Hemingway's Ghost

by Layton Green

  “The cat graveyard?” Ernie said. “There’s no Tolstoy here.”

  “This graveyard was built after his death,” Papa said. “So it can’t be him.”

  Bumby grinned, then plunged into the foliage, brushing aside fronds and vines, the others on his heels. “The graveyard was built after he died, but Tolstoy was his cat—he revered Tolstoy for his descriptions of war—and it’s a little known fact that Tolstoy was the first cat buried on the property, and that he was buried by Hemingway himself.”

  Champ snapped his fingers. “Yeah, I remember reading that in one of the bios.”

  Ten feet behind the cat cemetery, almost obscured by the vegetation, was a rectangular stone set into the ground. Bumby kicked away the vines and weeds and bent down.

  He read aloud. “Here lies Tolstoi, our beloved friend and ally.”

  Ernie and Champ looked shocked, and Ernie reached down and pried the stone loose. Packed earth lay beneath. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

  Bumby said, “It’s clear, gentleman, that this grave hasn’t been disturbed in quite some time.” He looked upwards, at the night sky that was already tinged with pink light. Lester would be up soon, and the first worshippers were probably already drooling at the gates. “We’ll come back tomorrow night with a shovel, and I think it’s safe to say that if we find something, we can know for sure who led us to it.”

  Ernie and Champ nodded, and Papa crossed his arms and said nothing.

  The next day they lost Champ.

  A fishermen found him face up in the harbor, his poor lifeless head bumping gently against the concrete wall next to Monty’s Seafood Palace. The fisherman screamed, and then a group of early-bird tourists from Utah rushed over and screamed, the people across the street in Key Lime Nirvana screamed, and then it was business as usual on the block.

  Papa heard the news first. He was down the street in Mallory Square, preening for the morning crowd, and when he heard the screams he felt a cold prickle of fear. He gathered up his tips and went down to the harbor to see what the fuss was about. His face went white when he saw the police gathered around poor Champ, and he called Bumby and Ernie and told them to meet him right goddamn now at the pastry place on Duval.

  Papa was shoving down his second apple cinnamon croissant when Ernie and Bumby joined him at the patio table, both as pale as he had been. Ernie’s eyes were red and he was about to lose it, which the Man most certainly would have frowned upon in public.

  Papa looked straight at Bumby. He didn’t really think Bumby had done it, or Papa wouldn’t have been sitting there, but it was a good opportunity to act tough and put Bumby in his place. “So where’d you go after we split last night?”

  Bumby’s mouth dropped. “That’s all you have to say, you Neanderthal? One of my closest friends was just murdered and you ask me where I was?”

  Papa guffawed. “Closest friends. He thought you were a lily-livered writer who didn’t know how to steer a boat.”

  “Shut up, Papa. Not now.”

  “So where were you?”

  “None of your damned business. If you don’t trust me then why don’t you go to the police?”

  Papa cocked his head as he chewed. “Maybe we all should. Together.”

  “Fine by me.”

  Ernie said, “You don’t think he’s doing it?”

  “Who?”

  Ernie looked nervously around the patio, which had begun to fill with patrons. He lowered his voice. “You know who. Because we disturbed him.”

  Papa stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and turned back to Bumby. “What are the possible motives for these murders? By my count we have competition-”

  “Competition?”

  “For the Head Hemingway.”

  “Then I suppose that makes you suspect numero uno.”

  Papa chuckled. “Cheap shot. If it was me I’d have done it a long time ago.”

  “Maybe you came in last place at the finals one too many times. Maybe a herd of tourists left you standing with your dick in your hand in Mallory Square and came to one of us one too many times.” Bumby leaned in. “Maybe you finally snapped, Papa. Maybe your deeds finally matched your tough words.”

  “You’re lucky I don’t pound your flabby ass right here. We’ll see how many adoring fans you get after I turn your charming red alcoholic face into a purple mess.” He tried to stare Bumby down, but Bumby wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

  “Jealousy,” Bumby said as he watched the early shoppers whisk down Duval, “is one motive, or maybe someone doesn’t want us poking around the old house. Maybe there’s something there someone doesn’t want us to find.”

