Hemingway's Ghost

by Layton Green

  Her face grew graver and graver as she peered into the bauble. Ernie gripped the edge of the table. “What do you see?”

  She hesitated, cocking her head as if not wanting to look fully into the glass. “He’s still here,” she said quietly. “On the island. I don’t know if it is same murderer, but he’s still here somevhere.”

  “My God,” Ernie said. “Shouldn’t we go to the police?”

  Papa smacked him on the chest with the back of his hand. Bumby said to Madame Gertrude, “There’s something we need to ask you. It’s why we came.”

  “Yes?”

  Bumby folded and unfolded his hands while his tongue moved back and forth across his teeth. “We need to know if Hemingway’s ghost is on the island.”

  “We think he might be the murderer,” Ernie said.

  Bumby rolled his eyes. “We absolutely do not.”

  “You heard the Sergeant,” Ernie said. “It was a boxer. The Man’s tired of us pretending to be him.”

  “No, Ern,” Papa said, “you’re the boxer.”

  Madame Gertrude considered the issue. “That is interesting question. He vill be somewhere, although likely not here. Almost alvays suicide ghosts reside near place of death. Unfortunately, I cannot help vith that. To summon particular spirit I vould need personal effect, for example a piece of clothing. You need to have personal effect, or be at residence of spirit. Any psychic who claims othervise is lying.”

  “Well that’s easy enough,” Papa said. “You can come with us to the Hemingway house tonight. If he’s not there, then we’ll know for sure.”

  Madame Gertrude did not look pleased at the thought, and Bumby said, “There might be a better way.”

  All eyes turned to him. He reached under his shirt and pulled out a necklace with a shriveled rabbit’s foot dangling on the end of it.

  “What the hell’s that?” Papa said.

  “It’s his.”

  “Whose? His?”

  “I bought it a decade ago, at an auction. He wore it when he went to the Spanish Civil War.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Ernie said, reaching to touch it.

  Bumby pulled it back. “It’s my good luck charm. Not that it’s helped me get published,” he muttered. He took it off and reverently handed it to Madame Gertrude. “But if it will help, you can use it.”

  She looked doubtful. “If this is really his, it vill help.”

  “It better be. It cost me my life savings.”

  Papa guffawed.

  “Vait,” she said.

  She took the bauble and disappeared into the back room. They flinched when the lights went out, casting the room into total darkness. She returned with a single yellow candle and set it in a teacup in the middle of the table. The glow from the candle lit her lined face with soft flickers. She put the rabbit’s foot on the table, then covered it with her hand. “I must go into trance. The candle vill help light the vay for his spirit.”

  Then she closed her eyes and grew very still. The three of them waited in uneasy silence, taken aback by the sudden seriousness of her demeanor. It was as if this was the first time they had seen the real Madame Gertrude.

  They waited so long they thought she was asleep, and then her eyes slowly opened. “I have him,” she said softly.

  Ernie’s eyes popped, and even Papa was unnerved. “You’re kidding,” Bumby said. When she didn’t reply he said, “Madame?”

  “This is very strange. He’s close, I can sense him. His presence is on the island. But he’s not here with us, and I can barely hear him. I don’t know why he wouldn’t be able to come to me.”

  “What’s that mean?” Ernie said.

  “I don’t know, unless there’s some reason he’s tied to his location. Maybe the grief is too strong. Hold on—quiet. He’s trying to tell me something.”

  They shut up. She had dropped the accent and poor grammar, and her obliviousness to her shtick lent an eerie credulity to her words. Even I was impressed.

  Her face looked strained, and she was gripping the table with white knuckles. She was staring at Ernie, who was seated in the middle, although her stare went right through him. Suddenly her face collapsed, and she sat back.

  “Well?” Papa said. “Did you reach him?”

  She nodded once, her face taut. “Just for a moment. Then he was gone, as if he was being pulled away.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “I could only make out two words.” She looked around the room as if still searching for a presence, and her words issued from grim lips. “Help me.”

  I didn’t like how this was going, not one damned bit.

