by Lois Winston
And of course, Louie again, “…and Papa couldn’t stand the crowds, the children or the noise, so he moved in with us.” Sadie is moved to tears.
Louie stops short. They tremble. They are being addressed by the “house guest.”
What he says shocks all four of us. That includes turncoat and visionary Bella.
Louie recites it, unable to face us, embarrassed. “I cannot abide fools. You weary me. You are useless and stupid. You are fired!”
Sadie repeats it, “You’re fired!”
ELEVEN
Aftermath. Still Wow. Are We Crazy?
We are minutes into my car, right after our meeting with …can I believe I’m even saying this…Ernest Hemingway’s ghost.
Bella is cringing in the back seat, all of us staring at her. Since she is practically in Ida and Sophie’s laps, their closeness is even more intimidating.
Evvie says with irony, “Let the inquisition begin.” Not that our three partners would know that word, but they catch the meaning.
“Well?” says Sophie.
“Well, what?” Bella answers with terror in her eyes.
Ida. “So you really chatted with a ghost? You really saw him and heard him?
Bella, on the defensive, “You were there. You saw. You heard.”
Ida again. “How is that possible? There’s no such thing as a ghost. Or zombies or mummies or vampires.”
Bella, cowered. “I don’t know.”
Sophie. “Does he look like a real person?”
Bella. “Yes, sort of, I don’t know, like on TV, flat, faded…”
Evvie, now upbeat, “Reminds me of that little kid in the movie. What did he keep saying? ‘I see dead people’”
Ida, “Yeah, we saw that one. Creepy.”
I can’t resist, “And we see dead authors.”
Sophie. “Just one. I hope. What if he has friends?”
Ida. “Don’t go there; we have enough to worry about.”
I say, “Bella couldn’t have made that up. She couldn’t have known those quotes.”
Bella, with arms folded. “Exactly. I only read romance novels.”
Evvie. “This is so nutsy. If we ever told anyone they’d think we were crazy.”
I add, “Teresa knows. But I bet she thinks they’re senile and imagining it.”
Ida grimaces. “That thing, whatever it is, fired us! What nerve.
Ida, grim. “Nobody fires us and gets away with it.”
Bella. “So what do we do now?”
There’s a long pause, all of us thinking
Bella (poignantly) “We go home?”
Ida. “Good idea. And tell everybody we were here on vacation.”
“Girls,” I say, finally, “I’m rehiring us.”
There is an uproar of derision. Even Evvie is surprised. “Why? You have reasonable doubt about Robert’s death?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. But we’re here. The Wassingers need help. We’re detectives. Let’s detect.”
Ida is having a fit. “We haven’t gotten paid, not even a retainer. I bet we never get paid.”
Evvie. “It won’t be the first time. So, what? Think of it as an adventure. Working for a ghost.” She starts to laugh. One by one, we all join in. “Yes, this ghost interviewed us. Thought we were pitiful. Then dumped us!” The laughter grows louder. The silliness of it gets to us.
Sophie. “I say vote: should we keep on going?” Four hands go up. Almost unanimous. Except for Ida. Then hers goes up so slowly, as if her fingers refuse to budge. “All right count me in, someday it’ll be a great story to tell my grandkids.”
Bella. “You know what I wonder? Why can’t Papa move to another building and save us all this trouble?”
Good question. We are not going to let some ghost scare us away.
Sophie. “Let’s eat first, I’m starved. Soft-shell crab, anyone?”
Food always seems to come first.
TWELVE
We Are Detectives. We Detect. Pitiful.
I call the Wassingers. They are thrilled we’re still on the job and they give us a list of people to see. “Papa thanks you, too.” Yeah, I’ll bet.
~*~
Our first stop is at the police station. We ask for Sgt. Barbara Ella Robbson. Oh, oh, I think, as she comes toward us, she’s big. She looks tough and is naturally carrying a gun. We called ahead for an appointment and let them know we were Private Eyes.
When she reaches us, she says, “Where are the detectives?” Even her voice is tough. “If they wasted my time…”
The girls look to me. They are panic-stricken.
I hand her my card. “Gladdy Gold. And my Associates.”
