Read Suspicion of Madness Online

Authors: Barbara Parker

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General

Suspicion of Madness (9 page)

BOOK: Suspicion of Madness
7.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

"Your therapist isn't doing shit for you."

"Lois, I can't talk about it now." Doug dropped his face into his palm.

"Let me help." She rubbed his shoulder. "Tell me what you want from me. Anything."

With a gasp he noticed his watch. "Damn! I've got a client coming in. Lois, I'm sorry to do this, but…."

Lois looked up at him for several seconds, then said, "Someday, Douglas, when you're ready, I'll be here for you."

"I'm aware of that." He backed across the room. "Thank you, Lois. Call me in a couple of days, let me know what you find out from Aunt Joan."

"I'll keep in touch." Lois lifted her face, expecting him to kiss her cheek. He did, but she turned her face and he kissed the corner of her mouth before he could pull back. At the end of the hall she turned around and looked at him. Her long black dress hung straight from her shoulders, and the fish printed on it swam around her body in irregular rows. A few strands of hair drifted across her high forehead, and her mouth was a pink line across her face. Doug lifted a hand, then shut the door.

He wiped his fingers over his mouth as he walked to the window and tilted one of the slats in the blinds. The light blazed on the white gravel parking lot. A few seconds later a dusty Jeep Cherokee appeared, waiting at the edge of the highway. The rear tires spun, and it shot across traffic. It dodged other cars parking at the grocery store and went to the back under a shade tree, circling around so that the windshield faced the law office. The sun glared on the glass.

The miniblind gave a metallic snap when he let it go.

The bitch was stalking him.

He'd first noticed this about a month ago, looking to see if Sandra had arrived yet. Across the highway, headlights in the parking lot had swept across a dark green Jeep and he had seen Lois Greenwald's face at the driver's window, staring out. It hadn't really grabbed his attention until he noticed she was still there an hour later, as Sandra was leaving.

A year ago, Martin Greenwald had been dropping hints about wanting new lawyers, so Doug had flirted with Martin's sister. A goof, a joke, some innocent flattery. He'd never imagined she would take him seriously. Now she was circling, closing in. He went to his desk, picked up the framed photograph, and shoved it into a drawer. The photo had come with the frame. One of these days, Lois Greenwald was going to take a closer look and figure it out.

Doug didn't like waiting to file those damned papers, but he didn't have much choice. It would mean a delay, but he could deal with it.

His father's people, the Lindemans, had been Conchs, original settlers, scavengers of shipwrecks, smugglers of rum. Lindemans had helped put the railroad through in 1912, and Lindemans had died in the storm that had swept it away. Their bones were buried at the foot of the 1935 Hurricane Monument. A few had hung onto the rocks by their fingernails. They had survived. They had stayed and prospered. Doug planned to get the hell out. He invented daydreams about leaving the Keys. Walking away, not looking back. Clients asking his secretary,
What about my case?
Fuck your case. Fuck everything. Drive to Miami International Airport, leave his car with the keys in it, fly to Hawaii, no forwarding address.

Soon. Oh, Christ, let it be soon.

Doug went down the hall to Thomas Holtz's office.

The old man didn't usually get to work so early. He spent too many hours with his pals in one bar or another to get here before ten, most days. Doug's father, who had died a drunk, had been one of those pals. Graduating with mediocre grades from a third-tier law school, Doug had leaned on Tom to take him in.

Tom Holtz was sixty-eight, a barrel-shaped man with white hair and glasses. Broken veins reddened his cheeks, and gold glinted on his molars. His wood-paneled walls were decorated with ancient civic-award plaques, fading color snapshots of himself in fishing tournaments, and amateurish seascapes done by his late wife. If Doug had thought he would end up this way, he would do what Billy Fadden had done, but get it right.

"Hey, Tom. Here's a news flash for you."

Doug told him about Billy Fadden's confession, how he'd tried to hang himself. It looked bad, but the kid had an alibi. He claimed he'd been watching movies at Aunt Joan's house. Doug, as a favor for the Greenwalds, would hold off on filing the guardianship papers until this was cleared up. Otherwise, the sheriff might not believe Billy's alibi, if they thought Joan was incompetent.

