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  My earlier embarrassment over my disheveled appearance faded like a wilted rose, showing only the thorns. Who said I couldn't come through?

  "Oh, and by the way," he added, a thin smile on his lips. "Barry doesn't know I'm here, so don't say anything to him, okay? He's obsessed with you. Lord knows why. Thinks you're the only one to handle this, and he'll never agree to give this job to a big firm like Gilcrest and Stratton until you tell him straight out you're not gonna take it."

  I bit my lip, quietly seething, and got my cell phone from the recharger. When I returned, he and Cavalier seemed to be on bestbuddy status.

  "Beautiful cat you've got here. What's his name?"

  "Cavalier."

  "Like in cavaliers vs. roundheads?"

  "Exactly."

  "What kind of cat is he?"

  "Male," I answered, making a face at Cavalier. "Barry still at his office?"

  "Yeah, I think so," Mitch said, stroking Cavvy's head as he rattled off the phone number.

  Barry picked up at once.

  "Hi, Barry. DD McGil. I'm sorry I didn't get back to you earlier. Do you know a Mitch Sinclair?"

  Mitch Sinclair glared at me and shifted, dropping Cavalier unceremoniously onto the floor.

  "Well, he's here now. Yeah, right here on my living room couch. And he's telling me he thinks the big guns from Gilcrest and Stratton should be hired to handle that job for you."

  Mitch Sinclair's eyes hardened.

  "That's right," I told Barry. "He seems to think I'm not ... adequate."

  Mitch squared his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest like Mr. Clean in that commercial. Except he wasn't smiling, and an almost imperceptible flush rose from his neck to his face, then disappeared.

  "Oh, really?" I asked cheerily into the receiver. Mitch clenched his teeth and glared at me. If looks could kill, I'd be in cold storage at the morgue right now. Like my Aunt Elizabeth the Dragon always says, "There are no Scots diplomats."

  "You say Harry Marley at the Treasury Department recommended me? Oh, that's okay with me, Barry. Yeah, I'll tell him. Bye."

  I snapped my cell phone shut and smiled. "Barry says the three of us are having a meeting tomorrow morning at nine in his office. Think you can make it?"

  Mitch Sinclair abruptly stood up and headed for the door. I followed, unlatched and opened it. He brushed by me in the doorway, and despite everything, his physical presence made my heart pound.

  "Miss McGil," he said, facing me. "Thanks for the coffee and for your time. Believe me, I didn't mean to be rude. You're undoubtedly very capable in your field, and I'm sorry we had to meet like this. I don't know who Harry Marley is or why he recommended you, but we both know this job is way over your head. Sooner or later you're going to fail. I'll be there when you do. I just hope for Barry's sake it won't be too late."

  The revised Oxford English Dictionary contains 615,000 words, but I was unable to think of one to say to him. I clutched my robe tighter against me. A breeze blew up my legs, making them tingle. I felt a delicious hot rush as his interesting brown eyes gave me one last glance before he pivoted on his heel and strode down the corridor.

  He turned into the stairwell and disappeared out of sight. He was a good friend to Barry and now he'd cast me as the enemy. Tonight, I may have won a battle, but I suspected I could lose the war. Maybe he was right about the job being out of my league, but I'd never admit that, no matter how much I was going to regret watching him disappear into the sunset, taking my fantasy sex life along with him.

  ELEVEN

  DAY 3: TUESDAY

  I love sleep. My life has a tendency to fall apart when awake...

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  EXHAUSTED, I FELL BACK into bed, my mind reeling. Toward morning, I dropped into a deep sleep that kept me from thinking but not from dreaming. I was in a shimmering desert. A uniformed police officer jumped off a camel and began to strip-search me. I resisted. He pressed his hard body against me. I could taste his insistent kisses, feel his hands on my body. It was Mitch Sinclair, telling me to yield the evidence. Somewhere off in the background, I heard Miss Wang ask if I was ready. Suddenly my flesh was wet with David's blood, and I froze as his cold, dead hand brushed my cheek.