  The greed dripped from Papa’s words. “Maybe there really are lost pages, or even a new book. Can you imagine? It’d be worth millions.”

  “Even assuming there is one, which is impossible,” Bumby said, “who would know about it and keep it secret?”

  “Maybe it’s that half-wit caretaker.”

  “He’s creepy enough, but why give us access in the first place?”

  “Yeah, it don’t make sense.” Papa snapped his fingers. “What about that wealthy douchebag from France? The one who always pays us to do his birthday?”

  “Jean-Paul? In the huge house a few doors down? He is one of the biggest donors to the museum.”

  “And,” Papa said with a flash of insight, “if there’s something valuable in there, he probably wants to keep it for himself. Probably goes in there at night and wanks it while he looks at it.”

  “Maybe he pays off the caretaker too. It could make sense—maybe he was in there the same night we were, and saw what we were doing.”

  Ernie started to weep quietly, and Bumby put his hand over Ernie’s. “God, Ernie, I’m sorry. We’ve been acting like a bunch of horses’ asses.” He pulled out a flask and three tumblers, poured everyone a shot, and held up his glass. “To Champ, a good man, a great fisherman, and an even better Hemingway. May his soul rest in peace above the waters and pages he loved so dear.”

  “Here here,” Ernie said, and even Papa felt empty.

  They clinked glasses, downed their shots and sat in silence for the rest of the morning.

  For lunch they had lobster rolls at Blue Heaven, an eclectic little spot where the Man used to referee boxing matches. They smacked their fat lips at the delicious food, had another couple of drinks to work up their courage, and piled into Papa’s rusty golf cart for the ride to the police station.

  They parked and crossed Roosevelt, the Atlantic Ocean hovering in the background, palms rustling, a rare overcast sky the only blemish. They bunched together as they walked inside the station, not wanting to be singled out, a product of living on the outskirts of society.

  The station was full of the usual drunks and deadbeats who stuffed the town like a rotten Thanksgiving turkey. They came to Key West in droves, those who couldn’t make it anywhere else and then pretended they were living it up in paradise, whooping and hollering down the packaged edginess of Duval and eking out a pathetic existence in the rat-infested dives and trailer parks outside Old Town.

  The Hemingways grimaced as the cops stopped working to watch them, wondering who ordered the practical joke. Papa strode to the front desk and slapped his beefy forearms down. “We need to speak to a detective.”

  The bald cop behind the desk looked up from his papers and pushed his glasses higher up on his Roman nose. “What’s that, pops?”

  “I said we need to talk to a detective.”

  “About what?”

  “About the murders.”

  The cop’s eyebrows rose and he picked up a phone. “Sarge, you’ve got some…people…in here say they want to talk about the murders.”

  The cop nodded at the phone, hung up and then led them down a hallway to a tiny glass-walled office overlooking the ocean. The plate on the door read “Sergeant Cohn.” The cop opened the door and they filed inside.

  Sergeant Cohn was an average-sized man with a round
face and droopy eyes that gave him a hangdog look. He had sandy hair and sunspots on his forehead, and looked more like a dentist with a golfing habit than a cop.

  Papa seemed to gain courage from Sergeant Cohn’s bland appearance. “We want to know why more isn’t being done—”

  “Sit down,” Sergeant Cohn said.

  They sat.

  “I imagine you’re some of the most nervous people in town right now,” he said. His voice, though quiet, possessed an assumption of control that was far more intimidating than bluster. “We’re not going to discuss my job and how I’m doing it. All three of you were on my short list of people to see today, so I’m glad you came. Now, do any of you have anything to tell me about this investigation?”

  They remained silent, and he smiled a most non-dentist smile. “If you do, I suggest you tell me right now, because I will find out.”

  Papa wanted to blurt out that Bumby had no alibi, but he could hardly lead the Sergeant down that path.

  “Nah,” Papa said, with a poor attempt at humility. “We’re afraid we’re next on the list, and wanted to know if you knew anything we should know about.”

