Suspicion of Madness by Barbara Parker

a painted arrow pointing to the orchid house, but continued straight to see where the path would end. It narrowed, and she ducked under some branches from a tree she had no hope of recognizing.
    Left to itself, the island would revert to wilderness. Without fertilizer and water, the grass would burn off, and the fragile exotic species would wither, choked out by buttonwood, white mangrove, strangler fig, and poisonwood. A gruesome name. Gail wondered if any remained on the island, and if lizards and snakes were hiding in the underbrush. Hopping for balance, she dusted her feet and put her shoes back on. Soon the sandy path became rock, and the grass turned to sparse, springy clumps. The breeze dropped away, and sweat dampened her forehead and neck.
    Unsure of her precise location, Gail had no fear of getting lost, as the island was small, and all routes circled back toward the hotel at the western end. The path seemed to turn more north, and presently joined with a wider path. Gail soon came to a chain-link fence so thick with vines that she couldn't see through it. From a gate hung a metal sign,POSTED, NO TRESPASSING, PRIVATE PROPERTY. But the gate was open a foot or so, pushed inward toward the tangled woods beyond.
    This was where the map had ended. Terra incognita. Joan Sinclair's domain.
    A big padlock dangled open from the latch. Gail walked closer to the gate and looked through. The tracks vanished into the trees, which arched overhead in a dark tunnel of leaves, vines, and twisted branches.
    Gail took out her cell phone and picked through the buttons until her next-to-last call showed on the screen. She hitREDIAL. Waited. After the fourth ring she heard the alto drawl of a woman who couldn't be bothered.
    "Hi. If you don't know who this is, you've got the wrong number. If you're selling something—"
    "Oh, come on." Gail disconnected. Joan Sinclair had to be home. She was always at home. Maybe she kept her phones off. If that was the case, it could be days before she called back.
    Gail took off her hat and went sideways through the gate.
    The land on the other side seemed to rise slightly, then dip, and at that point the tracks diverged. One way left, the other up a gradual slope. Reasoning that a house would not be built on low ground, Gail continued straight. The thickets opened up to a sort of clearing. Even with the hat, she squinted in the merciless sunlight. A breeze came up, and the long grass bent and shivered. Gail spun around when a bird cawed behind her, then laughed at her own skittishness. She continued along the rocky trail, which presently split into three. Right, left. Straight. The land continued to rise.
    She came to woods, but here the underbrush had been cleared, and the trees opened up on an area that had known the careful hand of a gardener. There were groupings of thatch palm and native mahogany, pink oleander and yellow lantana. The ground was soft with shredded mulch. She rounded a thick stand of traveler's palm and saw the house directly ahead. It seemed to rise up and up, two stories of dark clapboard resting on concrete pilings, with gabled windows in the roof.
    Shade trees surrounded the house, their heavy limbs draped with air plants and fern. Walking around to the front, Gail could see down a slope to the ocean. There was no beach, only heavy rocks for a breakwater and tangles of mangrove. If ever the house had enjoyed a clear view of the sea, it had been lost to the overgrowth of foliage.
    At the bottom of a long wooden staircase, Gail looked up at a porch, shuttered windows, a screen door, and behind it the dark, fan-shaped glass of an entrance door. There was no noise from inside. Her eyes traveled to the second floor, a balcony, and windows with closely drawn curtains. Not a movement. At a distance the house had appeared sturdy. A closer look revealed abandonment and decay. The balcony supports had been patched with cheap lumber, the window putty had dried and fallen out, and the