Tom asked a couple of questions, making Doug go over it again. The old guy was slowing down. He couldn't hold a thought anymore. Finally Tom nodded. "I'm mighty relieved, to tell you the truth."

Doug said, "It's not off. We're just going to wait a while."

"Are you sure this is the right thing?" Tom leaned back in his chair. His hard, round stomach strained the buttons on his shirt. "I agreed to act as attorney of record because I wanted to see Joan get some help, but there's got to be some other way. If we say she's incompetent, it'll wound her pride."

"She can't live alone anymore, Tom. You know that."

Tom shook his head. "Have you asked what Joan wants? Have you even considered it? You get to a certain age, you need to feel you still have some control. She doesn't want to leave Lindeman Key. Maybe she needs to have her house fixed up. Some paint. New kitchen, new windows. Make it pretty for her."

Doug paced across the office, hands in his pockets. "That's a waste of money. She doesn't own it, Tom. She has a life estate. My dad set it up that way. When she dies, her interest goes to Martin Greenwald."

"Yes, yes, but that isn't going to happen for a long time. Here's what you do. Fix the place up and send somebody out a couple of times a week to clean house and look after her. Wouldn't that work?"

"Tom—"

"The woman who took care of Mary when she was so sick. A good woman, very reliable. I've still got her number."

"Aunt Joan would never go for it."

Tom held up a hand. "We'll personally introduce them. She'd like this woman. What if I go talk to her and explain things?"

"You haven't seen Aunt Joan in two years. I'm telling you, she's different. She's gone downhill, Tom."

"How do
you
know? When's the last time you were out there?"

"Not lately. She won't let me in because she's under the delusion that I'm going to steal something. There's nothing
to
steal. Her house is a junk heap."

Tom swivelled to keep focused on Doug's progress across the room and back in the other direction. "How do you know so much? Sandra McCoy? Is that who you mean?" He was satisfied to see Doug's head snap around.

Doug said, "She liked Aunt Joan. I asked her to see if she was all right."

How in hell had he opened his office to a man like this? Tom said, "Let me tell you something. It's not right to keep Joanie in the dark. She ought to be told. I should do it myself."

"Stay away from my aunt."

The tone was so sharp that Tom jerked. "What?"

"Stay away from her. She's not to find out until the court orders an investigation and they send somebody out there." Doug stopped directly across from where Tom sat, still stunned. Doug spoke slowly, as if to a child. "If you tell her, Tom, she'll get the place cleaned up. She'll have time to bathe and put on a nice dress. She'll convince them she's perfectly sane, and she isn't."

"She is! She's fine. At least she was, last time I saw her. Don't pretend you give a damn about Joanie. I looked the other way when Sandra McCoy came around, and you telling the cops that you hardly knew her. You're a liar. If I decide to drop in on Joan, you'd best not interfere."

Doug leaned on Tom's desk, his muscular, curly-haired arms making pillars for his chest. His face was white with anger, and the freckles were brown dots. "Don't threaten me with Sandra, you pervert. What were
you
doing with her? Keep away from Aunt Joan. Do you understand me? Are we real clear on that?"

Doug went out, and Tom stared at the empty doorway. He sat for several minutes without moving. Confusion and shame overtook him. His chest ached. He couldn't breathe. He sobbed once, then held it back with a knuckle pressed against his lips. Sandra had told Doug. They must've had a good laugh. But it hadn't been so terrible, what he'd done. He wasn't a pervert. He had never touched her.

It had started when Mary was dying. She had a woman to come in and help her so Tom could get out of the house. The smell of medicine and bandages and the sight of her body hadn't driven him away, though that had been bad enough. No, he hadn't wanted to be there when she died. He'd prayed to come home and she'd be gone.

He had done some damage to his liver those last weeks. He'd been to every last bar in the Upper Keys. He was leaving The Green Turtle Inn at closing time and ran into Sandra McCoy coming across the parking lot in her waitress outfit, little black shorts and a red top. He took a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and asked her to show him something sweet. And she did. She laughed, lifted her shirt and the bra with it, then grabbed the money and ran for her car, her long red hair swinging behind her. A few days later he waited for her to finish her shift, and it happened again. They started finding places to park. A day came when she took everything off, but he never asked to touch her, and she never offered to let him.

