Suspicion of Madness (22 page)

She set out two glasses.

"Okay, boys and girls. How to make a Sinclair martini. Premium gin, a wet kiss of vermouth. And a few drops—don't overdo it—a few drops of Rose's Lime. Gives it some sass." When she finished she clamped on the strainer and poured with a flourish, raising the shaker high, then down, filling both martini glasses to within a quarter inch of the rim. She brought over the drinks and some cocktail napkins on a black lacquer tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The napkins were printed with a pirate's grinning face and the words
CAP'N BOB'S TAVERN, MARATHON
FL. Someone must have pocketed a stack of them and brought them here.

Now that her eyes had adjusted to the lack of light Gail could see that the entire room was filled with oddities, cast-offs, and assorted junk. Every surface was crammed with ancient and dusty knickknacks of the sort that remained when everything else at the garage sale had been sold.

"Where the hell are my cigarettes?" Joan found them on the end table, a pack of Salem menthols. She sat down in a rattan chair at right angles to Anthony and slid a cigarette out of the pack. He picked up a tarnished, silver-plated table lighter and clicked the wheel. She cupped her hand lightly around his. Her nails were crimson. A green stone, too big to be real, twinkled in its setting of cubic zirconias. She blew out smoke. "Thanks."

Gail sipped her club soda from a smoky-gray glass trimmed with silver. The ice tasted like it had been in the freezer too long.

Anthony said, "Miss Sinclair, we need to ask you about Billy Fadden."

She settled back in her chair and crossed her legs. "You want me to tell the police that Billy was with me when someone murdered Sandra McCoy. He arrived here at eight-thirty, we watched three movies, and I sent him home around three-thirty in the morning. And I'd like it if you called me Joan."

"All right. Joan. When we speak to Detective Baylor, it's important that you remember as much as you can and that you tell the truth."

"I swear." She held up a Scout salute and took a sip of her martini.

"May I get some details about your evening with Billy?"

"Go ahead."

Anthony picked up his drink. "Tell me again the movies you watched, and in what order."

"Rope. Vertigo. The Birds."

"How do you know precisely what time he arrived?"

She pointed to the mantel clock, whose hands showed 9:06 P.M., the correct time by Gail's watch. Joan said, "He knocked on my door at eight-twenty-seven. Close enough?"

"Good. Did you and Billy have anything to eat or drink?"

"He brought a six-pack of Red Dog beer with him. I had a few drinks. We shared a bag of pretzels."

"What was Billy wearing? Do you recall?"

She took a long drag on her cigarette, making an O, careful not to smudge her lipstick. She exhaled to the side. "Jeans and a dark green T-shirt. Hog's Breath Saloon, Key West."

"Did you already have the movies here, or did he bring them?"

"They were here. I have every important American picture through 1980 and a lot of the British stuff too. They're filed alphabetically in my viewing room. Name one, I'll tell you the director, the actors, and the year." She tapped her cigarette over the square, cut-glass ashtray. A corner was chipped off. "I have an excellent memory."

"You do. It's amazing." Anthony nodded slowly.

She asked him, "Where did you get that accent?"

"In Cuba. I left there when I was thirteen, but I haven't had too much luck with my English."

"You speak wonderfully. It's very sexy. You're a very sexy guy. Don't get mad at me, Gail, it's true, and I am ever so envious." Joan Sinclair smiled over the rim of her martini glass. "You're a lovely couple. Do I see an engagement ring?" Gail showed her. "Oh, my. Sparkle, sparkle. When's the big day?"

Gail glanced at Anthony, then said, "We're not sure. Probably next spring."

"Good God." She laughed. "What the hell are you waiting for, permission? I married my second—no, my third husband a week after I met him, and it lasted for years. But that was back in the old days, when you couldn't just shack up, or people would talk. Times change,
n'est-ce pas?"

Hiding a smile, Anthony sipped his martini.

