for it. Lester cursed and pumped his shotgun as Bumby, possessed of some preternatural surge of agility, managed to grab Papa’s gun, roll on the floor and avoid most of Lester’s next shot. A few pellets struck Bumby in the leg, but before Lester could pump and fire again, Bumby got off two shots, and one of them hit Lester in the stomach. Lester writhed on the floor and clutched his stomach, but the light in his eyes was already starting to fade.
Bumby looked at his hand holding the gun in a daze, then slowly lifted his head to look at Lester, gasping on the floor like a fish out of water. Papa lay dead beside him. Bumby stood and approached, his feet squishing into the fresh blood, and he kicked the shotgun away with his foot. He wiped the pistol with his shirt, wrapped Papa’s dead fingers around the handle, then let it fall beside him.
Bumby noticed Lester was trying to say something, and Bumby bent down, right next to Lester’s crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.
“I’m sorry,” Lester whispered. “He made me do it.”
They were the last words my poor Lester would ever say.
Sergeant Cohn approached the Hemingway house a few weeks later, stopping at the front entrance to admire the grandness of it all: the façade from a bygone era, the wraparound balcony caressed by fronds, the proud green shutters and paradisiacal setting. He waded through the tourists and went around to the back, following the garden path until he came to the caretaker’s house, which looked a little brighter these days. It had a fresh coat of paint, and flowers had been placed on the narrow balcony.
Sergeant Cohn knocked on the door, and a few moments later it opened and Bumby stood in the doorway, leaning on a crutch, pad in hand and pen behind his ear.
“Come on in, Sergeant. I was just finishing up a chapter.”
“How’s the writing coming these days?”
“Better than ever, better than ever. What can I say? This place has been an inspiration. Change is good for the soul.”
“There’ve been a lot of changes in your life, from what I hear around town. No more Hemingway impersonations, no more visits to Madame Gertrude, and I even hear you broke things off with your writing group. Jean-Paul says you never leave the house, except to take care of the estate.”
“I think a little solitude was just the change of pace I needed. And I won’t deny that living here, with all these memories, has been good for the muse.”
Sergeant Cohn smiled thinly. “Memories, eh? It was real good of you to take over Lester’s job. Some men might’ve been a little squeamish, living in a house where he watched his friend die.”
Bumby shrugged. “Old Lester wasn’t quite right in the head. I don’t hold it against him, you know?”
“It takes a big man to forgive someone who killed five of his close friends.”
Bumby spread his hands. “I’m not a very big man, so I don’t know what to say.”
The Sergeant grunted.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Nope, just stopping by. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, though.”
“Anything, Sergeant.”
“I know we discussed this already down at the station, and the DNA evidence is conclusive that Lester did all the killings. We found a pile of clothes with dried blood under his bed, for God’s sake.”
Bumby shook his head with appropriate disbelief.
“I was just wondering, since you’ve been here a while now, living what some might call another man’s life, if it’s given you any insight as to why he might’ve done it?”
“Sorry?”
“Lester’s motive. Why he killed your friends, went on a rampage against the Hemingway impersonators in town.”
“I wish I knew, Sarge, I wish I knew. Just went a little crazy in the end, I suppose.”
“The six of you weren’t involved in anything I should know about, were you now?”
“Nothing besides doing our best to honor a great man.”
The Sergeant glanced behind Bumby to the interior of the house, at the
Bumby looked at his hand holding the gun in a daze, then slowly lifted his head to look at Lester, gasping on the floor like a fish out of water. Papa lay dead beside him. Bumby stood and approached, his feet squishing into the fresh blood, and he kicked the shotgun away with his foot. He wiped the pistol with his shirt, wrapped Papa’s dead fingers around the handle, then let it fall beside him.
Bumby noticed Lester was trying to say something, and Bumby bent down, right next to Lester’s crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.
“I’m sorry,” Lester whispered. “He made me do it.”
They were the last words my poor Lester would ever say.
Sergeant Cohn approached the Hemingway house a few weeks later, stopping at the front entrance to admire the grandness of it all: the façade from a bygone era, the wraparound balcony caressed by fronds, the proud green shutters and paradisiacal setting. He waded through the tourists and went around to the back, following the garden path until he came to the caretaker’s house, which looked a little brighter these days. It had a fresh coat of paint, and flowers had been placed on the narrow balcony.
Sergeant Cohn knocked on the door, and a few moments later it opened and Bumby stood in the doorway, leaning on a crutch, pad in hand and pen behind his ear.
“Come on in, Sergeant. I was just finishing up a chapter.”
“How’s the writing coming these days?”
“Better than ever, better than ever. What can I say? This place has been an inspiration. Change is good for the soul.”
“There’ve been a lot of changes in your life, from what I hear around town. No more Hemingway impersonations, no more visits to Madame Gertrude, and I even hear you broke things off with your writing group. Jean-Paul says you never leave the house, except to take care of the estate.”
“I think a little solitude was just the change of pace I needed. And I won’t deny that living here, with all these memories, has been good for the muse.”
Sergeant Cohn smiled thinly. “Memories, eh? It was real good of you to take over Lester’s job. Some men might’ve been a little squeamish, living in a house where he watched his friend die.”
Bumby shrugged. “Old Lester wasn’t quite right in the head. I don’t hold it against him, you know?”
“It takes a big man to forgive someone who killed five of his close friends.”
Bumby spread his hands. “I’m not a very big man, so I don’t know what to say.”
The Sergeant grunted.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Nope, just stopping by. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, though.”
“Anything, Sergeant.”
“I know we discussed this already down at the station, and the DNA evidence is conclusive that Lester did all the killings. We found a pile of clothes with dried blood under his bed, for God’s sake.”
Bumby shook his head with appropriate disbelief.
“I was just wondering, since you’ve been here a while now, living what some might call another man’s life, if it’s given you any insight as to why he might’ve done it?”
“Sorry?”
“Lester’s motive. Why he killed your friends, went on a rampage against the Hemingway impersonators in town.”
“I wish I knew, Sarge, I wish I knew. Just went a little crazy in the end, I suppose.”
“The six of you weren’t involved in anything I should know about, were you now?”
“Nothing besides doing our best to honor a great man.”
The Sergeant glanced behind Bumby to the interior of the house, at the
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