Suspicion of Madness (19 page)

"I see. The resort makes more money that way?"

"Not from the dockage, particularly, but if we can accommodate yachts, we attract a different class of people. There are many, many people with serious money. If you're in that group, and you want a tropical island experience where you can feel safe, where the food is first-rate, and there's a major city not too far away, and you can spend U.S. dollars and not get ripped off, and also—forgive me—where you don't have to worry about impoverished people begging for handouts— If you want all that, where do you go? That attitude may not be popular, but there it is. Lois wants the dock, but Joan refuses. For myself, honestly? I don't care. I've been around people with that kind of wealth, and they tend to expect too damned much. Hell, I'd have to shave every day and wear socks."

Gail smiled.

"Now, what are all these questions about?" Martin asked, glancing at Anthony as well. His gentle humor was coupled with quick intelligence.

Guessing where Gail was going with this, Anthony let her answer, but it was not the direction he had expected.

"We're looking for the reason Doug Lindeman wants a guardianship. If he controls his aunt's property he could sell it or lease it to you."

"Oh, I don't think that's going to happen. Joan Sinclair might be eccentric, but is she legally incompetent? I doubt it."

"Let's assume a judge did grant the petition. Wouldn't Doug make you a very good deal? He'd do it for Lois, wouldn't he?" Gail looked around at Anthony, triumph in her eyes. "Doug is in love with her."

"Coño."

Martin laughed. "Where did you hear that?"

"From Lois. I just talked to her." As Martin shook his head, Gail added, "She didn't actually use the words 'in love,' but that's what she meant. She said they were probably going to get married."

"Good God." Martin lifted his hands from the wheel, then let them drop. "I knew she had a thing for Doug Lindeman, but not that it was reciprocal. My sister is full of surprises."

Gail turned her head toward Anthony and raised her brows. He read her mind: It could have been Lois's idea to file the guardianship, and Doug had gone along. It was a theory, but not one they could use. The question remained: Would the police believe Joan Sinclair if she provided an alibi for Billy?

A pelican glided across the bow. Martin pulled back on the throttles, slowing the boat as they neared the marina. He said, "I'm going to drive to a doctor's appointment in Key Largo. I should be back around five-thirty, and if you want to hitch a ride home, give a call and I'll wait for you. Otherwise, we'll send someone to pick you up."

Gail stood to see through the windscreen. "Martin, I've got a question about Sandra McCoy. Maybe you can answer it."

"I'll try," he said.

"Why was Lois going to fire her?"

"You've got me already. Ask Lois. Whatever happens in the day-to-day operation of the resort, that's her bailiwick. I really didn't know Sandra. I've learned that if you have a manager, it's good policy not to become too familiar with the employees. They start running to you to intervene." He steered the boat around the breakwater. "I work in my garden. I put on some classical music. I don't get ulcers."

Gail had come to a dead end. Frowning, she put on her sunglasses and watched as Martin wound his way through the maze of boat slips. They passed a smaller boat, and Martin raised a hand to its occupants, who waved back. The boat moved steadily toward the Buttonwood Key dock, where a marina worker was waiting to help them tie up.

"Martin." Gail looked at him over her sunglasses. "When Detective Baylor came to the resort investigating Sandra's death, did he want to know where everyone was when she died? Did he ask about that?"

She was out of reach, or Anthony might have yanked her back into her seat. He had an idea what the next question would be.

"Oh, sure." Martin was concentrating on the steadily diminishing distance between dock and boat. He adjusted the wheel. "They wanted to know when Sandra had left that day, who she went to see, who her friends and enemies were. I couldn't offer them much."

"Where did Lois say she was at the time?"

Martin looked around at Gail, then back at the dock just in time to throw the throttle into reverse. Water churned at the rear of the boat.

Anthony let out a breath between his teeth.

She heard; her eyes shifted toward him behind her sunglasses. She started backpedalling with Martin. "I'm filling in the blanks, that's all. If Joan Sinclair gets Billy off the hook, the police will start looking for someone else. We should be prepared. We need to know who was where in case they start asking."

