Lucille followed, balancing a silver tray with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, a glass of orange juice and a small dish of salmon. I sincerely hoped the salmon was for Cavvy.
"What a feast. You're wonderful," I said, upending the coffee table so they could set down the coffeepot and tray.
Glendy and Lucille roamed through the apartment, surveying the mess while Cavalier and I dug in. We were both hungry, and my food, at least, was good.
The twins returned from their tour, shaking their heads.
"As soon as Cavvy's done eating, we'll take him to our place," Glendy announced.
"He's been traumatized," Lucille noted. "He'll need reassurance till things get straightened up here."
"And we know you'll be out doing the investigating," Glendy concluded, picking up the cat.
When they left with Cav, I assured them everything would be all right, and I almost convinced myself.
Two minutes later, true to his word, Bob the Glazier arrived.
"You was lucky. I was about to leave for my first appointment, but I fit you in first, seeing as it's urgent."
Yeah, and seeing as I'm paying you a fortune.
"What with a home invasion every thirty seconds and a burglary every eighteen," he went on, "I can't keep up with things all by myself anymore. I got ten guys out on the streets now."
Bob took out his tools and began to ply his trowel in confident, artistic motions, handling the repair with dispatch.
"What'd they get from you?" he asked.
"Not much."
"You're real lucky. Most times if they don't find what they like, they torch you or garbage the place. Flash you or trash you. Yep, you was real lucky."
"That's what the cops said."
"Crooks ain't just crooks anymore," he said. "Everybody's into power these days."
While he worked, I phoned Dieter, my auto mechanic. He's a whiz with anything automotive and keeps my Miata in great shape.
"Vat's your problem, DD?"
I told him about yesterday, concluding, "There was enough brake fluid in the parking lot to be sure that's where the brake line was severed."
"Hmm," he said.
"What I can't figure out is why the motor red-lined as soon as she shifted into reverse."
"Hmm. What year vas that car, DD?"
I didn't know the year and hated not to be able to talk car talk. "Does blue help?" I joked, looking for a way out without embarrassing myself too much.
"Hmm. If it vasn't this year's brand-new model, chances are good it vas the TV Cable."
"What are you talking about? Cable TV?"
"Ha, you love to joke me. No, TV Cable is dat throttle valve cable. All dose older GM cars have a cable dat connects the throttle valve on top of da engine to da transmission. See?"
I didn't.
"German-made cars don't have dis problem."
"Dieter, explain in more detail please."
"Vell, vhat I mean is dis TV cable tells da transmission when to shift depending on how hard it is you step on the gas. But dis could be rigged so ven you shift in reverse, dat cable controls da throttle opening instead of da throttle controlling the transmission."
"So when she shifted into reverse, it was like stepping on the gas too."
"Yah, Liebchen. You got it now."
"So what the hell are you supposed to do if something like that happens?" I asked.
"You can do nothing wid out brakes," he answered softly. "If maybe she shifted out of reverse, she might haf saved herself. But maybe nicht. In da vay you have described da sound of dat engine, it vas turning so fast it prob'ly would have blown up in her lap."
Feeling numb, I thanked him and hung up.
"All done, Miss," Bob the Glazier announced with a satisfied smile. He ran his fingers along the glass to check for smooth lines. "That'll hold." He collected and neatly repacked his tools. "My advice, though, is you should put Lexan in there 'stead of glass."
I frowned. "Isn't Lexan really expensive?"
"It costs lots more, but they can't break it."
He took his check and asked, "Can I leave the back way? I got my truck parked illegal at the Broadway bus stop."
TWENTY-FOUR
THE BEECHAM BUILDING HAD cranked up their air conditioning to Arctic, and my office was wonderfully cool. Even better, I'd gotten in without seeing my landlord, George Vogel. I erased the six messages that had come in from reporters since yesterday and gulped some ice cold Coke I'd bought in the lobby. When I phoned for an appointment to see the chairman of the English department, I was put on hold. Being a multi-tasker, I used the time to unwrap and munch half a Mounds bar that was hiding in my desk.
