by Bob Morris
“It was different when you found Schwartz’s Scepter, right?”
“Oh yeah, it was altogether different. It was years before the wrecks act when I found Betty’s bat.” He looks at me, winks. “That’s what I called the scepter. I never much liked the idea of naming it after me. Better to give a nod to Queen Elizabeth I. A beauty it was.”
“Something to behold, huh?”
“Oh yeah, man, like you’ve never seen. Three dozen emeralds, the biggest, fattest ones you can imagine, and better than a hundred diamonds. All set in the finest gold. Weighed nearly a hundred pounds it did. I was the proudest man on the face of this earth when I came ashore in Miss Peg holding Betty’s bat.” He takes a moment to relish the memory. “And after I found her what did I do? I put her on display for all to see, that’s what. More than half a million people walked through that little museum of mine over the years. They got to see history close up. At a dollar a head.”
“Not a bad turn of coin.”
Teddy laughs.
“No, not at all. Made even more selling T-shirts and replicas and whatnot. And I was due it, too. A return on my investment,” he says. “But that’s what got in the government’s craw, seeing me make a little money and them not. Got to where it was costing me more in lawyers than I was taking in, so I just gave in to them, agreed to sell the scepter to the British Museum.”
“And then it got stolen,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Then that.”
We ride for a while, neither of us speaking. Teddy looks at me.
“I know what you’re wondering,” he says. “What’s that?”
“Same thing as everyone else wonders. What really happened to the scepter? Did ol Teddy pull a switcheroo? That what you’re wondering?” “Well, now that you mention it.” He grins, gives me a wink. “You just keep wondering about that,” he says.
24
It’s only midmorning by the time Teddy drops us off at Cutfoot Estate. Boggy and I check on the hole-digging crew in the backyard. They’re making minor progress against the bedrock. The first Bismarck is ready to set. Finally.
I do the math. If we average a little better than a hole a day, then we just might have all the palms planted in time for the big party. I leave Boggy to oversee everything, then head inside.
I find Barbara sitting in the front parlor with Aunt Trula. There’s a third woman with them—blond, pretty, outdoorsy looking. Her yellow sundress shows off a nice tan. Nice legs, too. Not that I’d stare.
She’s been crying. She wipes her cheeks with the back of a hand.
“You poor, poor dear,” Aunt Trula says, getting up and patting the woman on her back. “Rest assured that I shall help you however I can. And for starters, I want you staying here with us.”
The woman shakes her head.
“No, no. I couldn’t possibly do that. It’s a great imposition. And I didn’t come here with that in mind,” she says, in an accent I’m pretty sure is Australian. “I just wanted to … to see, that’s all.”
“I will not hear it,” says Aunt Trula. “You are staying, and that is that. For as long as you need to.”
The woman lets out a long sigh.
“Well, thank you,” she says. “It is very kind. And I am dead on my feet. Been traveling for the better part of the past two days.”
Barbara stands, gives me a hello hug.
“Zack,” she says, “this is Fiona McHugh. It’s her brother whose body …”
She stops. She doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to.
“My condolences,” I say.
The woman nods, offers a grim smile.
“Fiona just arrived this morning from Australia,” says Aunt Trula, continuing to comfort her. “I’m sorry, dear, but I didn’t catch exactly what part of the country you are from.”
“Perth,” says Fiona. “On the west coast.”
“The most isolated big city on earth,” I say. “Home to the Kings Park Botanic Gardens.”
Fiona brightens a bit.
“Why, yes. Do you know Perth?”
“No, but I’ve had some contact with the botanic gardens. Provided them with the seeds of some Malaysian palms after a weevil infestation wiped out their collection.”
Aunt Trula says, “Zack is one of the leading authorities in the world on palm trees.”
“Well, that’s not exactly true,” I say. “In fact, it’s not even anywhere near true.”
“Oh, shush. You’re brilliant, absolutely brilliant. You should see what Zack is doing to my backyard, Fiona. Transforming it into a regular Nebuchadrezzar’s garden,” says Aunt Trula. She takes Fiona’s hand. “Come, dear, let me show you to your room.”
She leads Fiona from the parlor. When they’re gone, I sit down on the couch beside Barbara.
“Wow,” I say.
“Wow?”
“Double-wow. As in, wow, when did I suddenly become ace-high with Aunt Trula? And wow, the dead guy’s sister is here.”
“The dead guy’s name was Ned,” says Barbara. “Ned McHugh.”
“No disrespect intended,” I say. “I’m just surprised to see her, that’s all.”
“We were, too. She got here about an hour ago,” says Barbara. “Said she wanted to see where her brother’s body washed ashore. So I took her down to the beach, then left her there to have some time alone. We’d been sitting here for a few minutes when you arrived.”
“Pretty lady.”
“Yes, I saw you staring at her legs.”
“That wasn’t staring. It was a professional appraisal.”
“And you approve?”
“Very much so.”
“She’s a cop,” Barbara says.
“No way.”
“What? Pretty women with nice legs can’t be cops?”