She looks at the card, looks at us, then laughs. “You’re kidding. Right?”
Insulted! Here we go again. Teresa was surprised. The ghost thought we were pitiful and laughed hysterically, or so we were told, and now this mean-looking piece of work is giving us a hard time.
I ignore the insult. “We work out of Fort Lauderdale and we’re here hired by the Wassingers…”
She stops me. “Not them, again. “Look, ladies, you are out of your depth. We’ve already indicated to the Wassingers that Robert Strand died in a boating accident. And we have definitive proof. Even though we never found the boat, Robert’s body was washed up on shore. His boat probably capsized. I wish all of our cases were this easy. Open and shut. The victim did us the favor by taking a photo of himself being gored by a fish. She stifles a laugh. “Sorry, but it is funny. Proof positive. Death by selfie.”
A few of the cops, at desks behind her, chuckle with her. One calls out, “A great fish story.” Another mimics, “Something fishy here.”
Cop humor.
Ida speaks up. “A man died. It isn’t funny.”
Everyone gets quiet. Sgt. Barbara Ella starts moving us toward the door. “Please leave. We have real cases to deal with. And do tell the Wassingers—no more phone calls.”
Bella wants to know what a selfie is. We tell her. She still doesn’t get it.
No hope there with Ms. Hard-as-nails.
~*~
Next stop, STRAND, SMYTHE and LOVE lawyers. Posh office on an expensive street. Lots of glass and shiny wood. Many plaques on the wall showing us how famous they are and what city awards they’ve won. We tell the receptionist, a gum chewing blonde with black roots showing, that we have an appointment.
She advises us that only Mr. Parkhurst J. Smythe is here today. And Mr. Smythe is very busy.
So busy he keeps us waiting forty minutes.
We wiggle a lot and attempt to read magazines, but all are about yachting.
When he finally comes out, a skinny fifty-ish guy in shiny black suit, he immediately looks at his watch, annoyed, and asks where the Private Eyes are? Here we go again.
I go through my dog and pony act again of explaining who we are and introducing the girls and who hired us and what we are here to discuss. Bella and Sophie are trying to hide giggles because they think his toupee is crooked. I can tell Ida already dislikes him because he seems cranky and uppity. It takes one to know one.
Being a lawyer, he wants to see our credentials and license.
Being a fabricator, I say I left them home. One of these days, we must get a license.
Being a stuffy lawyer, he rightly feels he shouldn’t discuss personal business with us. But he will tell us this. He and his partner have taken over Mr. Robert Strand’s clients and he can assure us they will do right for the Wassingers, and please ask them to stop calling.
I try to insert myself. “But the Wassingers are concerned that their property won’t go to the historical society when they are gone.”
He looks as if smoke will come out of his ears. But he controls himself.
He walks us quickly to the door. This is getting repetitive. Mr. Smarmy sneers, “Not your concern. Ours.”
The girls rate him. Slimy. Slippery. Snooty. A snake. We don’t like him. We don’t trust him.
~*~
We are
not deterred. Next stop, the Italian Guys Fishing and Gun Club, where we were told Robert’s buddies play cards. Bartender points to the back. We walk through the bar, slightly seedy, with it bevy of stuffed animals, from deer to bear, and photos of gigantic fish being weighed, are on the walls. Plus the rancid smell of beer. Delicate Bella holds her nose and shuts her eyes and we have to lead her to a smallish room in the rear.
We find Tony, Clipper, Vito and Donny playing pinochle, as they present themselves. Chips and dips, beers and smokes at their elbows. More fish and game photos.
We brace ourselves for the usual, “So, you’re PI’s, wow, you gotta be kidding” routine. But to our surprise, they are delighted. And slightly drunk. Any friends of Robby’s, and the Wassingers, etc.
Then I have to explain, blah blah blah... They half pay attention, mostly they’re intent on their card game. And their smokes and beer.
I do say the usual, only because that’s what people say, and I mean it – sorry about your loss. The game slows down a bit with; yeah, he was a great guy, good pinochle player and most of all a great fishing buddy.
That was the opening I was looking for. Do they believe it was an accident?
Tony comments. “Hard not to believe.”
