Suspicion of Madness (8 page)

"I guess so."

This was like talking to an empty bed. He said, "Is Joan Sinclair going to meow like a cat at the police station?"

Billy finally looked at him. He had his mother's brown eyes. "What?"

"I've heard she's eccentric. Crazy. Over the edge."

"Bullshit. Joan's not like other people. She does what she wants to. That doesn't make her crazy."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Do you think I'm crazy?" It was a challenge, not a question.

"If you try to hang yourself again, I might."

That failed to arouse a smile. "Yeah, I did that because the gun wasn't loaded."

"What gun?"

"Martin's. It wasn't loaded."

"You had a gun?" Anthony doubted the truth of this. "Where is it now?"

"Still there, I guess."

"On the dock?"

Billy frowned, concentrating. "That's weird. I just remembered... shooting at the dogs. We don't have dogs."

"Are you sure you had a gun?"

He hesitated. "No. I'm not sure."

"We'll ask your stepfather if it's missing."

Billy tugged at the cervical collar, ripping loose the Velcro tabs, wincing as he pulled it from around his neck. A line of bruises purpled his skin. He tossed the collar to the chair by his bed. "I didn't kill Sandra. I don't care what I allegedly said to the cops. We were friends."

"Good friends?"

"I guess."

"She bought liquor for you? Beer?"

Billy looked at him. "Yes. So?"

"Anything else?"

"Heroin, crack, and Roofies. Jesus, man. No, nothing else."

Anthony let it go for now. "Did you ever have sex with her?"

Seconds ticked by. Billy noticed his bandaged hand and held it in front of his face to see it better. He picked at the tape holding the gauze. His hands were masculine but small, with bony wrists.

"May I take that as a yes?"

"Yeah. We did."

"A lot?"

"Not a lot to me. To you maybe. But she started going out with this guy."

"Does this guy have a name?"

The square of gauze came up, attached on one side. His palm showed a laceration, some stitches, the bright orange of antiseptic. "Yeow. How'd I do this?"

"Who was Sandra's boyfriend?"

Billy pressed the tape back into place and let his arm fall off his chest. "She wouldn't tell me."

"Did you fight about it?"

"It wasn't a fight."

"When did you and she
discuss
it? Do you remember? How many days before she died? And where did this discussion take place?"

He stared out the window. "We were at Holiday Isle, in the parking lot. It was on Tuesday night. She died on Thursday."

"Did anyone see you and Sandra in the parking lot?"

"Some girl named Penny. Sandra got in her car and left."

"Penny what?"

"I don't know."

The police would soon have the name. Believing they had a confession, they would reinterview witnesses and ask specifically about Billy Fadden. "Did you hit her? Answer me. I don't want to find out from the cops."

"It was a slap. That's all. It didn't hurt her, she just got mad. When she came to work the next day, I apologized. She's like, okay, it's okay, forget it. I didn't kill her. I didn't." A tear trailed down his cheek, and Billy slowly lifted his hand and wiped it away. Whatever Dr. Vogelhut had given him was having an effect.

"You left the island with her the day she was killed, didn't you?"

"Yeah, we took the shuttle to the marina. She got in her car and left. Then I got in my mom's car... and did some errands and things."

"Did you see Sandra again that night?"

"No."

"And you arrived home about eight o'clock?"

"Yeah." Billy swallowed as if to ease a pain in his throat. "I didn't kill her. I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't. You believe me, don't you?"

Anthony remembered what the detective had told him. How she had died. The unspeakable violence of it.

Billy's eyes swam up to focus on Anthony's face. "It wasn't me. I swear."

He put a hand on Billy's shoulder. "It wasn't you."
 

"Mr. Quintana." His mouth twisted as he held back a sob. "I'm really glad you're here."

6

The Buttonwood Inn was one of Holtz and Lindeman's biggest clients. Calling ahead from her boat, Lois Greenwald had felt no hesitation in asking to see Mr. Lindeman immediately. He took her into his office and shut the door—such a masculine office, wood and leather, a big desk, neat rows of law books on the shelves. There were two chairs at right angles in a corner. Douglas sat with one leg over the arm of his chair, foot slowly swinging. Deck shoes, no socks. Navy pants. Yellow knit shirt, open collar, gold chain shining on his neck. Lois had been making a mental inventory as they talked.

She said, "I think Billy's so-called alibi is a crock of bull. He wanted Sandra, I could see it written all over him, but she wouldn't give him the time of day, and the frustration drove him wild, a boy his age, you know how they are, so oversexed and violent. Even if they arrest him, they won't convict him. We'll give Anthony Quintana our last drop of blood, and Billy will walk. Again."

Doug's brow furrowed. "So... how long do you want me to wait?"

"Let's say until the police are no longer interested in Billy."

Doug shifted in the chair, dropping his foot to the floor. "Come on, Lo. That could take weeks. What's going to happen to Aunt Joan in the meantime? I'm worried about her."

"She's in no danger of starving to death. She's not going to hurt herself." Lois touched Doug's arm and felt the springy blond hairs under her fingertips. "I need your help. Someone from
Condé Nast Traveler
will be here next weekend to write an article. If you file the guardianship, and if we lose Joan as an alibi witness for Billy, I might as well board up the hotel right now."

He rolled his head toward her on the back of the chair, and she could almost make out a smile on his lips. "Don't you think you're overstating this just a tad?"

She held his gaze for several seconds. "How much do I ever ask of you, Douglas? I was the one who persuaded Martin to retain this law firm, when there are a dozen with more clout, and the first time I come to you with a real problem, you make excuses. How about a little appreciation? You told me we have a special relationship. Is that true or isn't it?"

