been dumping the contents of several black plastic lawn bags into a mulch pile. From within the eight-foot square of landscaping timbers came the heavy, pungent smell of decaying vegetation.
Arnel went over to the truck to take the last of the lawn bags out. He had been polite but not friendly. Gail had questions but didn't know how to approach this man. Was he mentally slow? Or had his halting speech made him shy?
She smiled at him. "This is a lot of work. Do you do all the gardening around here?"
"For Miss Sinclair I do." Arnel propped the rake on the lawn bags and dusted his hands. "At the Inn, there's a... yard crew. I help out."
He got into the truck and Gail sat beside him, holding on to the bar that supported the roof. Glancing sideways, she studied the face of her companion, as much of it as she could see under the hat. His small nose and chin made him seem young, but a closer look put his age past thirty-five. The hands on the steering wheel were encased in blue striped gardening gloves.
Motor whining, the truck made a circle out of the yard. Gail watched the house vanish behind the trees. "How long have you worked for Joan Sinclair?"
"Fifteen years."
"Really. How'd you get the job?"
"Mr. Greenwald hired me... at the resort, but one day I w- w-went over to Miss Sinclair's house and said I could help her and... she didn't have to pay me. She said okay."
"You don't still work for free, do you?"
"Oh, I couldn't t-take money from Miss Sinclair. She depends on me."
Gail smiled back at him, hiding her indignation. Joan Sinclair was using this pathetic little man's adoration to get free handyman service. "I guess movie stars are pretty demanding."
"Oh, you bet. Do this, do that. I told her to buy me a... a cell phone so she could call if she n-n-needs anything. She used to have a mansion and... servants. She was a star. But in Hollywood, people took advantage, and they sta-abbed her in the back. When you're f-f-famous, they want your soul. That's what she says."
The truck rattled down a slope and around the sun-whitened trunk of a fallen tree.
"Why doesn't she ever leave the island?"
"Because her f-f-... her fans are always after her. They won't leave her alone." His brows were as blond as the wisps of hair falling across his forehead. "She doesn't stay in her house all the time. She likes to work in her garden and catch fish off the dock. And... she goes to the f-family graveyard so she can put... flowers on the graves."
This was more than slightly strange, Gail thought. The woman never left the island except to visit the dead. "Does she do this often?"
"What?"
"Go to the graveyard."
He shrugged. "Not too often."
"How does she get there?"
"I take her. Or Mr. Greenwald does."
The truck bounced over some ruts, and Gail held onto her hat and braced herself with a foot on the dashboard. She remembered something Emma had told her on the veranda. "Joan has a nephew, a lawyer in Islamorada. Doug Lindeman?" Arnel nodded. "I've heard she won't talk to him. Do you know why?"
Arnel watched the path ahead of them, and for a while Gail thought he would refuse to answer. Finally he spoke. "He wants to... p-put her in a… a home for old people. She said no. She isn't old. This island is her home, why should she leave?"
Gail made a note to herself: She would suggest that Anthony give Doug Lindeman a call before he went to see Joan Sinclair. As a family member, Lindeman would have an opinion about his aunt. It wasn't likely to be good. "So... Doug is her only relative?"
"Now he is. Her other nephew Teddy died in f-f-federal prison in Atlanta. Lung cancer."
"Why was he put in prison?"
"He sold drugs."
"Here? In the Keys?"
"Yes. Cocaine."
Gail abandoned any thought of asking for details.
Arnel slowed and stopped as they came to the chain-link fence marking the property line. He got out and opened the gate fully, got back in, drove through, then went back to secure the padlock.
On the Buttonwood side, tires
Arnel went over to the truck to take the last of the lawn bags out. He had been polite but not friendly. Gail had questions but didn't know how to approach this man. Was he mentally slow? Or had his halting speech made him shy?
She smiled at him. "This is a lot of work. Do you do all the gardening around here?"
"For Miss Sinclair I do." Arnel propped the rake on the lawn bags and dusted his hands. "At the Inn, there's a... yard crew. I help out."
He got into the truck and Gail sat beside him, holding on to the bar that supported the roof. Glancing sideways, she studied the face of her companion, as much of it as she could see under the hat. His small nose and chin made him seem young, but a closer look put his age past thirty-five. The hands on the steering wheel were encased in blue striped gardening gloves.
Motor whining, the truck made a circle out of the yard. Gail watched the house vanish behind the trees. "How long have you worked for Joan Sinclair?"
"Fifteen years."
"Really. How'd you get the job?"
"Mr. Greenwald hired me... at the resort, but one day I w- w-went over to Miss Sinclair's house and said I could help her and... she didn't have to pay me. She said okay."
"You don't still work for free, do you?"
"Oh, I couldn't t-take money from Miss Sinclair. She depends on me."
Gail smiled back at him, hiding her indignation. Joan Sinclair was using this pathetic little man's adoration to get free handyman service. "I guess movie stars are pretty demanding."
"Oh, you bet. Do this, do that. I told her to buy me a... a cell phone so she could call if she n-n-needs anything. She used to have a mansion and... servants. She was a star. But in Hollywood, people took advantage, and they sta-abbed her in the back. When you're f-f-famous, they want your soul. That's what she says."
The truck rattled down a slope and around the sun-whitened trunk of a fallen tree.
"Why doesn't she ever leave the island?"
"Because her f-f-... her fans are always after her. They won't leave her alone." His brows were as blond as the wisps of hair falling across his forehead. "She doesn't stay in her house all the time. She likes to work in her garden and catch fish off the dock. And... she goes to the f-family graveyard so she can put... flowers on the graves."
This was more than slightly strange, Gail thought. The woman never left the island except to visit the dead. "Does she do this often?"
"What?"
"Go to the graveyard."
He shrugged. "Not too often."
"How does she get there?"
"I take her. Or Mr. Greenwald does."
The truck bounced over some ruts, and Gail held onto her hat and braced herself with a foot on the dashboard. She remembered something Emma had told her on the veranda. "Joan has a nephew, a lawyer in Islamorada. Doug Lindeman?" Arnel nodded. "I've heard she won't talk to him. Do you know why?"
Arnel watched the path ahead of them, and for a while Gail thought he would refuse to answer. Finally he spoke. "He wants to... p-put her in a… a home for old people. She said no. She isn't old. This island is her home, why should she leave?"
Gail made a note to herself: She would suggest that Anthony give Doug Lindeman a call before he went to see Joan Sinclair. As a family member, Lindeman would have an opinion about his aunt. It wasn't likely to be good. "So... Doug is her only relative?"
"Now he is. Her other nephew Teddy died in f-f-federal prison in Atlanta. Lung cancer."
"Why was he put in prison?"
"He sold drugs."
"Here? In the Keys?"
"Yes. Cocaine."
Gail abandoned any thought of asking for details.
Arnel slowed and stopped as they came to the chain-link fence marking the property line. He got out and opened the gate fully, got back in, drove through, then went back to secure the padlock.
On the Buttonwood side, tires
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