Hunting for Hemingway Read online

  Cavalier greeted me by twitching every one of the thirty-two muscles in each ear. I wasn't sure if he was mad at me, or if he had another case of ear mites. I grabbed him and applied a few drops of medicine in both ears for good measure. Afterwards, I no longer doubted he was mad at me.

  I tuned in CNN and listened to chatter about the massive heat wave hitting the Midwest. All the other channels were focused on the heat wave, too, so I checked my black book for today's appointments. An eight a.m. meeting with Phil Richy meant I would have to hurry. Phil's one of the attorneys who sends me claims investigation work. He'd told me next to nothing about this job, a sure sign I wasn't going to like it. He knew I'd take it though. I needed the work.

  At ten-thirty, I had a meeting with Mr. Poussant, the IRS agent auditing my tax return from three years ago. He'd been hassling me over minor points and had phoned me last Friday in a royal snit. "Be at my office Monday morning at ten-thirty sharp, Mzz. McGil," he'd demanded. "And this is your last chance to bring in those receipts and the paperwork we discussed. Let's clear up this return once and for all."

  Every time I saw him, my blood pressure exploded. I'm not somebody like Bernie Madoff that the IRS should maybe take a second look at. Doing insurance investigations is so low on the food chain that some paramecium make more money than I do. Even if I wanted to cheat, the difference on my tax return wouldn't amount to much. I'd uncovered only a few receipts, so I knew this meeting wouldn't be fruitful-at least for me.

  I turned on the shower and jumped in. The cold, sharp water poured life back into me. I needed time to think about things before I saw David again. As I toweled dry, Mister Cat went through his grooming ritual. I couldn't tell if the heat bothered him. Cats are so hard to read.

  "Stay there. I'll be right back," I ordered, as if he would dream of obeying. The kitchen tile was delightfully cool on my toes as I yanked open the freezer-door and pulled out my bra. It was just the right temperature after spending yesterday with the ice cubes. It had worked for Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch on late night TV last week, so I was hoping it would work for me, too. I slammed the freezer-door shut with satisfaction as Cavalier pranced in, too curious after all not to follow.

  "See this?" I dangled the frozen bra like a treat. "I told you it would work."

  I rummaged in my closet, deciding on a pale yellow jacket and skirt, no pantyhose. I slipped into a pair of Nine West heels and tried to avoid looking in the mirror. It's not that I'm bad to look at-a fact directly attributable to my Grandmother Mason on my mother's side. I'm not ungrateful for her long legs, blonde hair, and blue eyes that give me more than my share of attention from men. But I've got a generous dose of my father's Scottish Buchanan genes, which makes me a natural-born pessimist. I tend to focus on the downside of things, like here I am at thirty-nine with no millions in the bank, no Nobel Prize, and no handsome prince in my bed chamber. After Frank's death, I left the academic world behind, and I left most of my friends and my social life behind, too. "A fallen academic" is what my best friend, Lauren, calls me. She complains that my insurance work takes up too much of my time. But truth to tell, I wasn't socially acceptable after the whole bloody episode with Frank. And now with Scotty gone, I prefer it that way. I've given up on the idea that my fairy godmother will wave her starry wand and put everything back together, a la Humpty Dumpty. I like what I do now, and I'm good at it. I'm my own boss, and it's as far away as possible from academia. True, the money's not great, but it's sufficient to buy food for Cavalier.

  I scooped some Mighty Cat into his bowl and was in the middle of gulping down my own breakfast of vitamin pills when I heard the TV reporter mention Hemingway.

  The story got six minutes of airtime. Network anchors interviewed an owner of the auction house, a Northwestern University professor who authenticated the manuscripts, and another professor who claimed they were frauds. I recognized the last one as the guy who'd played Hemingway in last night's production.

  A rather pompous anchor then segued into an armchair analysis with another Hemingway scholar on how the author had blamed his first wife, Hadley Richardson, for losing the manuscripts. He suggested Hadley had intentionally packed both the originals and the carbons, and, jealous of Hemingway's success, she'd lost everything on purpose. The loss of the manuscripts, the pundit continued, had caused a deep rift in their marriage that ultimately led to their subsequent divorce. The segment ended with speculation that the bidding for the manuscripts could top fifteen to twenty million dollars-even in this bad economy-due to strong international interest involving anything to do with Hemingway.