  I opened my eyes. Cavalier was licking my face, bursting the bubble of my nightmare.

  "So you're attempting to make up for being such a Quisling last night with Mitch Sinclair." He purred as loudly as he could, which I interpreted as agreement.

  I had to agree with Hemingway this morning-things didn't seem any better in the light of day. David was still dead, I was still a suspect, and I had the same bad headache. My feelings about David were in a jumble. And I now regretted my foolish actions the night before in taking up the gauntlet against Mitch Sinclair. I was attracted to him against my will, and my own pride and stubbornness had simply set me up for a professional fight I would probably lose.

  The weather channel confirmed there was no relief in sight for Chicago's heat wave. Even with my air conditioning, it was nearly as hot inside my apartment as out there. Mitch was right-I needed central air, but that was impossible in this old building. I promised myself to investigate a new window unit with more BTUs.

  I fed Cavvy, and in spite of continual reminders that breakfast is the best meal of the day, all I could face was a strong cup of fresh-brewed chicory coffee. I retrieved the Trib from the lobby and saw that David's murder had made page one.

  HEMINGWAY EXPERT DAVID BARNES MURDERED

  -By Jonathan Hermann

  Dr. David J. Barnes, 38, professor of English and internationally recognized Ernest Hemingway scholar, was found shot to death in his apartment Monday.

  Scott Eider, a spokesman for the Cook County Coroner's Office, said Barnes had been shot twice and his apart ment appeared to have been ransacked. No witnesses to the shooting have been found, and police are launching an intensive investigation.

  Barnes, a professor of English at City College, was the subject of a bitter sexual harassment suit. A colleague, Beth Moyers, said he had hoped to have all charges dropped, but instead, a trial was pending.

  According to reliable sources, Barnes claimed to have found newly discovered Hemingway stories and poems lost since 1922.

  American Insurance confirms it has insured the manuscripts, soon to be auctioned by Bressmer Galleries.

  City College officials are planning a memorial service next week.

  The body was discovered early yesterday by Insurance Investigator, DD McGil.

  Yesterday's anger, fear, shock, and sadness returned full measure. So now I knew what Lauren meant about sexual harassment. But the David I'd known surely didn't need to harass women to get attention. During the time we'd spent together, we hadn't always agreed on things. But he'd been so vital, so alive. I knew I'd been on the verge of falling hard for him a second time.

  Who had killed him? And why? Was it related to the Hemingway find or to the harassment suit? Or to something else? Lauren was right. The cops were probably still considering me as the prime suspect, even though they'd let me go. The prudent thing, my Aunt Elizabeth would say, would be to look for some answers myself.

  I flipped channels. Every station was covering David's murder. The heat wave was old news. And the media being what it is, the sexual harassment charges eclipsed the literary find. Because I was named as having found the body, I knew the whirlwind would engulf me, too. I listened awhile, then turned it off, sick at heart.

  Cavalier dogged my footsteps, still trying to make up for last night. I cringed when I thought of Mitch Sinclair, knowing deep down he was right about the job for Barry.

  "I'm in way over my head," I commiserated with Cavalier, who for once seemed to be listening.

  Needing to look more capable than I felt at today's meeting, I chose a mocha silk Ellen Tracy blouse and a creamy vanilla silk skirt. To appease the fashion gods, I added a wide belt and the waytoo-expensive pin of a pouncing jaguar that Aunt Elizabeth had given me on my l
ast birthday. As I'd undone the wrapping paper, ma tante had insisted I set some goals. "And one of them," she'd added, "ought to be to catch a good man. It's the twenty-first century, DD. Men today don't mind a woman who's sassy and lippy all the time." I'd smiled and said nothing. Auntie knew I'd relied all my life on being lippy-a habit I'd developed early on, thanks to my dad, who'd warned me never to allow myself to be victimized under any circumstances if there was a way to talk myself out of it. By now, Auntie knew that my being sassy was an old habit that kicked in automatically, just like riding a bicycle, driving a car, or making love.

