants to go to film school. You've inspired him."

"How kind of you to say so. You tell Billy not to take any shit from the directors. He's got the talent, and if he doesn't let anything stand in his way, he'll make it. That's what it takes in Hollywood these days—guts."

"He wants to be a documentary filmmaker. He wants to do a project about your career."

"Fabulous! Tell him to contact my agent."