“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. “Why’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.”