  As I flipped off the TV, the phone rang.

  "DD, are you sitting down?" It was my best friend, Lauren. "You're not gonna believe this. It's all over the tube. Somebody finally found those lost Hemingway manuscripts."

  "I know."

  "I was afraid you might not catch it."

  "Better than that. I saw David Barnes yesterday."

  "You're kidding. It's been ... how many years since that superrat left you standing there? Damn him. Wait a minute, DD. Are you telling me he's the one who found those manuscripts after all?"

  "He's got them, but he didn't exactly find them. He told me somebody sent them to him."

  "He got 'em in the mail? Jesus, DD, if that was the plot of a novel, no publisher would touch it. It's totally unbelievable."

  "But apparently true."

  "So why didn't they mention him on the news?"

  "David specifically wants his name kept out of it." I knew I could trust Lauren.

  "My God, DD ..."

  "Look, I really have to run."

  "Wait. What's he look like? Is he still so handsome? I hope you shoot him. He deserves it for what he did to you."

  "I've got to go, or I'll be late for a meeting. Catch up with you later today."

  "I won't be here later. Nick has a backgammon tournament in Wisconsin, and we're flying up there this afternoon. Tell me now."

  "In that small plane of his?"

  "Yeah, but the alternative's five hours in a car." She sighed audibly. "Okay, I'm hanging up, but don't go and kill the bounder till we talk. This is some turn of events."

  I hung up, glad that she'd stopped asking if there'd been any news about Scotty. Lauren and I have been gal-pals since high school. She grew up the center of a tug of war between her doting Japanese father, who named her after Lauren Bacall and encouraged her to be Western, and a beautiful Japanese mother, Iko, who firmly insisted she carry on the feudal traditions. It's a miracle she turned out so bravehearted, and over the years we've shared all our secrets.

  I grabbed my briefcase, waived good-bye to Cavalier, and locked my door. Down the corridor, I knocked at 3-A, Glendy and Lucille's apartment. They're my elderly twin-sister neighbors who act like my surrogate mothers, as if I needed more than one.

  Glendy, the older by two minutes, opened the door and peered out. "It's DD," she informed Lucille and pulled me in. "Got time for a cuppa and some biscuits?"

  "It smells soo good, I'd love to, but I'm on the run."

  "You're always on the run," they said in tandem.

  "I wondered if you two would look in on Mister Cat after the Cubs game. I won't make the game today, and I'll be late coming home."

  The girls, spry Southern chicks in their eighties, eat homemade biscuits every morning and go to Cubs games instead of "doctoring." They live on their small pensions and can't afford season tickets. So every few weeks, I anonymously send them some. They're having a ball trying to guess the identity of their secret admirer. Currently, it's narrowed down to any of seven gentlemen friends at the Salvation Army and bingo at St. Michael's.

  "Does this mean you're finally going on a date tonight?" Glendy asked, smiling. "You need to get out again, DD. We liked Scotty, too, you know. And we miss him. But he's gone for good. You've got to start living again."

  "And don't be so picky with men," Lucille chimed in from the kitchen.

  "And don
't worry about us taking care of Cavvy," Glendy assured me. "We're happy to. You know we're crazy about him."

  "Oh, here's that special seed for the cardinals I told you about," I said, pulling a bag of dark seeds from my briefcase and handing it to Glendy. "Are you writing down the descriptions of any unusual birds?"

  "You mean other than pigeons?" Glendy laughed as she placed the bag in a cupboard drawer. They're both members of the Audubon Society and each has her own pair of binoculars. Since I helped put a feeder on their back porch, they bird-watch from the kitchen window. Mr. Cavalier is allowed to watch, too. I wonder if they know he dreams of eating the birds, not identifying them. I never mention it.