Vito. “I ask myself, would it have happened if we had been with him?”
Clipper. “Weird thing, that. We were supposed to be with him that day.”
I suddenly get a chill. “Why weren’t you?”
These guys take turns talking, but their eyes and hands never leave their cards.
Donny. “We were all supposed to go, packed our gear, ready to pile into our truck.
Chipper. Then, we all get texts; fishing is cancelled.
Tony. “Something came up.”
Vito. “Maybe next week.”
Donny. “Sorry, guys. Next time.”
Clipper. “So we play cards, instead.”
I ask, “Why do you think he cancelled?”
Donny. “Maybe he felt lucky and wanted to catch the big one, himself.”
Ida asks. “Would he do that? Was that typical?”
A chorus of four shake their heads. “Nah. Never.”
I’m almost letting myself get excited. “Maybe he didn’t send those texts. Maybe someone else did?”
Evvie adds, “Someone who wanted him dead.”
That stops the card game. They stare at us.
Sophie. “Someone who had a motive.”
Bella, “We were talking to…” Ida’s hand closes over her mouth. There will be no mention of ghosts with these guys.
The men exchange glances for a moment, then their hands reach for their wallets. Four photos brought out.
Vito says, “I wish, but there’s no doubt, it was a freak accident.”
They all have the same photo and now we know what cop, Barbara Ella, has as well. The sent “selfie;” Marlin attacking Robert with that terrifying snout. At the moment of his death.
They guys let tears fall.
Vito. “He took a pic of himself getting killed.”
Tony. “It went viral on the internet.”
Bella. “He was sick, too?”
Ida, snarky to me and Evvie. “Will someone tell her what ‘viral’ means, already?”
Clipper. “What a way to go.”
Open and shut.
~*~
One more stop to make. The girls suggest, why bother. I shrug, disheartened. But we’re almost there. So we stop at the mortuary and meet Otis Pebbles. Coroner. He did the autopsy. The place gives the girls the creeps, so they tiptoe into the all-white, highly lit, smells funny room. Color Otis wispy. Shaky. Scrawny. Bent over, I guess from all that leaning over dead bodies.
He doesn’t want to talk to us, whoever we are, or who sent us. “Ladies, I know you mean well, but the guy was killed by a fish. You should let it alone.”
A line pops into my head. “The lady protesteth too much, methinks.” Methinks Shakespeare was right. Hamlet, but in this case it’s Otis.
He waves his hand, points to the door. Obviously nervous. “Please leave. I’m a very busy person.” The girls obey, but not me.
“Otis,” I say ever so sweetly, “you have doubts, don’t you?”
He stops, rigid and fearful. “Please go away, lady.”
“Maybe a fish wasn’t the culprit?” I keep speaking, ever so gently. The girls stop, surprised. Evvie can guess what I’m doing.
He is actually stuttering. “I’m six weeks away from my retirement. You know how bad I want to get out? I have a sick wife. We’ve never had a vacation.”
Very softly. “Not a fish, but a human with a weapon?”
He is near tears. “I tried to tell them. They didn’t want to know.”
“Maybe a weapon that looked like a spear-like snout?”
“They reminded me sharply of my retirement date. Good pension. Maybe move it up sooner. Not smart to make waves.”
Evvie wants to ask the obvious question. Who. I stop her. We got what we needed.
I pat Otis on his skinny arm. Then I put my finger to my lips. “We were never here, Otis. Never. Good luck on your retirement.”
He sobs his thanks as we make our way out. Evvie beams. Reasonable doubt. “Bella,” I say, “get ready. You need another chat with Pap
THIRTEEN
Bearding the Tiger at His Den.
The Wassingers are thrilled to see us again. Would we like a tour of the house? A look at the garden? Coffee or tea? No thanks, no thanks and no, thanks. We’ve come to see the wizard. We head directly to the stairs. The Wassingers right behind us, chattering, muttering how glad we’re on their team. Breathing into our necks.
Louie. “It’s been a difficult morning.”
Sadie. “Grumpy. He always is when his ex-wives visit. His last wife’s there, too.”
Time to play their game. I ask sweetly, “What do the ex- wives want?”