“I didn’t say that. But the women cops I know? They don’t look like that.”
“All I know is that she’s not exactly thrilled by the way the Bermuda police are handling this. They aren’t telling her much.”
“Could be because they don’t know much.”
“That’s what bothers her. She said she intends to do some looking into things herself.”
“How old was her brother?”
“Just twenty-six. He was spending a couple of years traveling. Wound up here, working at a dive shop. Full of life, the world was his oyster,” Barbara says. “It’s just so unfair.”
I put an arm around Barbara. She rests her head against my chest. We’re quiet for a moment. Then …
“Did you happen to ask Aunt Trula about an attorney?”
Barbara looks up at me, eyebrows angled in a way that tells me she’s a little irked.
“Excuse me, but weren’t we just cuddling?”
“We were,” I say. “It was nice.”
“So can’t you turn it off for just a little while, Zack?”
“Sure, I can. Sorry.”
I kiss the top of her head. We settle back into the couch.
I wonder how Brewster Trimmingham is doing. I need to check on him before I do anything else. I need to check on a couple of other things, too.
“Stop it,” Barbara says.
“Stop what?”
“Tapping your foot like that. It’s driving me crazy.” She sits up. She pulls a slip of paper from a pocket, gives it to me. “Here’s the attorney’s name.”
She gets up from the couch.
“Listen, Barbara, I’m sorry. It’s just that …”
“It’s just that your mind is elsewhere. And I understand, darling.” She pulls me up from the couch, kisses me on the lips. “Now, go do what you have to do. Because I want you back again.”
25
What I have to do first is call J.J. He tells me he’s dropping off someone at the Naval Dockyard, but can be at Cutfoot Estate as soon as he’s done. Say, thirty minutes.
As much as I like J.J., the whole routine of waiting on a driver to show up and then haul me somewhere is beginning to cramp my style. It’s
not that I’m in a giant hurry. But it’s the American in me—when I’m ready to go, I’m ready to go. And I’d just as soon drive myself there.
“Where you heading this time?” J.J. asks after I hop into his van.
“The hospital.”
He shoots me a look, concerned.
“Something wrong?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a bug up my ass.”
He laughs, throws the van into gear, and rolls out of the driveway.
“Plenty of that going around,” J.J. says. “Speaking of which, I just got a call from that niece of mine, Janeen.”
“And?”
“And she wants you to help her set up an interview with that dead fellow’s sister.”
“Hell, J.J., the poor woman just flew in this morning. You mean to tell me that Janeen already knows she’s staying at Cutfoot Estate?”
“When it comes to knowing things, Janeen seldom comes up short.”
“I’m getting that impression,” I say. “Tell Janeen I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any promises, OK?”
At the hospital, a receptionist tells me Brewster Trimmingham has been released from intensive care and transferred to the third floor. When I enter the room, a nurse is adjusting Trimmingham’s bed and tending to the various tubes attached to him.
Trimmingham’s face looks worse than the day before. Both eyes are black and swollen shut. A wire brace encases his head.
“How’s he doing?” I ask the nurse.
“Quite well, actually, all things considered,” she says. “The doctors were a bit concerned about the swelling in one part of his brain. But it seems to have subsided. He suffered a nasty concussion, but he’ll be all right.”
“His jaw broken, too?”
The nurse nods.
“Yes, it’s wired shut and will be for the next few weeks. Whatever happened to the poor man?”
“Cricket accident,” I say.
The nurse looks at me funny.
“Are you a relative?”
“No,” I say. “Business associate.”
“Well, as you can see, he’s not very responsive at this moment. Still heavily sedated. I would ask you not to stay too long.”
“I just want to pay my respects,” I say.
She steps out of the room. She leaves the door open. I go over and close it.
I step to the table beside Trimmingham’s bed. I open a drawer. A plastic storage bag sits inside. It holds Trimmingham’s wallet and two sets of keys.
I open the bag, take out the keys, and leave the wallet. I stick the bag back inside the drawer and close it.
I stand by the bed, looking at Trimmingham. One of those air mask things is stuck over his nose and mouth and he’s making sucking sounds.
“Yo, Trimmingham,” I say. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
“If you’re faking being asleep, then I’m wise to you.”
But apparently, he really is out for the count.
“You said you wanted me to help you, right?” More nothing.
“I’ll do what I can,” I tell him. “But it’s going to cost you. It’s going to cost you a lot.”
26
I tell J.J. to drop me off at Trimmingham’s office and come back in a couple of hours.
The first key I try opens the door. I take this as a positive omen, endorsement that I’m doing the right thing, not embarking on yet another ill-conceived scheme in a career that has seen plenty of them.
Trimmingham’s office is not the hellhole I’d imagined it might be. The furnishings are fairly luxurious—good leather chairs by a big mahogany desk, a good leather couch along a wall, expensive oriental rugs covering the crummy carpet that came with the office.
No photos of loved ones on the desk. I’m relieved by that. I’d just as soon not know if Trimmingham has a wife and kids and people who depend on him. It makes what I plan to do a little easier.