  To complete the outfit I found my favorite pair of Nine West pewter heels. The only thing wrong was that when I looked in the mirror, I saw two of myself. Even at that, I looked a lot better than I felt. Last night, the Wild Turkey had deadened the pain, but it wasn't doing me any good this morning.

  The red light was blinking on my answering machine. I hit the play button and Phil's not-so-cheery voice said he hoped I was feeling better because I had to be in his office at two o'clock for an urgent meeting. "Matt's back," he said, "and he wants to go over some things with you."

  Great, Phil. Just what I need.

  I popped three aspirin and a multi-vitamin and listened to the rest of the messages. Aside from the six news reporters wanting interviews, I'd have to call Don, another attorney who gives me work, and my mother, and Tom Joyce. Apparently Aunt Elizabeth hadn't heard yet, thanks be to the gods.

  I punched in Don's number.

  "I heard what happened," he said without preamble. "Word is out you could be the scapegoat, so watch your butt."

  "Thanks, Don. Don't worry. I'm doing fine."

  "Good. If you do need anything, let me know. In the meantime, I need your help." "

  I don't know, Don. I've already got a full plate."

  "Look, all I want is for you to make one simple visit to Graue Mill in Oak Brook and evaluate their security system."

  He paused, then sounding put-out, added: "I've hardly ever asked you for a favor, but I promised Anne you'd do this. She's on their Board of Directors, and it won't look good if you don't come through."

  Anne was Don's wealthy, attractive, and very politically involved wife. She supports an array of charities, is extremely savvy, and knows exactly what buttons to press to get things done. On top of all that, I like her.

  "You mean it won't look good if you don't come through, right, Don?" I laughed.

  "C'mon, DD. Don't let me down. This is really important to us both. And doing something constructive during this murder investigation will get your mind off things."

  "Okay, you earn points for that rationalization. So tell me what you need. I'll try to fit it in. That's the best I can do right now."

  "I knew I could count on you. Here's what's happening. The Mill has had three break-ins in the last few months. Mid-States Casualty is about to cancel their ass if they don't modernize their security system. From what I've heard, it's antediluvian."

  "Sounds like a big job to me."

  "It's easy money, DD. All you have to do is an evaluation and a recommendation. You've got to check out the existing system and then give me enough specific recommendations for substantial improvements to sway the insurance company over to our side. But you've got to get over there before the end of the week. If they get canceled, they won't get insured anywhere else without paying a fortune. Believe me, I'm doing you a favor."

  Graue Mill, I'd read somewhere, was the oldest working mill in Illinois, famous for having been one of the northernmost stops on the Underground Railway for runaway slaves. Don was right. It probably wasn't a big job.

  "Okay, I'll do it as a favor to you and Anne."

  "Good. They're open until nine, and the job absolutely has to be done before the end of the week. E-mail your report to me here at my office. Okay? And did you hear about the crazy lawsuit Phil Richy has to handle?"

  "Lately I can't tell what's crazy. Tell me."

  "Get this. Some wife offed her husband. Got three to fifteen in the pen for voluntary manslaughter. Then she ups and sues her husband's former employer for denying her survivor benefits. God, I love the law. Don't forget, DD. Get that report in by the end of the week. Oh, Anne sends her best."

  I hung up, entered it into my trusty black appointment book along with my two o'clock at Phil's with Matt. Then I returned mother's call.

  "We're worried about you, DD," she said, broaching the subject in her usual crab-like fashion.

  "You mean you're worried I might be arrested for murder, or you're worried I might have committed the murder?" Did my mother as well as my best friend really believe I could be involved?

  "Now, DD, that's not fair. I know how badly that awful cad David Barnes hurt you. And I know what your temper is like when Buchanan obstinacy rears its head. You're so much like your Aunt Elizabeth."

  You can't fool with kith and kin. Aunt Elizabeth and I were too akin as far as I was concerned. But there was nothing I could do about it.

  "Listen, DD. This might help you," she went on. "I just finished reading the Second Law of Success, the Law of Giving. It says that every relationship is one of give and take. What goes up must come down. What goes out must come back. Receiving is the same as giving. Think about it, okay? If you accept these principles, he says you'll live longer."