  Sergeant Cohn looked at them in turn, holding his gaze on each one until they looked away. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the Hemingway look-alike contest at the end of this month? The one with the five thousand dollar prize?” He looked at Papa, and cocked his head towards Bumby. “The one I believe your friend here has won three years in a row?”

  Bumby was surprised that Sergeant Cohn had recognized him.

  “Of course not,” Papa said. “I mean, yeah I’d love to win that, but five thou is hardly worth killing someone over.”

  “What you meant to say, I’m sure, was that no contest, no amount of money, is worth killing anyone over.”

  “Sure, yeah, of course,” Papa sat back in indignation. “I’m not so good with words sometimes.”

  “You do realize you’re one of two Hemingways on the island with a criminal record, and the only regular Hemingway still alive who’s never placed in the money?”

  “Don’t remind me,” Papa muttered. “But I ain’t killed no one.”

  The Sergeant shifted his gaze to Bumby. “Congratulations on being the top Hemingway impersonator in the world.” He nodded in approval as he studied Bumby. “You’ve even got those knowing eyes, the strained look on your forehead, the creases next to the nose. A model of Hemingway perfection, and a writer to boot! You other two must be a little jealous.”

  Bumby started to relax, and the Sergeant said, “Funny, though. I’ve been asking around, and it seems that on the night of the last murder you left the bar before these other two gents.”

  Bumby opened his mouth to retort, but the Sergeant held up his hand. “You and I can chat another time, by ourselves, about your alibis and your prior with a knife.” Bumby’s face fell.

  That was interesting; I didn’t know the old fartwad had it in him. He must have accidentally stabbed someone with his pen.

  “Now let me ask you gents a question. I’m having a little trouble with a certain piece of evidence. The coroner tells me that with two of the victims, one of who was Champ, there was evidence of a struggle. Well, not so much a struggle, but more of a beating. It seems these two victims both had stomach bruising, as well as broken noses and bruised temples.” He looked at Ernie. “The coroner tells me that were he a betting man, he’d bet that someone with some boxing skill had a hand in at least these two murders.”

  Ernie whispered, “It is him,” at the same time Papa’s mouth dropped and he turned to stare at Ernie.

  “What was that?” the Sergeant said to Ernie.

  “Nuttin’,” Ernie mumbled.

  The Sergeant picked up a pen and started twirling it. “A funny statistic: do you realize that in the vast majority of murder raps, the victims are killed by someone they know?”

  Ernie’s eyes narrowed. “Why’s everyone looking at me? Yeah I’m a fighter, so what. Champ was my best friend, so you can just kill that crazy thought right now.”

  “I see. Your best friend who you beat up five years ago for sleeping with your now ex-wife?”

  Ernie waved a hand, but his voice was weaker than before. “We settled that, and got past it. Bitch was sleepin’ with half the Hemingways, not just Champ, and Champ and me weren’t so close then anyway, you know?”

  The Sergeant just smiled.

  “Anyway, like you said, I was in the bar.”

  “I wasn’t clear, and I apologize. According to the coroner, Champ’s time of death was approximately 4am, and all of you had already left Sloppy’s.”

  “Hey,” Papa said. “We came in here for some answers and you’re here accusing us of killing our friend!”

  “Ah, the passion of the wicked man falsely accused. There’s nothing quite like it. If, of course, that’s indeed the case here.”

  “Whatever. I’m outta here,” Papa said, though his eyes flicked to the Sergeant for approval.

  The Sergeant shooed them away. “Please, please, enjoy your day. I hope I answered your questions. Like I said, I’ll be stopping by to see you soon.”

  They shuffled towards the door and the Sergeant said, “Oh, and gentlemen? You do good work here. I’m a huge fan, you know. The Old Man and The Sea’s my personal favorite. That part when the sharks are circling is just genius, I tell you. There’s always a force in the universe more powerful than the last. Anyway,” he said, glancing at the mass of thunderclouds in the background, “stay dry.”

  Papa kicked a bottle on the street outside the police station. “Pigs,” he said. “Who do they think they are, treating their elders like common criminals?”