"Miss McGil? Bill Butler here," he announced garrulously.
"I'd like to make an appointment to see you," I told him, swallowing the last bite of the Mounds. "Today, if possible."
"I'll be perfectly blunt," he drawled. "I don't believe that would be at all prudent. You see, I happen to know your name has come up in the investigations concerning the recent deaths of two members of this department."
"Well, that may be so, but..."
"And, on advice of my counsel, I will not meet you or have any further conversation with you."
"But it's very important."
The line buzzed dead. I hung up, wondering why he needed counsel. I supposed the cops were questioning him too, so maybe they were looking into other possibilities. Still, I needed to talk to him about the sexual harassment case. As department chair, he'd know more details about exactly what happened. I was getting tired of being stonewalled by everybody. Maybe I'd just walk into his office unannounced and corner him.
I couldn't put off calling Matt any longer so I punched in the number he'd left on my machine last night.
A pleasant female voice announced, "Whitehall Hotel. How may I help you?"
Matt answered on the third ring. "I was just about to call you, DD. I have to cancel our meeting tonight. Something's come up."
Was that why he'd called me at home last night? I wasn't going to step into a trap. "Okay, fine," I said.
"Let's reschedule. Tomorrow night here at the Whitehall restaurant at eight o'clock. Anything to report so far?"
I told him briefly what had happened at City College with Beth Moyers and David's office being ransacked. I left out the little details about my being a primo suspect and my own apartment being trashed.
"And nobody seems to know where the manuscripts are. By the way," I added, "I kind of promised Martin Sweeney that American Insurance would pay him for his expertise to help us prove the manuscripts weren't genuine. I hope you're not going to make a liar out of me."
"We'll fork out a reasonable amount for him, DD. Sounds like the ball is rolling in our direction from what he's got to say. Do you think David faked the manuscripts?"
"Honestly, Matt, at this point I don't know. I'd have liked to get a look at the computer in David's office, but didn't have time. Now I don't know if I can, because the cops sealed it off."
"You'll think of something, DD. You're the most resourceful girl I've ever met. Keep me posted. Oh, and have you given any more thought to what we discussed in Phil's office?"
Sure, I thought. But it always comes out the same.
"I'll be in touch, Matt," I answered. "See you tomorrow night."
I rang off and stared into space, thinking about the Whitehall. I loved that restaurant, but it was connected to the hotel, and I suspected that's why Matt made reservations there.
I finished the Coke and called the inscrutable Miss Wang at the IRS. Mr. Poussant, she informed me, was on field duty today, and I'd have to leave a message.
Before I could pick up the phone again, it rang.
"DD McGil?" a deep, pleasant voice asked.
"Yes?"
"This is Mitch Sinclair."
"Hi"
"How's your investigation coming? Barry asked me to call and touch base. I'm here if you need questions answered or want anything."
>
I wondered if Barry had broken down and told him about the micro-video camera I'd planted. Or maybe they'd found the Keykatcher I'd installed.
"That was really nice of Barry," I said cautiously.
"Look, DD McGil," Mitch said forcefully. "Let's cut the crap and stop playing games. I'm trying to help you. Don't you get it? Somebody's got to, or we'll never solve this." "
I appreciate what you're saying, but..."
"But nothing. I see the papers and watch the news. You're a suspect in a murder case. Just how do you propose to help us solve this piracy? Don't you realize this isn't a game? We've got to get to the bottom of this right now or Barry will be out of business and maybe even in jail."
"Every word you say is true," I answered, trying to ignore the heavy lump in the pit of my stomach. "But give me a chance. If I don't come up with something in the next day or so, I'll tell Barry to call in Gilcrest and Stratton. Okay? Truce?"
"I don't agree, but I guess it'll have to be. I just hope you know what you're doing."
I hung up the phone, unsure of the track I was following. I needed more time-time Barry didn't have to give.
