Hunting for Hemingway Read online

  "Didn't the college verify Big Bill's vita and transcripts?" I asked.

  "Well..." she hedged. "We now have a new policy in place and everything's scrutinized. Anyway, we do know he lied on the job application," Bette stated emphatically.

  Statistically I knew Big Bill was in the majority. Over 72 percent of job applicants lie about something or other, and most get away with it. I didn't think it would be prudent for me to discuss statistics with Bette and Dorothy. Instead I questioned if the lies on his application were that important.

  Bette said, "My guess is that if David had exposed Big Bill as a fraud, Big Bill would be dead meat. There's nothing as damaging as lying about oneself in academia. I believe the election would have gone to David, despite the sexual harassment stuff."

  She was probably right. Nobody would blackmail somebody for not being from Texas. But if you're caught faking academic credentials, your career would go down the toilet in a heartbeat.

  "Look what happened to that Pulitzer Prize-winning history professor at Mount Holyoke College," Dorothy Jeffers interjected. "I can't remember his name now. Even after he apologized for lying about being a Vietnam combat veteran, he was suspended for a year without pay and had to give up his endowed chair."

  I told Bette that Dorothy and I had been discussing the lost Hemingway stories. She agreed with Dorothy that David's star would have risen again meteorically with the ensuing scholarly research.

  "Why David didn't tell us about the manuscripts being sent to him is something I'll never understand," Bette Abramawitz said. "He'd have gotten a big raise and the manuscripts would have been protected. Now, even though they rightly belong to us, we'll have to go after them in court."

  "Why is the college claiming ownership?" I asked.

  "Our attorney found out that they were mailed to this address," she explained. "Which clearly shows that whoever sent them knew David only in connection with his work at the college. Just like any research project in private industry, everything he generates while he works for us, we own. It's strictly a legal issue. We'll win on this one, I've no doubt."

  "Bette used to teach contract law before she went into administration," Dorothy interjected.

  "How well do you think Debbie Majors knows Big Bill?" I asked her.

  Bette pursed her lips. "I don't know. I haven't noticed anything unusual. Well, I'm still trying to find Beth." Without saying goodbye, she turned abruptly and trotted off down the corridor.

  "Do you think," Dorothy asked, "that the college really might get ownership of the Hemingway manuscripts now that David is...?"

  "We were talking about Beth," I interrupted. "I'd like to meet her."

  "Her cubicle's just down the hall. Number one-two-five. But Bette said she's not there." Dorothy Jeffers glanced at her watch. "Oh, I've got to get to class." She gathered up papers from her desk and jammed them into a lumpy, already full briefcase.

  "Do you know what Beth's schedule is, or where I could leave a message for her?" I asked as she yanked a blocky purse out of the bottom desk drawer.

  "Sorry." She locked her desk. "Check with administration. I've got to go."

  Ushering me out of her cubicle, she locked the door and hurried down the hall.

  SEVENTEEN

  WANDERING THE SUFFOCATING HALLS, I spotted a reporter I'd seen on WGN-TV coming toward me, with a cameraman following close behind. I ducked into the closest office and let them pass. I didn't need more publicity. After they were gone, I continued down the corridor and found a plaque reading, "David Barnes, Assistant Chair, English Department" This was probably where the WGN reporter had been coming from. I checked the corridor again, now nearly empty, and knocked, wondering if the new occupant, Martin Sweeney, might already be ensconced. No answer.

  I tried the door. Locked. I was sure the police had already checked everything over, but I was nosy and wanted to see for myself. It took me less than a nanosecond to decide to break in. I yanked my trusty Dyno tool lock pick out of the zipper compartment in my purse. Thank heavens the cops had returned it. I twisted it gently in the lock, and the door opened like magic. I entered and closed the door quickly behind me.

  My working environment isn't the neatest, as George, my landlord at The Beecham, continually reminds me. However, I immediately realized that the state of David's office overstepped the bounds, even for messy people. Papers were strewn about like the aftermath of a blizzard. Every surface of the desk, floor, bookcases, and computer table was covered. I was sure this hadn't been done during the police search. They leave things messy, but not in shambles.

