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.”