  I had to stop myself from blurting out that the difference in average life expectancy from 49 years in 1900 to 77.9 years today was due to improved diet and medicines, not to my mother's current hero, Deepak Chopra. But I'm not one to tell anybody what to believe. I just wish nobody would tell me, either. Lately, my mother, along with Glendy and Lucille, had been studying Deepak Chopra's Seven Spiritual Laws of Success. The ultimate goal of the little dears was to achieve success-not for themselves but for me. They worried about my love life, specifically the lack thereof, and they believed the Seven Laws would help "turn things around" for me. They took every opportunity to drop snippets of "the Laws" into the conversation. I'd already had it with Number One, the Law of Pure Potentiality, where I was supposed to align myself with the quantum soup and understand my true nature so I'd never feel guilty or fearful or insecure. And I was dreading Laws Three through Seven. But at least they'd stopped with the Feng Shui.

  "Oh, and don't forget about my birthday, Sunday," she reminded me. "You will be here for dinner?"

  I'd completely forgotten. "Of course I'll be there."

  "Good. And bring along your mending. I know you hate to sew.

  "Love you, Mom," I said, pleased she was handling the news about my involvement in David's murder so well.

  I hung up, waved good-bye to Cavvy, and rushed out, reminding myself to pick up a nice birthday present for my mother.

  "Pssst. DD. Come here a minute." Glendy and Lucille beckoned from their doorway. "Are you all right? Is there anything we can do?"

  "Good morning ladies. You saw the Trib, I take it."

  "Well, yes. And CNN, Fox News, and WGN," Glendy admitted.

  "And we got texted by a bunch of the neighbors," Lucille added. "Oh, and your mother phoned, too. She's worried about you."

  The girls, like most of their friends in the Seniors Club and the Salvation Army, have learned to use computers and they love to text on their Palm Pilots. They're like teenagers and never cease to amaze me.

  "We promised to keep an eye on you." Glendy smiled sheepishly.

  "Is it true what your mother said? You used to date the one that got killed, David Barnes?" Lucille quizzed.

  "Yes, I dated him, but that was a very long time ago."

  "What were the ructions last night all about? Who was that handsome man banging on your door?" asked Glendy.

  "The handsome man is strictly business. Sorry if he disturbed you. Really, everything's okay. I'm on my way to a meeting and have to hurry. See you both later."

  TWELVE

  The best way to find out if you can trust

  somebody is to trust them.

  -ERNE
ST HEMINGWAY

  BARRY HARRIS' OFFICE WAS in the heart of the Loop in one of the old, iconoclastic buildings. Parking around here was never easy and they'd cranked up the heat on enforcement so if you got a ticket, you actually had to pay it. The good old days when any old Chicago alderman or judge could get you off the hook were gone. Now not even a papal bull could save you.

  I parked in an expensive lot two blocks away and hiked to Barry's office. Normally I enjoy a brisk walk downtown, but the past few days of accumulated heat had turned the streets oppressive and the crowds downright ornery. Fast-walking women in tennis shoes shouldered the crowds with more rough and tumble than the men. I fought my way through the revolving door into Barry's building, and seriously contemplated Deepak Chopra's Laws of Success. Maybe it really was because I didn't understand my true self that my outfit was wrinkled, my hair was a mess, and I had absolutely no idea how I was going to help Barry solve his problem.

  This vintage building hadn't changed much in fifty years, give or take the addition of a gazillion electrical upgrades. The old elevator still had its heavy accordion gate, and I checked the inspection ticket and uttered a silent prayer as I pressed the number for Barry's floor.

  COMPUTER SOLUTIONS, INC. was painted in black letters on the frosted glass panel on the outer door, and when I entered, a very thin balding man with thick glasses approached.

  "I'm Herman Marx, Barry's office manager." He offered his hand while glancing up at the wall clock.

  "I'm on time, right?"

  "Two minutes early even," he smiled.

  The office air conditioning was on full blast, instantly reviving me. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee helped too.