  David's computer was under a mass of student essays. I turned it on and hunched over the monitor until the screen came on, waiting for the prompt. My nerves were on edge, and when I heard a key inserted in the lock, I jumped back from the computer. The office door swung open and a heavy-set man burst in.

  "Who are you? What are you doing in here? How'd you get in? Are you a student?"

  The burly man sported a trim white beard and was dressed casually in beige shorts and sandals, no socks, and a big belt buckle that read "Gott Mit Uns." I recognized him immediately as the guy who'd played Hemingway the other night.

  "Well?" he barked. "Are you going to tell me, or must I call security?"

  I wasn't keen on another hassle with the cops. "I'm DD McGil, and you must be Martin Sweeney." I smiled. "I've been looking all over for you."

  He stepped farther into the office and inspected me closely.

  "Do I know you?" he asked. Then he noticed the mess. "Say, what's going on in here?"

  "Looks like somebody trashed the place," I said, and explained that Dorothy Jeffers had told me he'd be taking David's classes.

  "How'd you get in?" he asked, walking around the desk.

  "I'm with American Insurance," I told him, hoping he'd forget the last question. "I just got here a moment ago." The truth and nothing but the truth. Just not the whole truth.

  "Why do you want to see me?" he asked as he unearthed the telephone under the debris on David's desk. He picked up the receiver and pushed some buttons.

  "Security? This is Martin Sweeney. Yeah. Well, now I'm up in David Barnes' office. Yeah, that's the one. Yes, I know the police searched it yesterday. Look, it's been trashed. Just get up here right away, okay?" He banged down the receiver. The computer screen was still showing white snow. Martin clicked it off and asked me, "Did you see anybody leaving when you came down the corridor?"

  "No I didn't."

  "What's American Insurance got to do with me?" he asked. A grease spot on the left leg of his khaki shorts kept catching my attention.

  "I've been hired by American to locate the Hemingway manuscripts they insured for David. Naturally, they've got a heavy financial reason for wanting them found. Would you, by any chance, know where they are?"

  "Hell, sister, I sure wish I did."

  I disliked being called sister when I wasn't, even though I knew Hemingway often used the appellation on his female acquaintances.

  "And," he continued, "even if they aren't the `true gen' as Hemingway himself would say, they're going to be worth plenty right now."

  "That's what the paper quoted you as saying. How can you be so sure the fragments weren't written by Hemingway when other experts believe they were?"

  "I've been around a long time, and my nose can smell crap coming down the pike. David was a good friend, but I couldn't support him on this. I think he was working a con."

  "What kind of con?" I asked.

  "I think he was salting the find with some unpublished Hemingway fragments and making up all the rest."

  "Wow," I said. "That would be a coup. But it would be one hell of a job. Do you think he had the skill to get away with something like that?"

  "I don't know. But nobody got to see more than small fragments. Anyway, you'll never convince me that somebody just up and sent him all those manuscripts in the very same valise that was lost in 1922. Who? David and I investigated all over in Mic
higan and here in Oak Park too. That valise was lost only a year after Hemingway and Hadley were married. There just wasn't any place left to look. My opinion? David was lying, pure and simple."

  Martin Sweeney walked to the doorway and asked, "What happens if American Insurance doesn't find the manuscripts?"

  "That's what they're worried about, Mr. Sweeney."

  "Call me Papa. Everybody does."

  "Nobody's made any claims yet. If there is a claim in the future and if the stuff isn't found, they're going to have to pay out based on the binder coverage."

  "It was David who ... Oh, good, that was fast. Look at this mess," he said to the uniformed campus security guard hurrying down the hall toward us.

  "Anything stolen?" the guard inquired, taking everything in with his big eyes as he pulled a notebook out of his pocket. His badge read Ortiz.

  "I couldn't tell you what he had in here. I just picked up the key from administration five minutes ago. Didn't the police take inventory yesterday?"

  "Who's this?" Ortiz pointed at me and blocked the doorway.

