April's Affections and Intrigues: Love and Mystery Bloom

For Whom The Funeral Bell Tolls, March 2012 Deliliah Dickinson Literary Murder #4 by Livia J. Washburn Author Self-Published 234 pages ISBN: 1470050307 EAN: 9781470050306 Kindle: B007EES0RU Trade Size / e-Book Add to Wish List Purchase Amazon Kindle Barnes & Noble Powell's Books Books-A-Million Indie BookShop

"Delilah must deal with difficult clients and dead bodies"

For Whom The Funeral Bell Tolls
Livia J. Washburn

Reviewed by Leanne Davis
Posted June 23, 2012

Mystery

Delilah Dickinson owns a travel agency specializing in literary tours. This trip is an homage to Ernest Hemingway. She is taking her group to Key West to visit the many locations that Papa Hemingway was so fond of.

One of her clients is a know it all about Hemingway and is fond of spouting his knowledge to anyone who will listen. Walter manages to antagonize nearly everyone with his belligerent behavior. While in Sloppy Joe's, he nearly gets into a fist fight with one of the "Papa" look a likes.

When Walter is found dead on the beach outside their hotel and the police focus on one of Delilah's other tour guests, Delilah gets drawn into another investigation. Given Walter's contentious behavior, many of the guest had run ins with him and she has to sort out who might have real motive.

Once again, Delilah will beat the police to the identity of the killer and place her life in danger as she works to resolve the case.

FOR WHOM THE FUNERAL BELL TOLLS was an enjoyable read with some very intriguing moments. Ms. Washburn writes some believable characters with such an eclectic mix that it is hard not to be drawn into the story.

Learn more about For Whom The Funeral Bell Tolls

SUMMARY

Delilah takes a tour group to Key West, Florida, to visit the house where Ernest Hemingway lived and wrote during the Thirties, along with all the tropical attractions that Key West has to offer. Key West is a funky but beautiful place, of course, but then death intrudes when one of the tourists appears to commit suicide by killing himself with a shotgun in what seems to be an attempt to recreate Hemingway's suicide. Naturally, though, the "suicide" turns out to be murder, and once more Delilah finds herself trying to find a killer. Nazi spies? U–boats run aground on Caribbean islands? Buried treasure? Modern–day pirates and drug smugglers? Delilah will have her hands full sorting out this one.

Excerpt

Ernest Hemingway once defined courage as "grace under pressure".

However, Papa never had to ride herd on a bunch of drunken, horny tourists.

No, that job fell to me, and I'd had just about enough of it, especially with the way rock music was pounding from the speakers in Sloppy Joe's Bar so that everybody crowded in there shoulder to shoulder had to yell to be heard.

Somebody bumped into me from behind, and since the bar was right in front of me, there was nowhere for me to go. The crowd pressed him against me so intimately that all concept of personal space was demolished, and it got even worse when a familiar voice gulped in my ear, "Oh, cripes! I'm sorry, Miz D!"

I turned my head to look over my shoulder at Luke Edwards. Even in the garish light of the famous watering hole, I could see that his face was flaming red with embarrassment.

"That's all right, Luke," I told him. "If you can't dry–hump your mother–in–law in Key West, who can you . . . Oh, never mind!"

That just made him even more flustered. I knew it would, and saying it might have been a little mean. But I was feeling more than a little flustered myself. It seemed like we were almost at the end of the world, and the normal rules didn't apply here. My rambunctious clients seemed to feel the same way.

There were an even dozen of them. We had rendezvoused that afternoon at a Miami hotel, then made the long drive down through the Keys on Highway One in a fifteen–passenger van with Luke at the wheel.

Counting Luke and me, there were fourteen people on this tour. We could have brought along one more, but that would have meant having thirteen clients, and even though I don't consider myself a superstitious person, I wasn't just about to do that. No way.

Considering the way some of the tours I'd put together in the past had gone, I didn't think it was a good idea to tempt fate.

