Dying to Retire (18 page)

“Don’t remember reading about a clinical trial on—what is it?—feverfew in any of my medical journals. What kind of study was it? Did it follow established guidelines? Did it get a peer review?”

“Of course not. Conventional medicine is not ready to hear about natural drugs,” Truman said, locking up his cabinet. “The drug companies will see to that. Why use something we can grow ourselves when they can charge millions of dollars for their products?”

“So you’re going to take it on faith that this feverfew works?”

“Not faith, experience. I gave it to one of my patients and she told me it was a miracle drug. That’s better than established guidelines or peer review.”

“You know that anecdotal evidence is not applicable to a wide population. You might have had the same reaction giving her sugar water.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” I said, feeling it was time to intervene before an old friendship went up in flames over a disagreement on medical practices. I looked at my watch. “You don’t want to be late for your tee time, and if I remember correctly you still need to arrange to rent golf clubs. Are we taking the car, Truman, or can we walk there?”

“Too far to walk, Jessica. Usually I’d take the bus to that area, but since you have a car, let’s take advantage of that.”

We followed him out the door.

“Are you sure you want to play with an old man who hasn’t held a putter in twenty years?” he asked Seth.

“Whatever you forgot, I’ll teach you,” Seth replied. “I’ll probably be a little rusty myself. Haven’t really put in time on the golf course since last summer. We’ll be duffers together.”

“Sounds good. I’ll let Benny know we’re leaving, and I’ll join you in the driveway.” He locked the dispensary and trotted toward the guest cottage.

“Can you believe it?” Seth exploded as soon as Truman was out of sight. “The man has become a witch doctor.”

“Seth, we’re staying in his home, benefiting from his hospitality. You don’t want to quarrel with him.”

“I knew something was wrong the second I saw him. What man our age wears his hair like that?”

“He does,” I said, smiling.

“Can you imagine him treating patients in Boston, looking like that? Shorts. Sandals. No socks.”

“I doubt he dressed that way in Boston. But even if he did, he doesn’t live there anymore. And in Key West, neither his attire nor his hairstyle is the least bit unusual.”

Seth shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, Jess. It’s not what I thought it would be. I just don’t know the man anymore.”

“You haven’t seen him in a long time, Seth. People change. But he’s being a wonderful host. He’s taking you golfing because that’s what
you
like. Let’s be good guests.”

“I know you’re right.” He sighed heavily. “But all the same, when you want to leave, I’ll be ready.”

“Why don’t you find other topics to talk about while you’re playing? Ask him if he’s read any good books lately.”

“Probably reading about casting spells and making potions,” he muttered.

“Are we ready, Truman?” I said brightly when he appeared from around the corner.

“All set,” he said, holding up a pair of rolled socks. “I figure they’d like me to put these on when I rent golf shoes.”

“Good thinking,” Seth said.

“You’re going to be awfully early, Jessica, if the opening is at noon,” Truman said from the backseat. “You’ve got time to sightsee if you want. It’s not even ten yet.”

“How do you know the time?” I asked. “You don’t wear a watch.”

“I cheated,” Truman said. “I looked at yours.”

“You don’t wear a watch?” Seth said, carefully backing the car down the driveway.

“Threw it away years ago.”

“How do you manage if you don’t know what time it is? What about your patients?”

“It’s not really hard. I just tell my patients to come in after breakfast, before lunch, or after work. No point in giving them a specific time. They don’t wear watches either. On occasion they may have to wait, but no one’s in a hurry, so it works out fine.”

“Well, I’m not in a hurry either,” I said, “so where would you suggest I go?”

“There’s a lot of history down here. I think I mentioned that President Truman had his summer White House here. There’s that, and Mel Fisher’s museum. It’s got some of the treasure he salvaged from a sunken Spanish galleon. Great stuff—doubloons, pieces of eight, gold bars. Kids love it there. The Audubon House is nice, too. But I imagine as a writer, you’d like to see the museum they made of Ernest Hemingway’s place.”

We agreed on Hemingway’s house, which Truman assured me was within walking distance of Wainscott Manor, although he cautioned me against long walks in the sun.