  "She was here when I walked in," Martin said.

  The guard flipped a page in the notebook. "You better explain," he said to me.

  I detailed my meeting with Dorothy Jeffers, said the door was open, and repeated that I'd walked in only a few seconds before Martin Sweeney. Ortiz proceeded to question me, and by the time he was finished, he had more vitals on me than my doctor.

  "Okay, you two can go now," Ortiz said, then pulled out his two-way radio and ordered someone on the other end to come seal off the office.

  Martin nodded and over the static, I heard him murmur, "Must be done under the circumstances"

  As Martin initialed a document for Ortiz, I said, "We need to discuss a few more details. Naturally you can see that if American Insurance fails to locate the manuscripts, they'd want to try to prove them fakes to lower their risk."

  "How can I help?"

  "By taking me through your analysis of the materials to help me sort out your reasoning. I'm sure I could get American Insurance to pop for some money to pay for your expertise." Assuming I could convince Matt.

  "Sounds interesting. Unfortunately, I'm tied up right now. Can you come to Oak Park tomorrow? I'm doing a tight schedule of lectures and seminars, but we could meet at the Hemingway Trust. Three o'clock? I'll have a half-hour."

  "Thanks. I'll be there."

  "What's going on? Why is security here?" asked a slim woman with ash blonde hair who'd approached from behind.

  "Oh, Beth," Martin said, putting his arm around her shoulders. "It looks like somebody trashed David's office."

  The ash-blonde pointed in my direction. "And you are?"

  "DD McGil." I extended my hand.

  She didn't take it. "So you're DD McGil."

  "Miss McGil was just...," Martin began when Ortiz interrupted.

  "I'm leaving now to file my report, Dr. Sweeney. Oh, hello, Dr. Moyers." He smiled at her, then turned and departed down the long hall.

  Despite the heat, Beth looked cool in her sleeveless berry colored dress. A cloisonne butterfly pin over her right breast flashed blue and yellow, and her light perfume was pleasant. I took a step toward her. "I'd like to talk to you, Dr. Moyers."

  "What about? David?"

  "He and I were friends many years ago, and..."

  "I know all about that," she said coolly, fingering the butterfly pin. "And I also know he was searching for you. Isn't it a coincidence that the day he found you, he turns up dead. Murdered."

  "It wasn't like that," I protested as classes let out and the corridor filled with noisy students.

  "Can we please talk somewhere private?" I asked her.

  "I don't want to talk to you. I don't have to talk to anybody but the police."

  "Well, legally, you..."

  She brushed me aside and strode quickly away.

  I waived to Martin, saying, "Meet you tomorrow." Then I followed Beth and her delightful perfume down the corridor. When I caught up, she turned and yelled, "Stop following me. You have no right to harass me. Why did David have to find you. He..." She began to cry and a small crowd of curious students clustered around her, casting condemning stares in my direction.

  "I only want to ask a few questions about David. Why are you so angry with me? I didn't kill him."

  "That's what you say, but I don't believe you." She turned and hurried toward the side exit door. I followed, hoping that when her tears dried, she'd calm down and we could talk.

  EIGHTEEN

  Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start...

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  THE CAMPUS HAD SETTLED into that quiet lull between day and evening classes. The usual late afternoon breezes off the lake hadn't materialized, and it was very hot. The humid air hung in deep silence over the parking lot.

  Many of the cars were now gone. Beth deftly zigzagged around those remaining toward her target, a blue Saturn station wagon. She wasn't exactly running, but it was clear she was evading me. Nevertheless, I managed to catch up as she climbed in and slammed the door.

  I rapped on the window, but she turned the ignition key and barely glanced my way as the Saturn's motor roared to life.

  "Beth," I called, but she gunned the gas and backed out fast.

  I ran after her. "Wait," I shouted.

  A loud mechanical clash from her car told me her engine was doing maximum rpm's. When the Saturn backed out to the road, it didn't stop or go into forward gear. Instead it continued to accelerate backward at a high rate of speed and with a lot of engine noise. I wondered if her gears were stuck, and I called out to her again as the Saturn raced across the grassy buffer on the other side of the road.