By the time we'd driven more than a hundred miles from Miami and checked into our hotel, the Bradenton Beach Resort, it was too late to do any sightseeing, but not too late for the clients to enjoy some of Key West's notorious nightlife. They were eager to do exactly that, so after they'd freshened up, they piled back into the van and we headed for Key West's Old Town, the most historic – and most lively – part of this island that had once been known as Bone Key, because of the skeletons that early Spanish explorers found on it.

I couldn't help but hope that wasn't an omen.

Not that I wanted to dwell on the possibility of trouble, but when you put together tours devoted to famous literary figures and folks keep getting murdered on them . . . well, there's an old saying about how you're not paranoid if they're really out to get you.

Not all of my tours featured a corpse, of course. That would just be silly, and a good sign that I ought to get out of the business. But it had happened often enough that Delilah Dickinson Literary Tours (that's me, my daughter Melissa, and her husband Luke) had a reputation that scared off some people. I tried to make up for that by putting together really good and affordable tours, like this Ernest Hemingway–themed visit to Key West.

Next to the Hemingway House itself, Sloppy Joe's was probably the most famous place in Key West because Hemingway had spent a lot of time drinking with the place's colorful owner Joe Russell. As I had explained to the clients on the way there, local legend had it that Hemingway had once received a $1000 royalty check for A Farewell to Arms from his publisher in New York while he was living in Key West, and the bank had refused to cash it because nobody who worked there believed that the scruffy beachcomber who brought in the check was really a famous author. But Joe Russell, the proprietor of Sloppy Joe's, had cashed it and earned himself Hemingway's enduring friendship.

It was a nice story, and it had the ring of truth to it. Of course, we weren't in the original Sloppy Joe's, where Papa had sat around and drank with Joe Russell. That location was a few blocks away and now housed another watering hole called Captain Tony's Saloon. But this version of Sloppy Joe's catered to the tourists by billing itself as Hemingway's Favorite Bar, and the marketing worked. People who came to Key West for the whole Hemingway experience flocked here. It was loud and rowdy and sexy, too, which didn't hurt.

The pressure of the crowd finally eased enough for Luke to extricate himself from close proximity to my backside. He slid into a narrow open space beside me at the bar and said, "Lord have mercy, Miz D, I never meant to get so, uh, familiar."

"Don't worry about it, Luke," I told him. "It's so crowded in here a girl could wind up gettin' pregnant and never even realize she'd been havin' fun."

"Yeah, I guess so." He stood a little taller and craned his neck to look around the room at the nightly chaos. "I can't see all of our clients anymore."

"Doesn't matter. They're all grown. Some of 'em will probably want to wander around Old Town some." I patted the pocket of my slacks. "I've got all their numbers in my phone, and if they're not back at the van by eleven–thirty, I'll call 'em and tell them to get there unless they want to walk all the way back to the beach."

It wasn't that much of a walk, fifteen minutes or so, but on a hot, muggy night it would take a lot out of you, and all the nights were hot and muggy in Key West. Life here at the southernmost tip of the United States was lubricated equally by booze and sweat.

I was drinking bottled water, and I signaled the bartender to bring me another one. He was a muscular, gorgeous young man with long dark hair and a tight black T–shirt. He actually had a gold ring in one ear, giving him a piratical look. I recalled that at one time, a man wearing a ring in his ear like that supposedly meant he was gay, but I didn't know if that still applied or if it was even true. Not that it mattered in this case, because all I wanted from this young man was another bottle of water.

He grinned at me as he slid it across the bar and made the five dollar bill I put down disappear. "In town on a tour?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the blaring music.

"That's right." I didn't bother explaining that I was in charge of the tour, not one of the paying customers.

His grin took in Luke as he said, "I hope you and your friend enjoy it."

"Business associate," I said as I pointed a thumb at Luke.

"Uh–huh," the bartender said. "Well, if you and your business associate need somebody to show you around after–hours, I wouldn't mind."

His eyes did a slow crawl over me, then gave Luke the same treatment.

I swallowed hard. "Thanks, but I don't think that'll be necessary."

"Suit yourself," he said, still grinning. He moved off down the bar to take care of some other customers.

Luke leaned closer to me and said, "Miz D, was he hitting on you?"

"Well, you don't have to say it like it's the most far–fetched thing in the world. Anyway, I think he was hittin' on both of us."