Louie. “The usual, more alimony.”
Sadie. “That second wife, Pauline. She always wants more money to add on to the mansion. Drives him crazy. Papa swears she bankrupted him. Mary doesn’t want anything.”
Evvie’s on, nodding, following my act. Ida and Sophie surprised. Bella, thrilled. Evie comments, tongue in cheek, “Such a pity. Do the ex-wives visit often?”
Louie. “Usually the end of the month, when they’re broke.”
Now I know what it must be like in the booby hatch.
We continue to huff and puff our way up to the roof. Same scene. No one there to see, but our three visionaries quickly gather at the picket fence. Same drink, same cigar box.
Bella. “Good morning sir, Papa.”
Ida groans, annoyed at this nonsense. Sophie worries because Bella is starry-eyed; will she need to be committed?
I say to the adoring trio, “You will tell us everything Papa says.”
All three believers nod their heads. Recitations begin.
Bella, on the job. “Are you dolts back again?” To us, she asks, “What’s a dolt?”
“Never mind.”
Sadie to Louie, “Isn’t it thrilling? The dolts are on our side.”
Evvie, trying to keep a straight face, looks directly at where Papa should be. “You said you have proof. We want it now, without the insults.”
Ida applauds Evvie.
Sadie tugs at Evvie’s arm and whispers, “He’s not in his chair. He’s walking around.”
“Oops,” says Evvie, rotating.
Louie, “Yes, Papa I’ll let them know.” To us, “Papa will tell all, but there is a price. You have to promise to go to the mansion and get another box of his Cuban cigars; he’s out, and his bullfighter cape. He once fought bulls in Spain, isn’t that wonderful?”
“Yeah, swell,” agrees Ida, shoving two fingers in her mouth, imitating nausea.
I negotiate with empty air, “We’ll get what you want, only if you have the proof.”
Bella giggles. “He’s saying bad words again. You’re annoying him.”
&n
bsp; Louie recites proudly. “The proof is in the pudding, the pudding is in the boat. The boat is in the key. The key is in the sunshine.”
Evvie writes everything down.
Sadie, with a chuckle, “He’s reciting poetry now. No, first he’s singing. ‘I’m in the mood for love.’ Isn’t that sweet?” For a moment, she sings along, “Simply because you’re near me…” She stops, embarrassed. “I guess Papa is in a love-ly mood.”
Bella, “Papa’s quoting, ‘If two people love each other, there can be no happy end.’”
Evvie claps. “Clever, but cynical.”
Louie, energized. “Another line. ‘I am so in love with you, that there isn’t anything else.”’
Bella, having a wonderful time. “Why, darling, I don’t live at all when I’m not with you.” She blushes.
Suddenly the three advocates stiffen. Their master has turned angry. Louie, timorously, “Out, out all of you. Out Martha, Out Pauline. Out Hadley. Yes, even you, Mary. Out the lot of you!”
Ida asks sarcastically, “Did the wives leave?”
Sadie, says, “Yes, they’re running. And in high heels, too.”
I start for the staircase. “I guess we better go, also.”
Louie is right behind me. Eagerly. “I still have my key to the mansion. From when I was on the historic houses committee. We can sneak into the mansion tonight and get the loot.”
I say with enthusiasm, “You’ve got a date.”
As we reach the stairway, Bella calls out. “He says one more thing. ‘Robert was killed by love. Dolts!”’
We can’t get out of that house fast enough.
FOURTEEN
A Tour. Thieves in the Night.
I feel like bursting into song out of Gilbert and Sullivan’s songbook, H.M.S. Pinafore. “Carefully, we tiptoe stealing, breathing gently as we may.” Here we are being led by ninety-ish, frail Louie, inch by elderly inch, by flashlight, through the Hemingway mansion estate. It’s midnight and pitch-black. We’re close to the Wassinger house since we only walked a block or two. So, this is the 900 Whitehead Street, important tourist site that Evvie was going to read about in her travel book.
We are walking in a line, each holding on to the shoulder in front of us. We can barely make out the French Colonial building ahead of us, as Louie informs us in his tour voice, “Built in 1851. Hemingway only lived there from 1931 to 1939.”