“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 that 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.
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.”