For Whom The Funeral Bell Tolls
Livia J. Washburn
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
FOR WHOM THE FUNERAL BELL TOLLS Copyright © February 2012 by Livia J. Washburn.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address The Book Place. [email protected]
For James, Shayna,
and Joanna
Chapter 1
Ernest Hemingway once defined courage as "grace under pressure".
However, Papa never had to ride herd on a bunch of drunken, horny tourists.
No, that job fell to me, and I'd had just about enough of it, especially with the way rock music was pounding from the speakers in Sloppy Joe's Bar so that everybody crowded in there shoulder to shoulder had to yell to be heard.
Somebody bumped into me from behind, and since the bar was right in front of me, there was nowhere for me to go. The crowd pressed him against me so intimately that all concept of personal space was demolished, and it got even worse when a familiar voice gulped in my ear, "Oh, cripes! I'm sorry, Miz D!"
I turned my head to look over my shoulder at Luke Edwards. Even in the garish light of the famous watering hole, I could see that his face was flaming red with embarrassment.
"That's all right, Luke," I told him. "If you can't dry-hump your mother-in-law in Key West, who can you . . . Oh, never mind!"
That just made him even more flustered. I knew it would, and saying it might have been a little mean. But I was feeling more than a little flustered myself. It seemed like we were almost at the end of the world, and the normal rules didn't apply here. My rambunctious clients seemed to feel the same way.
There were an even dozen of them. We had rendezvoused that afternoon at a Miami hotel, then made the long drive down through the Keys on Highway One in a fifteen-passenger van with Luke at the wheel.
Counting Luke and me, there were fourteen people on this tour. We could have brought along one more, but that would have meant having thirteen clients, and even though I don't consider myself a superstitious person, I wasn't just about to do that. No way.
Considering the way some of the tours I'd put together in the past had gone, I didn't think it was a good idea to tempt fate.
By the time we'd driven more than a hundred miles from Miami and checked into our hotel, the Bradenton Beach Resort, it was too late to do any sightseeing, but not too late for the clients to enjoy some of Key West's notorious nightlife. They were eager to do exactly that, so after they'd freshened up, they piled back into the van and we headed for Key West's Old Town, the most historic – and most lively – part of this island that had once been known as Bone Key, because of the skeletons that early Spanish explorers found on it.
I couldn't help but hope that wasn't an omen.
Not that I wanted to dwell on the possibility of trouble, but when you put together tours devoted to famous literary figures and folks keep getting murdered on them . . . well, there's an old saying about how you're not paranoid if they're really out to get you.
Not all of my tours featured a corpse, of course. That would just be silly, and a good sign that I ought to get out of the business. But it had happened often enough that Delilah Dickinson Literary Tours (that's me, my daughter Melissa, and her husband Luke) had a reputation that scared off some people. I tried to make up for that by putting together really good and affordable tours, like this Ernest Hemingway-themed visit to Key West.
Next to the Hemingway House itself, Sloppy Joe's was probably the most famous place in Key West because Hemingway had spent a lot of time drinking with the place's colorful owner Joe Russell. As I had explained to the clients on the way there, local legend had it that Hemingway had once received a $1000 royalty check for A Farewell to Arms from his publisher in New York while he was living in Key West, and the bank had refused to cash it because nobody who worked there believed that the scruffy beachcomber who brought in the check was really a famous author. But Joe Russell, the proprietor of Sloppy Joe's, had cashed it and earned himself Hemingway's enduring friendship.
It was a nice story, and it had the ring of truth to it. Of course, we weren't in the original Sloppy Joe's, where Papa had sat around and drank with Joe Russell. That location was a few blocks away and now housed another watering hole called Captain Tony's Saloon. But this version of Sloppy Joe's catered to the tourists by billing itself as Hemingway's Favorite Bar, and the marketing worked. People who came to Key West for the whole Hemingway experience flocked here. It was loud and rowdy and sexy, too, which didn't hurt.
The pressure of the crowd finally eased enough for Luke to extricate himself from close proximity to my backside. He slid into a narrow open space beside me at the bar and said, "Lord have mercy, Miz D, I never meant to get so, uh, familiar."
"Don't worry about it, Luke," I told him. "It's so crowded in here a girl could wind up gettin' pregnant and never even realize she'd been havin' fun."
"Yeah, I guess so." He stood a little taller and craned his neck to look around the room at the nightly chaos. "I can't see all of our clients anymore."
"Doesn't matter. They're all grown. Some of 'em will probably want to wander around Old Town some." I patted the pocket of my slacks. "I've got all their numbers in my phone, and if they're not back at the van by eleven-thirty, I'll call 'em and tell them to get there unless they want to walk all the way back to the beach."
It wasn't that much of a walk, fifteen minutes or so, but on a hot, muggy night it would take a lot out of you, and all the nights were hot and muggy in Key West. Life here at the southernmost tip of the United States was lubricated equally by booze and sweat.