  I bade them good-bye and walked four blocks to where I'd parked my car, a little green Miata convertible of which I'm overly fond. I hurriedly crawled behind the wheel, put the top down and headed south to the Loop on Lake Shore Drive, trying desperately to suppress memories of Scotty sitting next to me. First I lost Frank, now I've lost Scotty. I winced at all the bittersweet memories and wondered how long it would take to start forgetting. Then I remembered David and last night. I didn't want to think about that yet.

  All along Lake Shore Drive I caught bright glimpses of seagulls and colorful sailboats dipping and weaving across the waterfront. Despite the early morning heat, a parade of joggers strutted their stuff on Oak Street Beach.

  Changing lanes, I turned onto Illinois Street and sped past Navy Pier and the Chicago River, then hung a right into Lower Wacker. I turned on my headlights as the road descended into the twists and turns of Chicago's street below the streets. I love the surreal glow of the green lights that make Lower Wacker into an alternate universe. Navigating the Loop down here is always a few degrees cooler and much less congested. Most drivers can't find their way around the maze of Lower Wacker, and they can't rely on a GPS for help. A GPS can't do three dimensions.

  I passed Trump Tower, formerly the site of the old Sun-Times building. I remembered watching shirtless crews hustle newspaper bundles into idling delivery trucks, and I rather missed the adventure of avoiding a crash as they squealed into traffic at outrageous speeds.

  Lower Michigan also took me past the Billy Goat Tavern, a favorite subterranean haunt of Chicago journalists made famous on Saturday Night Live with "Cheezborger! Cheezborger!" It's also famous for the Curse of the Billy Goat. That dates back to October 5, 1945, during game four of the World Series, when the original owner, William "Billy Goat" Sianis, brought along his pet goat, Murphy, to cheer the team. When Cubs owner P. K. Wrigley refused the goat admission-even though he had a ticket-Sianis cursed the team saying they'd never win a World Series. Thus all true Chicagoans-even non-Scots-firmly believe in curses.

  Braking hard, I turned onto Upper Wacker and finally emerged back into the daylight. I had to blink repeatedly until my eyes finally adjusted from that green glow below to the sunlight here on Upper Wacker. Meanwhile I planned my day. After meeting Phil, I wanted to contact Tom Joyce, my antiquarian bookseller friend. Despite being mad at him for giving me that ticket, I intended to pick his brain on Hemingway. He might even know something about David Barnes that I didn't know.

  I was still tired, but those vitamins were kicking in, and I had a feeling it was going to be a good day. I inserted a CD of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, turned up the volume, and let the music block out visions of David Barnes, Ernest Hemingway, and the IRS the rest of the way to Phil's office.

  FIVE

  When people talk, listen completely. Most people never listen.

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  PHIL AND I Go back a long way. It was through him I'd gotten into insurance investigations. After Frank's death, one of Phil's clients, a famous Chicago institution which must remain nameless, was unable to locate a priceless medieval manuscript. Phil, in his capacity as the attorney for the university's insurance company, begged me to find it. He insisted my academic background gave me an inside track. At the time I was so desperate for money to pay off Frank's bills, I agreed. Less than twenty-four hours later, I'd tracked down the precious item in the grungy Hyde Park apartment of a grad student who was planning to sell it over eBay. Phil was able to hush up the whole thing-no police, no publicity, and most importantly, no insurance claims leading to sky-high insur ance rates for said nameless Chicago institution. He'd paid me well for that job, and he's been giving me work ever since.

  Phil shared office space with three other lawyers in a modest building on the west side of the Loop. I got off on the fourteenth floor and pushed open the heavy double glass doors three minutes early, which for me was statistically outside the norm.

  Gilda Fone, one of the two secretaries in the outer office, eyed the wall clock. "Is the world ending? Should I say a novena?"

  I glared at her and reminded myself I'm not the only one with a license to smart-mouth. Gilda had a thing for Phil, and she'd cast me in the role of rival. She liked to scheme and dream and plant land mines for me wherever possible. I smiled thinly and moved away from her desk to escape the heavy perfume she always wore.

  "Hello, Miss McGil." Mandy Morrison, the nice secretary, greeted me. "Sorry, but you'll have to wait. He's on the phone."