“It’s not too hot today, so it’s easy to forget the sun can still damage your skin. Do you have sunscreen?”

“I do. And I also have a hat,” I said, holding up my handbag to which I’d fastened a canvas cap. “Foreverglades had a heat wave when we left, so I came prepared.”

“Do you have an umbrella?”

“No, but it doesn’t look like rain.” I looked out the window up at the sky. It was clear except for some scattered puffy clouds.

“You can’t go by that. It rains a lot down here. If you get caught in a shower, you can duck for cover and wait it out. It won’t last long.”

Truman gave Seth directions and we drove across town, slowly navigating the narrow streets we shared with people on bikes and mopeds.

“It’s just over there,” Truman said when he and Seth dropped me at the corner of Whitehead Street. “Have a good time, Jessica. The back door is open if you get home before us.”

“And don’t do anything foolish at Wainscott’s,” Seth added.

“Why would you tell her a thing like that?” Truman said, extricating himself from the back of the car and climbing into the passenger seat I’d vacated.

“I’m just concerned for her safety.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

“She’s only going to visit model apartments,” Truman said, pulling on his seat belt. “What kind of trouble can she get in?”

“You have no idea.”

I waved as they drove off, happy to be freed from referee duty and hoping they could get through nine holes without constant bickering. They’d stayed in touch for so many years, it would be a shame to let these new disagreements jeopardize their friendship. Good friends, even ones we see only once in a long while, are precious. I hoped they’d find a way to tear down the walls they’d been building between them and, if nothing else, tolerate the differences that each had accumulated over the years. If they did, it would be rewarding for both of them, and pleasurable for me, although I really hadn’t suffered from their conduct.

Since I hadn’t expected to visit many tourist attractions in Key West—I had an ulterior motive for being here, after all—I was pleased that the opportunity arose to see one of the city’s most popular sites, a place where a great writer had lived.

Surrounding the Hemingway property was a red-brick wall, which blocked the view of its neighbors, reinforcing the impression that this was a private retreat. The grounds were lovely, with tall trees shading the Spanish colonial home with its mansard roof, iron balcony, arched windows, and long green shutters. In the garden I was delighted to find purple-leafed caladium, areca palms, and tall Schefflera umbrella trees, grown-up versions of much smaller houseplants we had at home. Two long-haired calico cats accompanied me as I explored, admiring the luxuriant foliage and colorful beds that Hemingway was said to have put in himself. In addition to my companions, I caught glimpses of other feline residents—some sixty of them, I later learned—descendants of the author’s beloved pets.

I toured the elegantly furnished house filled with fascinating antiques Hemingway and his wife, Pauline, had collected on their travels, and many photographs and a large painting of Papa, as he was first dubbed by his Key West friends. The crystal chandeliers and formal furniture were at odds with my image of the brawny outdoorsman who wrote such sensitive yet muscular prose. But in the hushed, book-lined study, with its mounted trophies and other mementos of an adventurer’s life, the man emerged. It was set away from the rest of the house to ensure the writer’s concentration would not be disturbed. There, seated on a cigar maker’s chair at a dark, round drop-leaf table, far from the bullrings of Spain and the soaring peaks of eastern Africa, Hemingway wrote some of his most famous works, like
Death in the Afternoon
and “The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” laboring over the pages that would later thrill his readers.

By the time I left the house, the sky had clouded over. I consulted a map Truman had given me, and walked down Whitehead toward the water, musing on the life of a writer. As I crossed Truman Avenue, a dilapidated pickup truck that might once have been red rattled to a stop on the corner. Given the piquant fumes wafting from the bed of the truck, it was apparent that the vehicle was used to transport fish.

“Off on your own today, missy?” said the driver.

It was Gabby, the fisherman from whom Truman had bought our dinner the night before.

“Good morning,” I said. “Did you go out fishing today?”

“Nah. But I’ve got a buddy’s scraps, and I know just where to unload ’em. Where are your boyfriends?”

“Playing golf.”