TWENTY-FIVE
As you get older it is harder to have heroes,
but it is sort of necessary.
-ERNEST HEMINGWAY
I LEFT THE OFFICE early to meet Martin Sweeney. I wondered what I might learn from him. David was dead, and even though I was playing detective, nothing was going to change the fact that I would never see him again. If Martin Sweeney convinced me the manuscripts were fake, American Insurance would come out on top. But what about David's reputation? If they were fake, why had David been killed? And what about Beth Moyers? I was sure both of them had been murdered by the same person or persons who trashed my digs. And if they thought I had the manuscripts or knew something dangerous, what else was I in for?
Road construction, also known as improvements-for-our-owngood, made traffic stop-and-go all the way to Oak Park. Insects, formerly the most successful life form on earth, have been superceded by road contractors.
It was hotter here in the western burbs, away from the cooling effect of Lake Michigan. Parking, however, was the same old nightmare as in the city. I was estimating that my chances of winning the lottery were better than finding a spot when I saw an illegal space next to a bus stop and pulled in.
Oak Park was Hemingway's birthplace, and the village tries to make it look much the same as during his boyhood. Today, however, it skirts Chicago's western ghetto, and you don't need different colored street signs to know you stand on the threshold between two different worlds. On one side of the street, vacant, graffitied buildings gaped loudly, declaring gang turf. On the other side, Frank Lloyd Wright buildings attracted tourists, and residents worked hard to keep their manicured green lawns and freshly painted buildings an oasis of civility.
The Oak Park Hemingway Trust was housed in the village high school, a five-story yellow brick edifice covering several square blocks. Tennis courts and a playing field were tacked on one end near a huge parking lot.
Martin had said there was tight security, but no one asked for an ID as I roamed the halls trying to find the archives office. A loud bell rang, signaling the end of classes, and all the doors along the corridor were thrown open with a collective bang. I didn't have to wonder for whom the bell tolled, and before I could get out of the way, waves of students from all directions pushed me here and there, taking me along like a pebble of sand on the Normandy beach during the invasion. I pulled out of the crowd's flow and waited against a wall until the masses cleared.
"You lost, miss?" A white-haired female security guard approached with a concerned look. I saw she was wearing a gun. As the bell rang again and the corridors quickly emptied, she directed me to the archives office on the second floor.
TWENTY-SIX
Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.
-ERNEST HEMINGWAY
ONCE UPSTAIRS, I EASILY located the archives. Inside it was cool and dark-temperature, humidity, and light controlled to protect the valuable materials. Blown-up sepia-toned scenes of early village life covered the walls.
Martin Sweeney was seated at a table in a separate room at the back of the archives area. Special lights illuminated his table, overflowing with stacks of papers. We appeared to be alone.
"Have a seat." He pointed to an adjacent chair.
"I see you're very busy," I nodded to the scattered research materials on the table. "Thanks for taking time to talk with me."
He took off his glasses and squinted at me. "I'm not sure I should after what happened yesterday with Beth. I understand the cops think you might be involved in both deaths. Personally, I feel that finding two bodies is more than just coincidence."
Everybody was telling me that. I agreed but didn't tell him so. Nor did I tell him that when I called the Insurance Institute to find the exact odds on an innocent person finding two bodies, they had no stats to offer. Instead, they told me to contact America's Most Wanted.
"You're going to have to take my word for it that I wasn't involved in either death. I'm working for the insurance company. I told you that yesterday, and the cops are checking it out. Say, these photos of the village along the walls are fascinating." I pointed at the sepia shots. "Nothing looks like it used to." "
"You wouldn't say that if you lived here," Martin said seriously.
"You don't like Oak Park?"
I grew up here, just like Hemingway. We both started life as Doopers."
"As what?"
"Doopers. Dear Old Oak Park-ers. You were either a Dooper or a Greaser. Luckily we both grew out of it."
"Did you help start the local group that promotes Hemingway?"