  "This is the last time I'll be early," I quipped.

  "This is the first time you've ever been early," Gilda snorted loudly, adjusting her oversized tortoise shell glasses.

  Unable to refute the truth of her accusation, I headed for the drab waiting room. It smelled of plastic chairs and stale coffee, and the air conditioning here too was straining to beat the heat and humidity. The only reading material consisted of complimentary copies of Law Digest. I settled down to a good fidget, staring at the walls and thinking over last night with David.

  Phil's office door popped open. "Gilda, is DD here yet?" Phil yelled.

  Ignoring Gilda and Mandy, I got up and headed for Phil's inner sanctum. Like any good Scot, I always meet the charge head on.

  Phil leaned across his untidy desk to shake hands, knocking a stack of file folders into the trash can in the process.

  "Hiya, DD," he greeted me tight-lipped as he bent to reclaim his files from the garbage.

  "I've been waiting. I'm not always late. What's the job? You didn't say much about it over the phone."

  Phil settled into his squeaky brown leather chair. "Matt King flew in late last night from New York," he said, his eyes avoiding me. "He wants to meet with you."

  "Matt's here? In Chicago?"

  "Yeah," he said, twirling a pencil, another sure sign he was nervous.

  Shit, I thought.

  "What's he want to see me about?"

  "I don't know, DD. You tell me. Matt King never comes to outposts like this. But he's here. And he specifically asked for you to be at this meeting." Phil finally made eye contact. "Is there something going on I don't know about?"

  Matt was the grand poobah at American Insurance, and the last time I'd seen him was at a big International Security Training Seminar in Washington, D.C., where we'd been in his hotel suite, naked. I wasn't too keen on seeing him again.

  "Well?" Phil prodded.

  I've had trouble in the romance department ever since Frank died, damn him. And before I met Scotty, there was Matt. I thought Matt was the one. He'd made me so recklessly happy, I'd almost forgotten Frank. Then I heard, quite by chance, that he was ever so happily married to a former state beauty queen with two darling girls, ages two and three and a half. Matt and I hadn't exactly parted friends. But my great deductive powers told me this wasn't the time to tell Phil. Confession may be good for your soul, but it's bad for your career.

  The silence lengthened. Finally Phil said, "DD. Please. What's going on? You know I'm always on your side. But American Insurance is my biggest client, and I can't afford to lose them."

  His phone buzzed. He reached out and grabbed the receiver. "Yeah, Gilda," he said, eyeing me. "Send him in."

  He replaced the phone with a clunk. The door opened, and Matt King strode in, confident, sophistic
ated, and too damn handsome for his own good.

  Phil stood up to introduce us. "Matt, this is..."

  "No need for introductions, Phil," Matt said in that rich, persuasive voice of his, extending a muscular hand in my direction. "DD and I already know each other."

  I found myself turning to him involuntarily, a heliotrope to the sun. Yeah, I thought, biting my lower lip as we shook hands, we know each other, but only in the Biblical sense.

  Phil sat down, Matt sat down, and I held my breath, waiting for the shoe to drop. Life's all about falling down and getting up again, but I was afraid this time I might not be able to get up. Now he was probably out to get my job. To err is human. To forgive might be against company policy.

  "Matt," Phil began, "if American Insurance has any problems with Ms. McGil, I can assure you that I've been more than satisfied with every job she's done for me. She's clever, reliable..."

  "And honest, trustworthy, and good to her mother," Matt interrupted. "I already know all that."

  "Then what's the problem?" Phil asked.

  Matt leaned across Phil's messy desk to address him directly while ignoring the pants off me. "I've come here today because American Insurance has been asked to undertake a very special job, and we believe she can help us."

  "What?" I asked a little too loudly.

  Matt turned and flashed me one of his sexy smiles. There was no doubt the rat was handsome. His eyes were laughing, and his masculine scent very sexy. Charm like his, well, you know the adage.

  "Have you seen the news today about the recovery of the lost Hemingway manuscripts?" he asked.

  Phil's eyes opened wide, and he asked, "Is American thinking of providing coverage to the auction house?"