He scooted down further in the chair, frowning, nibbling on his thumbnail. A big man, six-foot-two. Big hands and feet and long legs. His thighs were curves of hard muscle. He sat with his knees apart, displaying himself, and Lois wondered if this was a sign. He had said he cared for her, but so far he hadn't done much to make her believe it. Douglas was seven years younger, but age didn't matter when two people were fated to be together.

They had known each other since childhood. She had dated his older cousin, Teddy, in high school. Lois had noticed, even then, that Doug was beautiful. Gold-streaked hair, blond eyelashes, green eyes. Freckles on his face. He was thirty-six years old, and he still had freckles. His lips were round and pink and shiny. Lois would dream of his mouth on her body, and she would wake up, the sensations were that real. Doug knew how she felt about him, but he said he needed time. He was still getting over the death of a woman from Miami he'd been in love with since law school. Jennifer. She had died in a car crash three years ago. Doug wouldn't give her last name, though. He wouldn't talk about her. He said it hurt too much. And yet he kept a framed picture of this Jennifer person on his desk, which annoyed Lois greatly.

Stretching, Doug extended his arms. Muscles rippled. He locked his hands behind his neck. Lois had seen him in a swimsuit. He had blond hair on his chest, and his nipples were pink and shiny, like his mouth. He said, "I might wait to file the papers if you do something for me. Testify at the guardianship hearing."

"I don't want to do that," Lois said.

"Because?"

"It would look bad. The judge would say I was trying to get Joan off the property so Martin could have it. Anyway, she's not
that
crazy, not to where the men in white coats would take her away."

"That's not going to happen." Doug smiled. His teeth were slightly crooked, which made him look vulnerable and boyish. "Aunt Joan will go to the best place available. I'll make sure of it. She's all the family I have left, Lo."

"Martin wouldn't want me to get involved. He feels sorry for Joan."

"Then I guess you've got a choice to make." Doug kept looking at her, and Lois fell into his eyes like sinking into deep water. She couldn't breathe. Doug covered her hand with his, big and heavy and warm. "Lois, if you won't testify, the judge might not grant the guardianship. I want you and Martin to have the property, honey, but if I don't have the power to sign a lease, what can we do?"

They needed the property for its deep water access. The Buttonwood Inn's harbor was too shallow, and the state wouldn't let them dredge. Joan had a deepwater dock. Two years ago she had said she would give it to them, then she had said no, even though Lois had gone over there and practically begged her. Joan had screamed through the door,
I said no, now get out!
Martin was content to let it go, but if they didn't have deep water, they could never accommodate bigger boats.

"We need the dock," Lois said, "but I can't testify against Joan. I can't."

Doug leaned so close she could smell his cologne and count his eyelashes. "Have you seen the house lately? It breaks my heart, how Aunt Joan lets it deteriorate. Do you remember how beautiful the house was when my grandparents lived there? Teddy brought you out to visit, didn't he?"

"Yes. It was a beautiful house. The chandeliers and the fireplace and the oriental carpets. We used to sit on the porch and watch the moon on the ocean, and the stars—"

"I want to restore it, Lo."

Her heart leaped. "Would you live there?"

"I'd be there on weekends. We'd be neighbors, wouldn't we?" He smiled, and his lips shone. "I need you to make it happen." He took her hand and smoothed her fingers over his. He pressed his lips to her skin. She wanted to moan, to cry. Joy, exultant and giddy, surged through her body. She leaned toward him and rested her head on their joined hands.

"Yes, Douglas. Yes. If you need me, all you ever have to do is say so."

"And could you... check on Aunt Joan a couple of times a week for me? Could you do that?"

Lois raised her head. "Check on her?"

"You know. See how she is. Take a look around."

"Joan won't let me in. She doesn't like me."

"You could take her a casserole or something."

"Why do I have to check on her? Let Arnel Goode do it. He's over there nearly every day."

"Listen to me, Lois. Somebody has to say to the judge, 'Why, yes, Your Honor, I visited Ms. Lindeman many times. It's so sad. She recites all the lines from her movies, over and over. She smelled like she hadn't bathed in a week. There was nothing in the fridge but caviar, beer, and moldy take-out from the hotel restaurant. The condition of her house was shocking! There are liquor bottles, roaches, garbage everywhere. She thinks that space aliens are watching her through the TV, and the FBI is tapping her phones.'"

"I can't say that."

"Yes, you can. Sandra was going to."

Sandra.
Lois felt the cold wind of betrayal sliding across her neck. A few times, sitting in her car across the street watching for a glimpse of Douglas, she had seen Sandra McCoy come into this office, and it wasn't to deliver legal papers from the resort. Lois had imagined them on that couch over there, or on the carpet. Maybe Sandra had straddled him as he sat in that very chair, her tarty red hair swinging across his face. The girl had no morals. Twenty-two years old. They could go after any man, girls like that, and make a man lie about it. At the resort, Sandra had made her sly little smiles whenever Doug Lindeman's name had come up, and Lois had wanted to slap her.

"Were you involved with Sandra McCoy?"

Douglas blinked, then smiled as if he hadn't heard correctly. "What do you mean? Did I have sex with her?"

Sex. He could have phrased it some other way, but he had used
that word.
"Were you? Why else would she agree to spy for you?"

"Lois. For God's sake. Sandra didn't help me because she
liked
me. I paid her. She was planning to move to Miami. Anyway, I've been completely celibate since... you know."

Lois looked toward his desk, where a framed picture of the woman named Jennifer smiled back at her. "Doug, you need to get past this."

He nodded and let out a breath. "I'm trying to."

"Don't you think that by having that picture on your desk, you prolong your attachment to her?"

"My therapist says it helps me face my fears."