  “We sort of are common criminals,” Ernie said.

  “Shut up. And anyway, Ern, what the hell is up with that? A boxer took out two of the victims?”

  “So? Am I the only ex-boxer on the Keys or something?”

  “You’re sure as hell the only Hemingway who’s an ex-boxer. And what prior, Bumby?”

  Bumby’s face reddened. “You know me, I couldn’t hurt a fly. It was a long time ago, I was drunk and jealous. I caught an old girlfriend with someone from my writing group.”

  “So what, you stabbed them?”

  “Of course not. I just waved the knife around and threatened them, someone called 911 and I was locked up for a week. Not a big deal. Writers are a jealous lot,” he muttered.

  “Let’s go see Madame Gertrude,” Papa said.

  Bumby and Ernie both looked at him in approval, and Bumby said, “Now that’s the smartest thing I’ve heard all day.

  They left Papa’s golf cart at his gritty studio apartment that was two blocks on the wrong side of Truman Avenue. Even doctors and attorneys found Key West horribly expensive. Old Town has a long list of millionaires waiting for the old timers to die so they can buy up their wretched conch houses for two million dollars.

  The three of them looked like bearded penguins as they waddled down Simonton. They cut over to Duval on Southard, then headed north a few blocks until they saw the garish little shop wedged between a Zagat-rated steakhouse and a strip club. The sign read “Readings by Madame Gertrude,” and plastic stars and zodiac symbols adorned a painted black door. There were no windows.

  A bell dinged as they stepped inside, just as the first quarter-sized drops of rain started to fall. The room was small and square, and a gray-haired woman dressed head to toe in green and blue silks stepped into the room from behind a curtain. Her pale, pinched face smiled back at three of her most regular customers, the tip of her snub nose upturned in a permanent sniff.

  There were already three chairs in place, further evidence of Madame Gertrude’s psychic genius, as none of them had ever seen more than one chair present, and they hadn’t announced their arrival.

  Madame Gertrude always stood as she laid the cards, but she was so short that she was almost eye to eye with Papa when he sat. Because of her voluminous clothing, it was impossible to tell tha
t Madame Gertrude was missing an arm, until she deftly shuffled and spread the Tarot Cards with her remaining hand.

  She said, in a grating fake Slavic accent, “Vhat brings my favorite Hemmies to see me all at vonce today?”

  “We need you, Madame,” Bumby said. He had not been superstitious until Madame Gertrude had stopped him on the street and told him that a death in his family was imminent, six hours before his cat was hit by a car. Too many other people on the island had reported similar occurrences for Bumby to dismiss Madame Gertrude as a fraud. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders,” he said, and her face clouded, “and we need some answers. We tried the police and they treated us like we were guilty.”

  “And maybe one of us is,” Papa said grimly. “If that comes out today, then so be it.”

  I had to admit, Papa did a good job proclaiming his innocence.

  The room quieted, and Madame Gertrude’s hand hovered over the first card until all three were leaning forward in a cloud of incense. “You know,” she said, and they jumped, “I vas here last time there vas double murder on the island. Forty years ago. Did police tell you?”

  Papa smirked. “They failed to mention that.”

  “That’s because it involved the dark arts. Two bodies vere found hanging upside down on wooden cross in old two-story church on Petronia. You know the one?”

  They all nodded.

  “The pentagram vas carved on their chest, the blood drained from their bodies. I believe the paper say they had suspect, though no one vas arrested. They covered it up, and it remains our island’s darkest secret.”

  “Do you know who did it?” Ernie said in a near-whisper.

  “A black magician, a warlock. I sense his presence then, vhen he vas just beginning. I sense it then, I sense it over the years, I sense it now.”

  Papa gave a disbelieving frown. “No offense, Madame, but what does that have to do with us?”

  Bumby said, “Do you think today’s murders are connected in some way?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But I vill consult bauble.” She swept up the cards, and her arm disappeared into the silk sleeve, reappearing with a glass ball filled with an opaque, foggy substance.