It stopped when he and Joan Lindeman got back together. Then Joanie changed her mind.
Please, darling, let's not torture ourselves with regrets. Think of me fondly sometimes, won't you?
It had sounded like a line from one of her damned movies, and that was the last he'd heard from her. Eventually he stopped trying.

A few months later, Tom waited for Sandra to get off work. He followed her to her apartment. She asked to borrow money for some new clothes. Tom gave it, knowing damned well he'd never get it back. Then she had needed money for this or that, and he'd given it to her. One day Sandra had told him not to bother coming around again. He'd wanted to ask her if the reason was Doug Lindeman, but he hadn't asked. It didn't matter. He was tired of girls. He felt old. He was old. An old man.

All his life, he'd thought he was happy. He'd told himself so often he'd believed it. When Joanie had said she loved him, the lies had vanished like smoke, and he could see that he'd been waiting for her all his life. What they'd had once, they could have again. Tom had to make her listen. She needed him, needed somebody who wasn't going to stand by while her nephew picked her bones clean and ruined her last good years.

His door was open. Tom got up and closed it. He took a bottle out of his credenza and poured himself a drink to steady his nerves. He smoothed his hair and sat at his desk. Joan's number was in his Rolodex. Tilting his glasses to see, he punched the numbers one by one as he held the receiver close to his chest. He raised it to his ear and listened to the ringing on the other end, hoping she would pick up. She didn't. Her machine came on.

He could have repeated the message from memory, the same one she'd had for years. The voice was dark and smoky and bored. "Hi. If you don't know who this is, you've got the wrong number. If you're selling something, hang up
now.
Otherwise, leave a message. If I feel like it, I'll get back to you."

Beep.

"Heyyyy, Joanie, guess who? It's Tom Holtz. Been thinking about you. Wondering how you're doing." Tom put his forehead in his hand and stared down at his desk. A draft of a last will and testament. A receipt from the dry cleaner's. He made it rock on its fold. "I've missed you, Boo-boo. Missed you more than you know."

There was only an empty electronic silence on the line.

"Call me, Joanie. We need to talk. It's serious, and I want you to call me back. Use my cell phone number. It's still the same. Don't call the office. But you will call, won't you? Soon?"

He swung his chair around and stood up. "Dammit, Joanie, I'm coming to see you. How about a late lunch? Say two o'clock? I'll bring some sandwiches. Champagne! Wouldn't you like that? Don't worry about getting all dolled up. It's just Tom, and he thinks you're perfect."

 

In his own office, Doug Lindeman carefully hung up the extension. He could feel everything starting to spin away from him. The old man was about to screw it up. There was no time left, none. He'd have to think of something fast.

 

As the boat picked up speed coming out of the marina, Kyle Fadden automatically scanned the sky to the southeast. Rolling out of bed this morning he'd done what he always did, turn on the NOAA weather station. The low pressure south of Cuba yesterday had become a tropical storm. This time of year it could head this way and get nasty. The sea was still a cauldron of heat, feeding whatever storms might pass over it. It would take a couple of days to get here, if it did. At present the sky was empty of anything but sea gulls and a couple of fighter jets streaking toward the naval air base at Boca Chica.

Fadden had three customers in the skiff, businessmen from Ohio with shiny new rods and reels, who had informed him they were here for the pharmaceutical sales conference at The Cheeca Lodge. The charter had come up at the last minute, these guys suddenly deciding they wanted to go fishing for snapper. Fadden had almost said no, having told his ex-wife he'd be by the hospital, but he needed the job, and he could just as easily make a phone call to check on Billy. So he'd bought some sandwiches and sodas at the market and put bait in the live wells. The salesmen brought a cooler of beer. They were the kind who would want him to bait their hooks, entertain them with stories about Colombian drug running, and say cheese in the photos.

BOOK: Suspicion of Madness
7.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Trials (Rock Bottom) by Biermann, Sarah
Watchlist by Bryan Hurt
Icebound by Julie Rowe
Midnight My Love by Anne Marie Novark
Louise Rennison_Georgia Nicolson 09 by Stop in the Name of Pants!
Opening the Marriage by Epic Sex Stories
Captivated: Return to Earth by Ashlynn Monroe