“Truman?” he said, cackling. “That old bird never played golf.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

He hooted. “I’d give a day’s catch to see that.”

“Not I,” I said. “I just hope their friendship can survive it.”

“Doc Buckley’s an easygoing feller. He’s no fighter. Must be the other guy.”

I wasn’t sure how well Gabby knew Truman, and decided discretion would be served by staying away from this topic. “No comment,” I said.

“So where are you off to? Doing the sights?”

“I’m on my way to Wainscott Manor,” I said.

“Well, this is your lucky day. I’m on my way there m’self. Got some regular customers in the neighborhood. I’ll give you a lift.”

I looked down at my slacks and wondered if Gabby’s truck was as dirty inside as it was on the outside.

He saw my hesitation, leaned over, and opened the door. “You won’t muss yourself. It’s only the bed that has the fish in it. Hop in. You could walk to Wainscott’s, but no sense getting tuckered out in this heat.”

I put my foot on the running board, my hand on the door, and pulled myself up into the truck. Aside from fishing charts beside me on the bench seat, and an empty paper coffee cup rolling on the floor, the cab of the truck was presentable. I had second thoughts, however, when I looked around for a seat belt. There wasn’t one.

“We had a feast last night, thanks to you,” I said. “My friend Seth was delighted with the crab claws. I probably shouldn’t give away his secret.”

“It’s no secret. No one can resist ’em,” he said, pulling away from the curb. He glanced over at me. “What’s your name again? Memory’s not what it was.”

I told him, and he said, “Mine’s Gabby. Least that’s what they call me.”

“It’s not your real name?”

“Nah. Some tourist once said I looked like Gabby Hayes, and the name stuck.”

“Gabby Hayes?”

“Remember him?”

“I do,” I said, recalling the character actor with wiry gray hair and whiskers, who played a cantankerous cowboy. “He was on
The Roy Rogers Show,
if I remember correctly.”

“Righto! He was Roy’s sidekick. Handsome devil, didn’t you think?” He winked at me.

I laughed. “You’re taking me back to my youth.”

“Yeah, well, it was an old-timer who named me. Between the hair and the beard, he said, I was a dead ringer. I told him I’d rather be a live ringer.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Young people won’t remember the reference,” I said, “unless cable television airs reruns of the show.”

“Well, I don’t watch much TV, so it don’t matter. How come you’re going over to the Manor? Got friends there?”

“No. I don’t know anyone there.”

“You’re not thinking of buying, are you?”

“No,” I said, surprised at his sharp tone. “I’m hoping to talk to DeWitt Wainscott.”

Gabby screwed up his face and spat out the window. “Can’t imagine what you’d want with that ugly, bottom-feeding miserable shark, who never gave a decent person the time of day. You can’t trust him worth a damn. He’ll steal you blind and take away your cane.”

Although I was no fan of DeWitt Wainscott, Gabby’s tirade took me aback. “You certainly have strong feelings about the man.”

“He’s a thief and a murderer,” he said, clamping his jaw till the muscle in his cheek quivered.

“That’s quite an accusation,” I said.

“It’s the truth.”

“Who did he steal from, and who did he kill?”

“He steals from everybody.”

“Well . . .”

“I knew a guy worked for him for years for pennies—that’s all he ever paid—and no health insurance, of course. He can’t afford it, the big man says. Course,
he’s
living high,” Gabby said in a snide voice, “but his men got to scramble to pay the bills. Rudy got sick, no money for the doctor, much less the hospital. Wainscott wouldn’t even lend him the dough, just fired his ass—’scuse my language—for ‘malingering on the job,’ he says. And the guy was dead in six months. You can’t tell me that man ain’t responsible for Rudy’s death.”

“That’s a terrible thing to have happened,” I said. “It’s cruel and immoral, but it’s not the same as murder.”

“Yeah, well, what about Denny Carimbolo?”

“What about Denny Carimbolo?”

“When they built the first building at Wainscott Manor, the boss was ordering this cheap-grade lumber, nowhere near code. Denny was superintendent on the job, threatened to report it if Wainscott didn’t change the order. And didn’t he end up dead a few days later?”