I was drinking bottled water, and I signaled the bartender to bring me another one. He was a muscular, gorgeous young man with long dark hair and a tight black T-shirt. He actually had a gold ring in one ear, giving him a piratical look. I recalled that at one time, a man wearing a ring in his ear like that supposedly meant he was gay, but I didn't know if that still applied or if it was even true. Not that it mattered in this case, because all I wanted from this young man was another bottle of water.
He grinned at me as he slid it across the bar and made the five dollar bill I put down disappear. "In town on a tour?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the blaring music.
"That's right." I didn't bother explaining that I was in charge of the tour, not one of the paying customers.
His grin took in Luke as he said, "I hope you and your friend enjoy it."
"Business associate," I said as I pointed a thumb at Luke.
"Uh-huh," the bartender said. "Well, if you and your business associate need somebody to show you around after-hours, I wouldn't mind."
His eyes did a slow crawl over me, then gave Luke the same treatment.
I swallowed hard. "Thanks, but I don't think that'll be necessary."
"Suit yourself," he said, still grinning. He moved off down the bar to take care of some other customers.
Luke leaned closer to me and said, "Miz D, was he hitting on you?"
"Well, you don't have to say it like it's the most far-fetched thing in the world. Anyway, I think he was hittin' on both of us."
Luke frowned. "What are you . . . You mean . . . Whoa!" He looked around. "What kind of a town is this?"
"Free-spirited," I told him.
"I'll say. And he thought
that you and I – "
"Again, don't push it."
"Okay, okay. Guess I'd better circulate and make sure none of our folks need anything."
"Be discreet," I told him. "Some people come on tours like this because they're romantic."
"I don't see how anybody could be romantic in a madhouse like this."
I thought he had a point, actually. I would have found it a lot more romantic strolling along one of the white sandy beaches scattered around the key, hand in hand with somebody I cared about. Problem was, I didn't have anybody like that right now. Back home in Atlanta, I'd been dating Dr. Will Burke off and on for a couple of years – he's the literature professor sort of doctor, not the medical kind – but we were more off than on at the moment.
I figured that was mostly my fault. At my age, with one divorce behind me, even a largely amicable one, I was a little commitment-shy. I had a reasonably successful business and an adorable daughter and son-in-law who were going to make me a grandma one of these days. I didn't really need any more in my life than that, did I?
Luke wandered off into the crowd. I sipped on my bottled water and did some people-watching. And there were all kinds of people to watch, let me tell you. Key West drew them from all over, all ages and shapes and sizes. I saw gung-ho business types, male and female both, with Bluetooths in their ears and smart phones in their hands, probably checking the overseas markets and making deals right here in the middle of Sloppy Joe's. Next to them were tie-dyed, sandals-and-granny-glasses-wearing sorts who looked like they were stuck in a time loop where it was perpetually 1967. Fishermen, artists, high rollers, tourists looking to lose the pallor of a Midwestern winter . . . everybody came to Key West sooner or later, and once they got here, everybody came to Sloppy Joe's.
I liked it. It was a good break for me, I thought, getting out of my comfort zone like this.
"Ms. Dickinson?"
The man's voice made me turn around. I was pretty good at putting names with faces, so even though I'd known them for only a few hours, I recognized George and Kerry Matheson. He was in plumbing supplies, the sort of balding former athlete who was starting to put on more than a few extra pounds, and she was a pretty, perky housewife with short brown hair who looked like she could have played that part on a sitcom. Nice enough people, from what I knew of them so far.
"Ms. Dickinson, this is great!" George went on. "I love this place!"
"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," I told him. "We'll have plenty of free time while we're here, so you can come back if you like or explore some of the other nightlife."
"Oh, I'm sure we will," he said. "Right, hon?"
Kerry nodded. She didn't look quite as enthralled by Sloppy Joe's as her husband obviously was, but she seemed to be having a reasonably good time.
"I'm looking forward to seeing Hemingway's house tomorrow," she said.
We were going to be in Key West for four nights and three days. A visit to the Hemingway House was first on the itinerary the next morning, and the rest of the first two days would be devoted to seeing all the other historic sights and museums on the island. The third day would be free time for the clients to shop or just enjoy the beach and the other amenities of the resort where we were staying. Then the next morning it would be back to Miami, where we would all go our separate ways.
"It's really interesting, all right," I said in response to Kerry Matheson's comment. "I guess you must be a Hemingway fan."
She rolled her eyes. "Sure, but not as much as Mr. Harvick."
I knew what she meant. There were four couples on this tour and four singles, and Walter Harvick was one of the singles. He was as big a Hemingway fan as anybody I'd ever run into. In fact, he had told me that he'd been here to Key West half a dozen times before on his own, as well as visiting Hemingway's haunts in Paris, Spain, Cuba, and Idaho.
"But I thought it might be fun to see those places with a group for a change, so I'm starting here," he'd said to me in the van that afternoon.
I hoped he would enjoy himself. He probably wouldn't learn anything new, but that wouldn't matter to him. I knew from experience that certain readers who are really devoted to a particular author can go back again and again to the places where that writer produced his or her work. There was something about just being there that was special to them.