A computer sits in the middle of the desk, but I don’t bother with that. I head for a bank of file cabinets that occupy the rear wall. I roll a desk chair with me. This could take a while.
Thirty minutes later, after going through files in two of the cabinets and moving on to the third, I’ve learned a lot about Brewster Trimmingham. Forty years old. Born in Hamilton. Divorced. His former wife, Alice, an American, now living in Charlottesville, Virginia, where Trimmingham sends a monthly check to cover a mortgage and expenses. No mention of children. He rents an apartment in Hamilton. His various credit cards carry a balance, per last month’s statements, of just under $20,000. Member of the Somerset Sailing Club. And a founding officer of the Bermuda Chapter of the Morris Minor Owner’s Club.
I eventually dig out the real meat: a big accordion folder marked “Governor’s Pointe.”
I roll the chair to the desk, put my feet up on it, and spend the next ten minutes studying the papers in the folder. There’s a thick stack of them, with surveys, settlement sheets, and mortgage payoff schedules.
There are also a couple of slick full-color brochures. Photos of wellgroomed elegant couples toasting each other with flutes of champagne, lounging in lush living rooms, swimming in an infinity-edge pool.
“Governor’s Pointe: Bermuda’s Most Prestigious Address,” reads the brochure copy. “Only a fortunate few, drawn from the world’s elite, will be lucky enough to call Governor’s Pointe home. Don’t miss this groundfloor opportunity to be part of the luxury investment of a lifetime.”
Each of the six residences that Trimmingham bought at Governor’s Pointe has its own deed, the mortgage held by the National Bank of Bermuda. I look the deeds over and when I’m done, I use Trimmingham’s phone to call the office of Daniel Denton, the attorney recommended by Aunt Trula. After the necessary happy talk I explain what I have in mind.
Denton is not overly enthusiastic about helping out.
“This seems the sort of proposition that might have serious repercussions,” he says.
“Yes, it might.”
“I don’t know that it is the sort of thing in which our firm should be involved.”
“Gee, that’s too bad,” I say. “I’m sure Aunt Trula will be disappointed to learn that.”
Denton coughs.
“Is Mrs. Ambister your aunt, Mr. Chasteen?”
“No, she’s the aunt of my significant other,” I say. “But she’s even dearer than family to me.”
Straight to hell, that’s where I’m going.
Denton hems and haws.
“What does your firm typically charge for something like this?” I ask him.
“My firm does not typically do something of this nature.”
“Well, let’s pretend you’re expanding your services. What would be a reasonable fee?”
He tells me.
“Double that,” I say.
Denton doesn’t require much time to consider it.
“Very well, Mr. Chasteen,” he says. “I will be at my office for another hour or so. You may drop off the papers and I will review them.”
You gotta love lawyers.
27
By the time I finish in Trimmingham’s office and take the stairs down to the parking garage, it’s the end of the day and the place has emptied out.
A blue Morris Minor convertible sits in one of the spaces. It’s a cartoon of a car, but it’s not without a sort of friendly appeal.
I take the other set of keys from my pocket. One of them unlocks the door of the car. I slide behind the wheel.
Whatever sort of mess Brewster Trimmingham has made of his life, those screw-ups have not extended to his care for this car. It doesn’t look perfectly new—they stopped making Morris Minors back in the 1960s—but it has aged well.
The leather seats are soft and supple. The dashboard is shiny and aligned in that peculiarly British way that might make sense to them but is counterintuitive to the American brain. It would be cool to put the top down, but one look at all the latches and cranks involved with the procedure and I know it will
take a while to figure out exactly how to do it.
I start the car, put it in gear, and drive out onto the street. I pull alongside J.J.’s van. He rolls down his window.
“Has Mrs. Ambister paid you in advance for driving me around?”
“Yes, sir. Paid me for the whole two weeks. Except for any incidentals.”
I take some money from my wallet and give it to him.
“I appreciate all your help,” I say. “You plan to drive yourself now?” “I do.”
“Police will raise hell if they catch you at it.” “That’s why they’re the police.” J.J. looks over the Morris Minor. “That car, it ought to be in some museum.”
“Now, J.J., show a little respect. This is a vintage automobile, a classic. I think it fits me to a T.” J.J. smiles.
“I don’t want to know how you came by it, do I?” “No, J.J., you don’t.”
28
Dinner that night at Cutfoot Estate proves to be a relatively sedate affair. Fiona McHugh, still sleeping off her journey, doesn’t make it down to join us. The evening’s fare is sirloin broiled beyond recognition and something that may or may not be potatoes. The conversation is all about Aunt Trula’s birthday party.
“I’ve hired a string quartet to open the festivities,” Aunt Trula says. “Then, after dinner, I thought you youngsters would appreciate a boogiewoogie band.”
She pronounces it “boojie-woojie.”
“Plus,” Aunt Trula says, “I thought the stage would be useful for those who want to stand up and pay a few words of tribute, that sort of thing.”
“Better get one of those take-a-number machines like they use at the Publix deli,” I say. “There’s sure to be a line.”