  Madame Gertrude had nothing else to say, and seemed disturbed by the whole encounter, which caused the three of them to file out of the room much more solemnly than they had entered.

  The clouds had broken and the sun bored into them as they walked down Duval. Bumby squinted down the street. “Forgot my sunglasses,” he muttered.

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” Ernie said. “Is he toying with us?”

  Papa balled his fists. “You need to get your head out of your ass. There’s a murderer on this island killing Hemingways, killing us, and you’re getting all worked up over some old bag who went through menopause during the Cold War.”

  Ernie shook his finger. “Don’t act like you don’t believe she’s a real psychic. You go there as much as any of us.”

  “That’s for fun, Ern. A diversion. This is real. Maybe she knows the killer, and is protecting him.”

  Bumby stared at Papa. “Madame Gertrude? You seem to be going out of your way to ignore the evidence we do have.”

  Papa held his sides and opened his mouth in mock laughter. “Evidence? Evidence? Exactly what evidence are you talking about, Bumblebutt?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Would that be the Ouija Board evidence or the senile fortune teller evidence?”

  “Fine. We’ll wait until tonight, and we’ll continue this conversation after we see what’s in Tolstoy’s grave.”

  Papa grinned. “Sure thing.”

  Later that day they decided to pay a visit to Jean-Paul, the wealthy Frenchman with the Hemingway addiction who had bought a huge house just a few doors down from the museum. Papa said the police would never touch him because he was so wealthy, and Bumby agreed, so they decided to take matters into their own hands.

  Jean-Paul was a vintner, and he specialized in selling truckloads of Bordeaux to third world dictators. The rumor (true) was that the wine was a front for arms dealings, since Jean-Paul’s extravagant lifestyle surpassed his rather modest holdings in Bordeaux. But since his wine was quite good, the French didn’t really care what he did on the side. One expert had even afforded Jean-Paul’s 2009 collection a ninety-eight point rating, but two days after the report she had been seen speeding down the Autobahn in a new Bugatti.

  I also happened to know that the horny old bastard had a penchant for bringing home two Nicaraguan whores on Wednesday nights, and listening to them read Proust with a Spanish accent before having a threesome in the Jacuzzi.

  The Hemingways walked up the long pathway through Jean-Paul’s garden, giving the restored Victorian admiring glances as they approached. If there was one thing Jean-Paul had, it was good taste.

  Papa banged on the door, and Jean-Paul opened it in a white suit, a huge cigar clamped between his teeth. He smiled broadly and ushered them in. He liked to be seen chumming with the Hemingways in town, probably because he thought it elevated his image as a connoisseur.

  Papa took in the rich furnishings with a greedy gaze. Jean-Paul led them to the sitting room, where there was an entire bookshelf full of aged Hemingway titles, and Bumby stared at it with undisguised jealousy.

  They all sat in plush leather chairs, and Jean-Paul blew a huge cloud of smoke. He was a short, energetic man with glasses and a cavernous bald spot. The cigar looked out of place; he was one of those unfortunate men who always looked like they were compensating
.

  He offered each of them a cigar, which they accepted. “What can I do for you, Messieurs?” He said, and then his face turned sympathetic. “My deepest regrets on the deaths of your noble compatriots.”

  “Thank you,” Bumby said.

  Papa puckered his cigar a few times, then held it between his fat fingers. Now he belonged with a cigar. “I’m gonna be blunt,” Papa said. “We’re desperate men here, so don’t give us any shit. What do you know about the letter?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Papa fell silent, and gave Jean-Paul a long stare. Jean-Paul’s face grew more and more perplexed, and he crossed and then uncrossed his legs.

  “The letter,” Papa repeated.

  Jean-Paul put up his hands. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. And why are all of you looking at me like this?”

  Ernie set down his cigar, stood and approached Jean-Paul. When he was a foot away he threw a jab at Jean-Paul’s face, quick as a mamba. He stopped an inch from Jean-Paul’s nose, and held his pose while Jean-Paul scrambled in his lap for his dropped cigar.

  Jean-Paul retrieved his cigar as he cringed into the chair. “What the hell’s going on here? I warn you my butler will be here any minute.”