The boat dipped when a man stepped onto the bow to retrieve the line. Martin shut down the engines, removed the keys, and slid them into his pocket. He sat once again and turned toward his companions. He laced his fingers and spoke in his quiet, unhurried way.

"Teri and I were having dinner in our apartment upstairs between seven o'clock and eight, at which time the housekeeper came to clear the table. You may ask her if you wish. Lois was in a meeting at Doug Lindeman's office until shortly after eight o'clock, after which she returned to the resort. I spoke to her around nine-thirty when I went down to the library for a book. I understand that you would like to direct the police away from Billy, but I did not retain you to accuse another member of my family." Behind the dark glasses, his eyes were on Anthony.

"No one is accusing Lois," Anthony said. "You asked me to help Billy. To do that, we need to know at least as much as the police do."

Weighing that, Martin said, "I expect to be kept informed. If you have anything to say to Detective Baylor, I want to know about it first."

"That may not always be possible, Martin. You aren't the client. Billy is."

He looked for a while longer at Anthony, not liking what he'd heard, but finally he pushed himself out of his captain's chair. "All right. I'll be back later. Call and let me know if you need a ride."

They stood beside Anthony's Cadillac under the long awning set aside for The Buttonwood Inn. Gail couldn't see his eyes behind his sunglasses but it was obvious he had something to say. His lips were pressed together to hold it in. He was waiting for Martin Greenwald to get into a Jeep Cherokee and head out of the marina parking lot.

She spoke before he let go. "Anthony, before you say anything— You and I both suspect that Doug Lindeman was sleeping with Sandra McCoy. What if Lois Greenwald was so jealous that—"

"Oyeme"
He held up a forefinger to silence her. "You shouldn't have raised the issue of Lois's guilt without first discussing it with me."

"How could I? I just talked to her!"

"Then you say nothing. You
wait"

"Anthony, I wanted to have Lois's alibi before we talk to Lindeman. You'd have done the same."

"You don't make that decision! I do!" He ripped off his sunglasses to glare at her, dropped them, then glanced around as he picked them up, to see how many boat owners or fishermen were watching this petty display of temper. No one.

Gail said, "If you didn't want me involved, you shouldn't have hired me. Since you have, I expect to be treated as an equal partner, with due respect for my abilities as a lawyer and as a person with some intelligence."

"Five dollars an hour!
¿Que tú crees?
This makes you an equal partner?"

"You're a lucky man we aren't still on the boat. I would probably shove you overboard."

"You start questioning my client without any warning, without asking me—"

"Martin Greenwald isn't your client. Billy is. Did you not just say that to Martin?"

"You were wrong, Gail. Admit it." He lowered his head to look at her straight on. With one finger he pushed her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose.

She felt her fingernails dig into the straw of her handbag. She thought of hiring a boat to take her back to The Buttonwood Inn. No, a bus to Miami. She smiled at him. "I remember now why I didn't take a job at your law firm last year when you offered. It's your attitude. Your way or no way."

"Screw my attitude, you were wrong. Admit it."

"Okay. Fine. I was wrong."

"Thank you."

"And screw you for being such a jerk."

They looked at each other.

She said, "Are you going to be mad at me the rest of the week?"

He put his sunglasses back on and took his car keys out of his pocket. "Forget it. Let's go talk to Lindeman. We don't have much time."

"You still want me to go with you?"

"What do you think?" He opened her door for her. "Talk to me on the way. Tell me what other surprises you have."

"I think that was it," she said.

The fog of rage had lifted far enough for her to see that Anthony wasn't angry that she had been
wrong
in her theory. He was ticked off about having to take the heat from Martin Greenwald. He could have deflected it off on Gail, but he hadn't. When he got in the other side, she said, "Thank you for not screaming at me in front of Martin. You aren't a total jerk."

"Gracias."
He started the car.

"Are we— Excuse me, are
you
going to follow up with Doug Lindeman on this issue of Lois and Sandra?"