In the dining room, the music grew to a crescendo of trumpet and drums, then blared to a stop. There were some clicks, then silence.

Gail said, "Miss Sinclair, I mean Joan... I'd like to ask you about Sandra McCoy. I suppose you knew her pretty well. She was here often, wasn't she? Helping you out, running errands, and so forth? Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill her?"

Black-penciled eyes narrowed. "No, I don't."

"Did she talk to you about herself? Did she have a lover?"

"I wouldn't know." Joan took a quick puff on her cigarette, then snapped it away from her lips. "Let's get something straight. Sandra was a two-faced little bitch. She didn't come to
help
— she came to spy on me. I thought she was all right because she was a friend of Billy's but she was working for my nephew, Douglas Lindeman. I went upstairs and caught her opening drawers. I told her to get out. Douglas is trying to have me put away. How's that for a kick in the pants? I just found out. Someone came to warn me."

"Tom Holtz," Gail said.

"Do you know Tom? Of course you do. Everyone in the Keys knows Tom. We've been close friends since we were kids. Tom and Doug are lawyers. They have an office together. That's how Tom found out."

Gail said, "We spoke to Doug about it this afternoon. He says he's concerned about your welfare, but we're not so sure."

"My welfare? My ass. He wants my house! He wants to get me out of my house."

"Why do you think—"

"Because he's going to sell it to Lois Greenwald." Joan crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray. "She's another bitch. She'd better watch her step around
me"
Then just as quickly as her rage had appeared, it vanished. Joan Sinclair let out a breath and adjusted the long row of bracelets adorning her arm from wrist to the edge of her leopard-print sweater. She had pale skin, and the tendons and veins showed through, evidence of her age. Even a good manicure couldn't disguise the knobby fingers.

She spoke, and her voice belonged to a woman who had seen too much of life, too many sorrows, too much pain. She put a hand to her heart. "I left because this was the dullest place there ever was. I've come back for the same reason. All I want is to rest. The world has no joy for me now. People who swore they loved me, betrayed me. Gone. Everything is gone. I don't have much time left, dear God, but at least let me rest."

Gail could only stare helplessly. She glanced at Anthony and saw the same look of stunned pity on his face.

The sly smile reappeared, and Joan Sinclair twirled the end of her little gold scarf around her finger. "I am playing with you, my darlings. Ethel Barrymore,
The Bells of St. Ann's,
1937. Of course you don't know it. Waaa-aay before your time. Mine too." She took another cigarette and held it between her fingers.
"S'il vous plait?"

Anthony lit it for her, throwing Gail a look as he did so. He was clearly as confused as she about this woman's state of mind. Smoke drifted around Joan Sinclair's head, barely moving in the closed and claustrophobic air of this house. Gail realized that the stereo had been going for a while. Not the same record. She heard a piano and the slow, sensuous voice of a female singer she had heard somewhere before, but the name wouldn't come.

Bracelets clinked as Joan gestured over her shoulder. "Ms. Connor, there's a telephone on that little table in the hall, see it? The cord is long enough to reach. Bring it over here, will you?"

There was indeed a telephone by the stairs, a model so old it had a dial, not buttons. Gail said, "Do you want to call someone? I have a cell phone we could use."

"Fine. Call the sheriff's office. Let's get this over with. Who am I supposed to talk to? A detective somebody."

Anthony said, "Detective Baylor, but we're not going to call him tonight. I mentioned this to you. We're going to see him tomorrow."

"What do you mean, see him? At his headquarters? I'm not going to a police station. I've
been
to police stations, and I don't like them. He can come here."

"No, it's better if you go with us. Don't worry. It won't take long, I promise you. Martin Greenwald will take us there and back in his boat. You would be gone no more than two hours, probably less."

"Did you explain who I am? I'm Joan Sinclair. Why can't they come here? The detectives are supposed to come to the person's house. Isn't that the way it's supposed to be?"