Luke frowned. "What are you . . . You mean . . . Whoa!" He looked around. "What kind of a town is this?"

"Free–spirited," I told him.

"I'll say. And he thought that you and I – "

"Again, don't push it."

"Okay, okay. Guess I'd better circulate and make sure none of our folks need anything."

"Be discreet," I told him. "Some people come on tours like this because they're romantic."

"I don't see how anybody could be romantic in a madhouse like this."

I thought he had a point, actually. I would have found it a lot more romantic strolling along one of the white sandy beaches scattered around the key, hand in hand with somebody I cared about. Problem was, I didn't have anybody like that right now. Back home in Atlanta, I'd been dating Dr. Will Burke off and on for a couple of years – he's the literature professor sort of doctor, not the medical kind – but we were more off than on at the moment.

I figured that was mostly my fault. At my age, with one divorce behind me, even a largely amicable one, I was a little commitment–shy. I had a reasonably successful business and an adorable daughter and son–in–law who were going to make me a grandma one of these days. I didn't really need any more in my life than that, did I?

Luke wandered off into the crowd. I sipped on my bottled water and did some people–watching. And there were all kinds of people to watch, let me tell you. Key West drew them from all over, all ages and shapes and sizes. I saw gung–ho business types, male and female both, with Bluetooths in their ears and smart phones in their hands, probably checking the overseas markets and making deals right here in the middle of Sloppy Joe's. Next to them were tie–dyed, sandals–and–granny–glasses–wearing sorts who looked like they were stuck in a time loop where it was perpetually 1967. Fishermen, artists, high rollers, tourists looking to lose the pallor of a Midwestern winter . . . everybody came to Key West sooner or later, and once they got here, everybody came to Sloppy Joe's.

I liked it. It was a good break for me, I thought, getting out of my comfort zone like this.

"Ms. Dickinson?"

The man's voice made me turn around. I was pretty good at putting names with faces, so even though I'd known them for only a few hours, I recognized George and Kerry Matheson. He was in plumbing supplies, the sort of balding former athlete who was starting to put on more than a few extra pounds, and she was a pretty, perky housewife with short brown hair who looked like she could have played that part on a sitcom. Nice enough people, from what I knew of them so far.

"Ms. Dickinson, this is great!" George went on. "I love this place!"

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," I told him. "We'll have plenty of free time while we're here, so you can come back if you like or explore some of the other nightlife."

"Oh, I'm sure we will," he said. "Right, hon?"

Kerry nodded. She didn't look quite as enthralled by Sloppy Joe's as her husband obviously was, but she seemed to be having a reasonably good time.

"I'm looking forward to seeing Hemingway's house tomorrow," she said.

We were going to be in Key West for four nights and three days. A visit to the Hemingway House was first on the itinerary the next morning, and the rest of the first two days would be devoted to seeing all the other historic sights and museums on the island. The third day would be free time for the clients to shop or just enjoy the beach and the other amenities of the resort where we were staying. Then the next morning it would be back to Miami, where we would all go our separate ways.

"It's really interesting, all right," I said in response to Kerry Matheson's comment. "I guess you must be a Hemingway fan."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure, but not as much as Mr. Harvick."

I knew what she meant. There were four couples on this tour and four singles, and Walter Harvick was one of the singles. He was as big a Hemingway fan as anybody I'd ever run into. In fact, he had told me that he'd been here to Key West half a dozen times before on his own, as well as visiting Hemingway's haunts in Paris, Spain, Cuba, and Idaho.

"But I thought it might be fun to see those places with a group for a change, so I'm starting here," he'd said to me in the van that afternoon.

I hoped he would enjoy himself. He probably wouldn't learn anything new, but that wouldn't matter to him. I knew from experience that certain readers who are really devoted to a particular author can go back again and again to the places where that writer produced his or her work. There was something about just being there that was special to them.

Then something happened that made me wonder if there really are such things as omens. Kerry Matheson had just mentioned Walter Harvick when Luke appeared beside me, touched my arm, and leaned close to me to say, "Trouble, Miz D! It's that Harvick fella, and I think he's about to get his butt whipped!"

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