Anthony sat there with the engine idling. "I want to know one thing from Lindeman. Is Joan Sinclair crazy? If she is, I won't waste our time taking her to see Detective Baylor. Maybe Billy has somebody else who can vouch for him, maybe not. I will send my investigators here next week, and they can interview everyone and his dog. This wasn't supposed to be complicated. I don't want to get involved any further in this fucking case. It was supposed to be a vacation, and I don't know what I'm doing here. You were right, wanting to leave on Friday. Tonight we see Vampira, tomorrow we talk to the police—or not—and after that, we thank Teri and Martin for the very nice time and get the hell out of here."

Gail turned and put her hand on his arm. "Anthony, what's wrong? Do you want to go somewhere and talk about it?"

"No, no, y no.
I want to get this over with."

Holtz and Lindeman, P.A. was in a one-story, concrete-block building on U.S. 1. Gravel bed with cactus for landscaping. Tile roof, blue awnings over the windows, and a carport at one end with four spaces. In the space marked LINDEMAN, a silver BMW with a rusting dent in one fender. A vanity plate:
KEYSLAW, no doubt meant to read "Keys Law," but it made Gail think of shredded cabbage.

Douglas Lindeman had wavy, sun-bleached hair, a mouth too ripe for his short, upturned nose, and freckles, lots of them. His office had the expected bookshelves, corner seating area, two client chairs, and a desk, behind which sat the lawyer. On the wall to his right hung a stuffed fish that looked like a blue plastic pool toy. Gail had never seen the point of this; the equivalent of a stuffed moose head, she supposed.

Her attention went back to the man at the desk. Yellow knit shirt, gold necklace, a nice chest. A little soft around the middle, but Gail was accustomed to Anthony's middle, so she was picky. Doug Lindeman could have been the former star quarterback at the local high school, who got his excitement these days driving up to Miami with his buddies for lap dances at the strip bars on South Dixie Highway.

She tried to imagine him and Lois Greenwald naked together in bed, and couldn't see it. She wondered if Lois had unusual talents. Anthony had told her on the way here that Doug Lindeman liked to hang out at the upscale resorts to pick up female tourists. She doubted that Lois knew about it.

Gail tuned back in just as Lindeman was saying, "My great-grandparents built that house out of solid mahogany. Aunt Joan spent time in the house as a kid, I guess that's why she decided to live there. On breaks from law school I'd go out to visit her. You asked what she was like. Sorry to be so blunt, but she was a drunk. Skinny, foul-mouthed, stumbling around the house, babbling about her movies and her lousy directors and her lousy ex-husbands.

"My Dad said, 'Joan came home to die.' She didn't die, which surprised us all, but I think the alcohol affected her brain. You'll see. She sits in her house with the curtains drawn and watches movies. She's afraid to go out in the daytime. I'd be interested to know what you find in her refrigerator. It makes my stomach turn to see that fine old house go to ruin."

Doug Lindeman leaned on his elbow. His arms were as freckled as his face. "There's a guy that helps her out, Arnel Goode, but he's useless. Have you met him yet? You have? He's a weird one, isn't he? Get this. Aunt Joan told me why Arnel stutters. When he was a kid his family owned a farm in Indiana. He saw one of the farm workers fall into a grain auger. That's a big pipe with a steel screw inside that moves the corn from place to place. Aunt Joan didn't go into details, but you can imagine what came out the other end of the auger. She said Arnel couldn't speak at all for months afterward."

Gail and Anthony exchanged a look.

Lindeman said, "Don't get me wrong. I like Arnel. He's completely devoted to Aunt Joan, but this is the person she's relying on for her sustenance and care? He's a handyman, not a nurse. He told me he does what he can, but she's not always easy to get along with. I tried to see Aunt Joan a few months ago to make sure she was okay, but she told me to go away. God, it was so sad. I hate to see her like this. She needs some help, she really does. I'm not going to put her in a hospital. I want to find a nice apartment for her with people her own age."