  “Nah,” Ernie said, and returned to his seat. “He’s no boxer. He woulda thrown something up.”

  Jean-Paul stood, still a bit shaky from the near-punch. “I’ve always been a fan of your work, Messieurs, but I think it is time I escort you to the front door.”

  Bumby stood. Jean-Paul flinched, but Bumby rested his hands gently on Jean-Paul’s shoulders. “We’re just a bit on edge, as I’m sure you can understand. We have good reason to believe the killer is also a boxer, so Ern was just testing that theory.”

  Jean-Paul straightened his tie, glared at Ernie, then walked to a cabinet and took out a bottle of whiskey. He poured a tall glass and offered one to his guests. They all accepted.

  “Your actions are understandable,” he said, “given the circumstances. But please believe me that the last person I would want to harm would be a Hemingway impersonator. Unless,” he mused, “they were terrible. I joke of course—and anyway the ones who have died were not terrible, but beautiful. It is a beautiful thing that you do for us, oui, bringing him to life again.”

  “Yeah sure,” Papa said. “Look, you live a few doors down from the museum. You seen anything weird going on over there?”

  “Weird?”

  Papa waved his hands. “Yeah, people going in and out at night, strange lights, noises—”

  “Hemingway’s ghost,” Ernie said.

  “Shut up,” said Papa.

  Jean-Paul considered the question. “Not at all. But I must say I do not have a good view of the grounds. I can see into his bedroom from my rear balcony, and no, I have seen nothing of interest.”

  “What about the caretaker? You seen him acting strange lately?”

  “Lester? Of course not. Although,” he tapped his mouth with a finger, “maybe I should not intervene, but he was a boxer, and I’ve heard that his father was trained by Hemingway himself.”

  “What?” Papa said. “That half-wit’s father knew the Man?”

  “Oui oui. The President of the Museum informed me that Lester’s father was caretaker before him.”

  Ernie sat back. “The caretaker’s a boxer,” he repeated.

  Bumby flashed an annoyed look. “There’ve got to be dozens of boxers on the island at any given time, and it doesn’t prove anything anyway. I think the Sergeant was just trying to rile us up. Besides, the caretaker’s at least sixty, and we’ve already discussed why he wouldn’t…” He left off and glanced at Jean-Paul.

  “Now you’re ignoring evidence,” Papa said.

  Jean-Paul said, “Sorry?”

  “Nothing,” Bumby muttered. “Thanks for the drink, but we need to be going.”

  Jean-Paul raised his glass, showcasing both a diamond-encrusted Rolex and a tattoo of a somber Hemingway on the underside of his forearm, holding a wine glass and watching them all with sad knowing eyes. “I wish you luck. Let me know if there is anything I can do.”

  They were at Sloppy’s again that night. After working up their courage with a few drinks, they headed back to the house at midnight, Ernie hugging Champ’s Ouija Board to his chest, Bumby carrying a shovel, Papa carrying a concealed weapon.

  The night was soft and warm as it can only be on the islands. I was sure they were enjoying the sweet smell of decaying vegetation, the sensual breeze that brushes the skin like a lover’s lips.

  Ah, how I loved that place.

  They stepped off Duval, and by the time they reached Whitehead the street noise had faded into silence.

  After they had navigated the wall, Ernie turned towards the caretaker’s house, squatting in the back corner of the property like a dark tumor.

  “Maybe it’s time we had a little talk with Lester.”

  “And say what?” Bumby said. “Are you murdering Hemingways? Like we’ve said a thousand times, if he was protecting something why the hell would he let us over in the first place?”

  Ernie dropped his voice to a whisper. “Maybe he saw the letter?”

  “One, the letter’s not that valuable, and two, if he saw the letter, he could take it any time he wanted.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Ernie said, balling and unballing his fists. “I just don’t like coming out here all unprotected, when three of us have had our passports stamped in the last week.”

  “That’s why,” Papa said, showing his teeth as he pulled out a pistol from the waistband of his trousers, “I brought this.”