Anthony made a little shrug. "In the movies, perhaps, but in this particular case, I am asking you to go with us."

"You said you spoke to Douglas. You're working with him, aren't you? That's what's going on here. It's some kind of trick."

He leaned closer and put a hand on her arm. "Joan, please. We're working for Billy. Please trust us. Nothing will happen to you."

"I don't like to leave my house. Someone might break in."

"No one will break in. If you're worried, tell Arnel Goode to watch it for you."

"Arnel is worthless," she said. "He's worse than Sandra McCoy, sneaking around, eavesdropping, telling me what to do."

Gail asked, "Was that Arnel who was here earlier, just before we came in?"

Nodding, Joan let out some smoke and extinguished her cigarette. "I told him to help me get ready. I needed the dishes washed, the floors dusted. He wouldn't leave. He wanted to play bartender. God knows what he wanted. I am getting so tired of Arnel."

"He's not still here, is he?"

"He went out the back door, and I locked it."

"Does he have a key to your house?" Gail asked.

"No. I have the key. The
only
key." Joan lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not
afraid
of him. Arnel is… he's like a child. A puppy. He has no one but me. It's
Douglas
I'm afraid of. The last time he was here he tried to push his way through the door. He put his foot inside so I couldn't close it. I screamed. I told him I would call the police. He laughed at me. He said I was a crazy woman and I should be put in a mental hospital. I couldn't believe he would even
think
of such a horrible thing, but Tom told me it was true. Now you see why I can't leave here. No, not even for Billy. I'm sorry, you tell Detective... Detective Baylor that he has to come
here,
to see
me."

Anthony gently took her empty glass from her, put it back on the lacquered tray, and reached for her hand, enclosing it in both of his. She stared at his hands, then at his face. "Miss Sinclair, I am going to be very honest with you. You are a woman who appreciates honesty, I think."

"Of course I am. I can't stand people who
lie
to me, and there have been so many of them, you have no
idea."

"Well, then. Here is what we are up against. Billy is in trouble. I explained to you already, he confessed to a murder he didn't commit. I don't know why, and probably he doesn't either, but the fact is, he is the main suspect in Sandra McCoy's murder, and the police want to talk to him. But first it would be extremely helpful for
you,
Joan, to tell Baylor what time Billy arrived at your house and when he left."

Her eyes were pinned hypnotically to Anthony's, and she leaned toward his soft, resonant baritone.

He said, "Yes, the police could come here. If I asked them to, they would. However... and please listen to me before you say anything. You've been living in this house for so long that you don't see it as other people do. It's so disorganized, so dark and cluttered, that if the police came here, they could believe your mind is the same. They would say, 'Look at this place. How can we trust what she tells us? There is something obviously wrong with her.' I'm not saying it is true, only that they could
think
it is true, and if they do, what have we accomplished for Billy? Do you see?"

"Is it so bad?" Her long black lashes brushed her cheeks, and she pulled up her shoulders as if to hide in them. "I used to have
maids
and people to
do
things for me. I lived in the most beautiful home. It had marble floors."

"I'll give you another reason to be brave," Anthony said. "Your nephew. He believes you're unbalanced. He's going to file a petition for guardianship to say you're incompetent. Joan, come with us tomorrow. If you tell Detective Baylor clearly and calmly what you've just told us, you do two things. You prove that Billy is innocent. You also prove that Douglas Lindeman is wrong about you."

Her dark eyes filled with intelligence and resolve. "The lousy bastard. He never was any good."

"Will you go with us?"

"Maybe. You have to do something for me. I need a lawyer. My goddamn nephew is trying to steal my house, and I need somebody on
my
side. I'll pay you." She reached out to grip Anthony's arm. "I have money. I have four thousand dollars in the bank, and my agent sends me royalties every six months."

It wasn't so much, Gail thought. Joan Sinclair must indeed have come down in the world if she thought that four thousand dollars was a lot of money.