"God, no. They tout him as a favorite son now, but during his life, people here didn't like him. And Papa in turn didn't like the `broad lawns and narrow minds' of Oak Park. He never had any desire to come back. Here's a fact," he said, looking up at the ceiling. "His mother wrote him on his twenty-first birthday to `not come back until his tongue learned not to insult and shame his mother.' They were estranged from that day on. Who could blame him for going to Paris a year later to escape the religious, narrowminded provincialism that was at its zenith here in the twenties."
He gathered up pages of research material he'd been working on and stacked them in a neat pile.
"This local Hemingway group doesn't like what I do," he explained. "They can't accept the fact that Hemingway totally rejected the self-satisfied, broom-up-your-ass puritanical manners Oak Parkers think they invented. Damn, don't get me started. Now that things have come full circle, Oak Park finds it needs Hemingway. You wouldn't believe what they concoct to attract publicity. They even stage a running of the bulls down the main commercial drag every year," he snorted.
"You mean like in Pamplona?" I asked.
"Ha. The real story is that in June of 1944, Hemingway and another American writer were gored by a bull in the ring at Pamplona where they went to attend a fiesta. But here, in the Oak Park version, they don't use real bulls. Instead they dress up local businessmen in bull suits and horns and run them down a blocked-off street. Papa would puke.
"See, they're just plain wrong. They should be researching what made Papa macho, and that didn't take place here in Oak Park. That happened up in Michigan where his father took him hunting, fishing, and camping, and helped him cultivate a spirit of adventure and curiosity. His mother tried to dampen that spirit. She was totally domineering. She even tried to dress up Hemingway as a girl."
"I didn't know that."
"No one here in Oak Park wants to face the fact that the years he spent here weren't good ones. It started when his parents moved into his mother's family home, and his mother was the little princess Grace. From then on, the deck was stacked against the Hemingway males. Grace took over and had her way in everything. It's said that she won all the arguments, made everybody sing to her tune."
"That doesn't sound li
ke a lot of fun," I agreed. "Hemingway must have reacted to that his whole life. But then, aren't most families a bit off-kilter? Isn't dysfunctional the norm?"
"That proves my thesis. Like most men, as soon as Hemingway was old enough to be on his own, he took charge of his life. He was eighteen and vowed never again to live according to someone else's dictates. He came back here to Oak Park less than half a dozen times. He did attend his father's funeral, but not his mother's."
I wondered what the natives thought of Martin's theories. Before I could figure out a nice way to ask, he said, "Think about it. If you're forced to live your childhood doing someone else's bidding, you don't turn into an obedient adult. You turn into a spoiled adult who gets everything you were forbidden as a child. I ought to know." He smiled. "I grew up with the same crap."
We both chuckled and he asked, "Why do you think Hemingway wanted to be called Papa? Did you know that when his father killed himself, Ernest's mother mailed him the gun his father used? Nice, huh?"
"But I think I read somewhere that Hemingway asked his mother to send him that gun."
"Well, that's one story, but I don't believe it. I think the record needs to be set straight on all the facts. That's why I'm doing all this research on Ernest's years in school here at Oak Park High and the stories he wrote as a student for the school paper." He pointed at the materials on the table. "But, you mentioned something about hiring me."
"Right," I said. "Your evaluation of the manuscripts indicates that they were fake. American Insurance has, as I told you, a vested interest. If the originals aren't located, they'd like to have proof that the stuff was faked. Are you willing to provide a professional opinion to American detailing the reasoning on which you based your conclusion? We'll pay you $10,000"
"I've done an awful lot of research. It would have to be $25,000 minimum."
Briefly, before I agreed, I wondered whether Matt would consider that a reasonable sum.
"You know, I really wish I was wrong," he went on. "But remember, David refused to show anyone, including me, more than a few fragments of his find. That didn't feel right. I hate to allege fraud, but David is-was-very clever. What about American Insurance? Did they see everything before they wrote the coverage?"
Hunting for Hemingway Page 14