  Bumby almost fell backwards. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing that.”

  Ernie put his hands up, and Papa sneered. “God, Ern, I’m not gonna shoot you. That is, unless you’re the killer.”

  “I don’t like guns,” Ernie said. “And how do we know you’re not the one killin’ people?”

  Papa grinned. “You don’t.”

  “You could’ve at least brought us one.”

  “You know how expensive this piece was? And besides, I don’t trust either of you. You’re a boxer, and I’m not buying Bumby’s sensitive writer act for one goddamn second.”

  “I thought you said there were dozens of boxers on the island?”

  “That was Bumblepants. I happen to think you’re a greedy bastard who might be the killer.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Bumby waved a hand. “Shh. We need to stick together if we have any chance of figuring this out.” He looked at Papa. “Just don’t go pointing that thing anywhere near us. The first thing we’re gonna do is dig up that cat and see what’s there, agreed?”

  “Please do,” Papa said. “Make a fool of yourself so we can get on with this nonsense and find out who the killer is.”

  “And if we find something, then we use the Ouija Board again.”

  “Sure thing, Bumblecakes.”

  They headed down the path, wading through more spider webs as they walked past the pet cemetery to the forgotten headstone hidden among the foliage.

  Papa waved the gun at Ernie. “Why don’t you go over there and lookout for Lester while Bumby digs. I’ll stand guard here.”

  Ernie scowled but did as Papa said. Bumby threw Papa a foul look and then drove the shovel into the earth around the headstone. “I don’t feel right about this,” he said, “but I guess it has to be done.”

  After fifteen minutes of digging the shovel made a thudding noise as it hit something solid, and Bumby and Papa exchanged a look. Bumby kept digging until he had uncovered a two-foot wooden box sunk into the earth. Papa helped him lift it out, and they set it on the ground and called Ernie over.

  There was a tiny lock on the lid, and all three cringed as Bumby broke it off with the shovel. They waited until the sound stopped reverberating in the stillness, and then Bumby reached for the dirt-encrusted lid.

  Papa stayed his hand, pointing the gun at Ernie. “W
hy’d you think he wrote poems to Pauline anyway, Ern? I never heard nothing about the Man writing poems.”

  “He wrote plenty of poems,” Bumby said. “Just not very good ones.”

  “He was a romantic,” Ernie said.

  Papa smirked. “Yeah, so romantic he had four wives.”

  “He stayed with Mary until he died,” Ernie said crossly.

  “He might as well’ve divorced her. She had to clean up his brains.”

  Bumby raised the shovel and took a step towards Papa. “Shut up,” he said. “I’m so sick of your ignorant mouth. He was ill. He was in pain and he had a rare brain disease, and that’s why he did it.”

  Papa backed up a few steps, even though he had the gun. He was looking at Bumby as if seeing him for the first time, and had the gun pointed at his chest. “Okay, okay. Cool down there, Bumbles. Let’s just finish what we came for.”

  Bumby realized he was acting out of character and composed himself. He went to the coffin and lifted the lid with a trembling hand. After holding the lid open and peering inside, he screwed his face up at the smell and used the tip of one finger to move aside the tiny feline skeleton. Ernie gasped as Bumby pulled an envelope out of the box. The envelope was yellowed and serrated along the top, like they used to be.

  Ernie and Papa crowded around as Bumby broke the seal, then pulled out a thin stack of typed pages. The title of the first page read To My Dearest Pauline.

  Ernie stumbled backwards, and Papa’s eyes grew wide.

  “I don’t get it,” Papa said as he stumped down the stairs to the cellar. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on here, but why bury that stuff with the cat in the first place? Or under the brick in the cellar, for that matter?”

  Bumby shrugged. “Hemingway liked to do things like that. Said it would extend his legacy if people found little pieces of his work as time went by. Who knows what else is out there,” he said, with a hungry light in his eyes. “Maybe I was wrong, maybe there’s a whole other book somewhere.”

  “Can you imagine what that’d be worth?” Papa said.

  Bumby threw him a sharp look. “It’d be priceless, and go straight to a museum.”