  Still in reverse, her car was churning up the grassy turf, leaving deep ruts in the irrigated green expanse. Through the windshield, I saw Beth. Her eyes and mouth formed three perfect "O's" as the car sped backwards toward a huge weeping willow tree on the bank of the retention pond.

  "Beth," I yelled as she crashed into the tree. It sounded like something you'd hear at a downtown Chicago intersection, entirely out of place in this quiet, bucolic setting. The momentum of the crash tossed the Saturn's front end up in the air. The front tires were spinning, and I heard the pitch of the car's motor increase to a scream as the weight came off the wheels. Weeping willow branches had gotten entangled in the door. I watched in horror as the car moved downward in slow motion, the weeping willow branches gently waving, and somersaulted into the murky retention pond. It landed wheels up with a thudding splash, and the screaming engine cut off abruptly.

  "Help! Someone help." I didn't wait to see if anyone heard. Dropping my purse, I kicked off my high heels and raced down the embankment, frantically trying to avoid tripping in the deep ruts the Saturn's tires had made.

  I smelled gas as I plunged into the spreading iridescence on the pond's surface.

  Cars sink rapidly, most in two to three minutes. This one was going even faster into the dark water because it was upside down. I reached out, grabbed a door handle, and was instantly sucked under with the car in a loud belch as the interior gave up its air.

  I held on and tried to get enough leverage to wrench open the door. The driver's window was broken, and the door badly damaged from the crash. Sharp branches from the willow stuck out everywhere, cutting my face and arms, preventing me from getting any purchase.

  The water was so murky, all I could see inside was the bright outline of Beth's dress. Reaching through the broken window, I pushed her, trying to shove her over to the passenger side. I hadn't seen her put on a seat belt, so maybe she could get out that way. She didn't move.

  I had to go up for air. I took three big gulps, still smelling gas. I wasn't going to give up. I dove back down. The water stopped churning, and the sediment began to clear. The car's interior was filled with water now except for some air trapped against the floorboards. I felt like Hamlet's Ophelia, floating with the willow branche
s, student papers, and empty juice containers.

  I lunged into the front seat through the broken window. Beth was lying with one leg over the steering wheel, another tucked under it. Her skirt had drifted up, exposing bloody cuts on her thighs. One arm, wedged between the seats, was covered with spidery scratches that glistened like red tattoos. And her head was a bloody mess.

  I grabbed her and tried to back out through the window. Something-one of her shoes-caught on the steering wheel. I tugged again, harder, ripping the dress but not freeing her. Her sharp butterfly pin cut my arm. The branches, the glass, and the metal all grabbed at me. I panicked, letting go of Beth and hoping I could get myself back out the window. I needed air.

  I came to the surface, gasping, and got a mouthful of gasoline. Somebody grabbed me by the waist and pulled me to the shore.

  "Are you okay?" my savior asked. "An ambulance is on the 11 way.

  "She's still in the car," I panted, coughing and feeling sick from the gas. "Couldn't get her out."

  "We'll take over," he said, as a curious but quiet crowd encircled us. I overheard someone ask no one in particular, "Was it suicide?"

  NINETEEN

  FIRE DEPARTMENT PARAMEDICS GAVE me a quick once-over, then left the scene. Without Beth. Which meant the coroner was on his way. Which meant that I had found body number two in as many days. I tensed up at the thought of what the cops were going to say about this.

  I soon learned that my savior was Ortiz, the security guard. The good news was I was alive. The bad news was Ortiz fingered me as the person Beth fought with just before she died. So now I wasn't just a witness, I was a suspect.

  When the cops questioned me, they were interested only in confirming that Beth and I had quarreled and why. They asked me why I'd followed her and why I wanted to harm her. I tried diverting their focus to the unusual clashing noises I had heard Beth's Saturn make when she stepped on the gas. Frustrated, I made a scene, insisting they accompany me to the parking lot. Not ready yet to make an arrest, they reluctantly agreed and followed me outside.