Then something happened that made me wonder if there really are such things as omens. Kerry Matheson had just mentioned Walter Harvick when Luke appeared beside me, touched my arm, and leaned close to me to say, "Trouble, Miz D! It's that Harvick fella, and I think he's about to get his butt whipped!"
Chapter 2
I turned to look at Luke, and the worry in his eyes told me he wasn't overreacting. One of my clients was in trouble, and it was my job to put a stop to it if I could.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"Over in the corner by those palm trees," Luke said.
Sloppy Joe's was the sort of place that had big potted palms for atmosphere. When I looked around I spotted a cluster of them in the corner Luke indicated.
"Let's go," I said.
Behind me, George Matheson asked, "Do you need some help, Ms. Dickinson?"
"George, this is none of our business," his wife said.
"Thanks, Mr. Matheson, but we've got this. Don't we, Luke?"
"Sure," Luke said. He had played ball in high school and college, too, and a lot more recently than Matheson had.
I nodded to him to indicate that he should go first, then settled in close behind him as he cleared a path through the crowd. Even with Luke shouldering his way along, it took us a couple of minutes to make our way across the big main room of Sloppy Joe's.
I hoped we weren't going to be too late to help Mr. Harvick.
When we got there, Harvick was still on his feet, and I was grateful for that. The trouble wasn't over, though. A burly, middle-aged man with white hair and a beard stood in front of Harvick, poking him in the chest and yelling at him.
" – what the hell you're talking about!" the man said. "I'm a dead ringer for Papa, and everybody here knows it!"
"Not everybody," Harvick said. "I don't know it, because you don't really look like him. It takes more than white hair and a beard, you know. Anyway, when Hemingway lived here in the Thirties and Forties, he didn't look anything like you do. He still had dark hair and a mustache then."
"I won the Hemingway Lookalike Contest two years ago!"
"All that proves is that the judges were either blind or your cronies or both."
Walter Harvick had a mouth on him for a fella who probably weighed a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. He looked like a mild and unassuming sort – about forty years old, curly brown hair that had started to thin, and a pretty weak chin, to be honest – but evidently he had the soul of a tiger when it came to his literary idol.
"Why, you weaselly little pipsqueak!" the Papa lookalike exploded.
I hadn't heard anybody called a pipsqueak in years. I didn't have time to think about that, however, because the man bunched up a fist and swung it at Harvick's head.
It's not that unusual for a tourist to get in a fight with a local. It can happen anywhere, on any tour. Luke had had experience with trouble like this. He got ready to jump the Hemingway lookalike and hang on to him so that he couldn't hurt Mr. Harvick. The bouncers who worked here at Sloppy Joe's would probably show up in a matter of seconds to take him off Luke's hands and escort him out.
As it turned out, though, Luke didn't have to do anything. Harvick ducked under the punch, then reached out and grabbed hold of the man's arm. He must have known a lot about pressure points and things like that, because it appeared that he didn't do anything except squeeze lightly on the man's arm. That was enough to make the man howl in pain and drop helplessly to his knees.
The bouncers were there even quicker than I expected them to be. Like the bartender who had flirted with Luke and me, they were big and wore tight black T-shirts.
One of them got in Harvick's
face and said, "Let him go, buddy, right now."
"You don't understand," Harvick said. "He attacked me."
"Yeah, well, he's the one hurtin', so let go of him."
With a shrug, Harvick did what the bouncer told him. When he released the Hemingway lookalike's arm, the man went all the way to the floor, where he curled up and whimpered.
"Hemingway would have been disgusted by you," Harvick told him.
"Time for you to go," the other bouncer said as he reached for Harvick.
I was afraid Harvick might try the same ninja trick on the bouncer, in which case he might get really hurt or at least arrested, and I didn't want either of those things happening.
So I stepped forward quickly and said over the pounding beat of the music, "Just a minute here, fellas. There's no need for any more trouble."
The bouncer who was reaching for Harvick stopped. He turned and glared at me as he asked, "Who the hell are you, lady?"
"My name's Delilah Dickinson," I told him. "I run a tour company, and Mr. Harvick here is one of my clients."
"So you're a glorified tour guide. That doesn't change anything here." The guy nodded toward the Hemingway lookalike, who was still curled up on the floor. "Rollie here is one of our regulars, and he's hurt."
"He took the first swing," Luke put in. "Mr. Harvick was just defending himself."
"Nobody asked you, frat boy."
Luke started to lose his temper, then he stopped and said, "You think I look young enough to be a frat boy? Really?"
I pushed forward again. "My associate is right," I insisted. "This wasn't my client's fault. The other man attacked him."
The second bouncer looked at Harvick and asked, "What'd you do to get Rollie so mad at you, anyway? He's usually pretty easy-going."
Harvick's narrow shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "I just told him he didn't really look like Ernest Hemingway."
The bouncers exchanged a glance. One of them said, "Yeah, that'd do it."
"Look, we're gonna give you the benefit of the doubt, all right?" the other bouncer said to Harvick. "But only because we know that Rollie's pretty touchy about looking like Papa. But that's it. Any more trouble and you're outta here."
For Whom The Funeral Bell Tolls Page 1