Bermuda Schwartz

by Bob Morris

  Barbara looks at me.

  “Say again?”

  “Never mind,” I say. “But aren’t you a little scared?”

  “About what?”

  “About getting caught in the boy’s dormitory after curfew. Aunt Trula might place you on double-secret probation.”

  “Adds to the thrill,” she says.

  And then we don’t talk for a while. We kiss, we clutch, we moan, we laugh. It is sweet and warm and dear.

  It is also more rambunctious than usual.

  Afterward, I say: “Are you a little drunk?”

  “A little. Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that you showed some moves a few minutes ago that were, shall we say, rather innovative.”

  “I’ve got moves, darling,” she says. “Moves you’ve never imagined.”

  We talk. I tell Barbara about my day. She tells me about hers.

  “I hit it off well with the new minister of tourism. He’s quite charming,” she says. “I think he has a crush on me.”

  “Sounds like I need to eliminate the competition.”

  “Not until he has signed the ad contract I’ll be presenting him. It will be quite the big deal should I pull it off.”

  “Oh, you’ll pull it off,” I say. “You always do.”

  “Just as you’ll pull off whatever it is that you’re up to.”

  “Glad you’re confident about that.”

  “Oh, I’m confident. But I’m also a little troubled.”

  “By what?”

  She rolls over to face me, rubs a hand along my cheek.

  “By the fact that you and I aren’t getting to spend nearly enough time with each other on this trip.”

  “Well, Aunt Trula seems to be your top priority. When you’re not off charming tourism ministers.”

  “Just as you seem to be preoccupied by your money woes. When you’re not off gallivanting around with pretty Australian cops.”

  “She is rather pretty, isn’t she?”

  “For the record, John Traylor is no burden to gaze upon either.”

  “Who’s John Traylor?”

  “The tourism minister.”

  “So go for it,” I say.

  “Perhaps I will. If only I can get beyond his goiter.”

  “He has a goiter?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps my eyes were playing tricks on me. It might have been all the wine he plied me with.”

  “And are you pliable?”

  “Oh, very.”

  She kisses me. We lie quietly for a while.

  And then she says: “I would like to propose …”

  She stops. I sit up.

  “Propose?”

  She looks at me, smiles.

  “Yes, I would like propose that we have a playdate tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Right. A playdate. Like kindergartners you mean?”

  “No, like grown-ups. A grown-up playdate. We will put everything aside no matter what and we will devote ourselves only to one another.”

  “And where will this playdate take place?”

  “I have a spot in mind,” she says. “Think you can make time for me?”

  “Oh, I think so. When?”

  “How about noon? Food and drink will be involved.”

  “Well, in that case, I know so. But if I’m running a little late …”

  “Why would you be running late, Zack?”

  “Because I promised Fiona that I would help her out with a few things in the morning. I don’t know how long it will take.”

  She raises up on her elbows, considers me.

  “My, my. You are quite the helper these days, aren’t you? Helping Fiona. Helping that Trimmingham fellow.”

  “Yep, just call me Zack the Kindhearted. I’m thinking about nominating myself for sainthood.”

  She pulls me down to her, rubs a hand along my leg.

  “Right now, I could use a little help.”

  “Oh, really? Help doing what?”

  She rubs a little lower.

  “Practicing my moves.”

  42

  By nine o’clock the next morning, Fiona and I are in downtown Hamilton, sitting across the desk from Chief Inspector Worley.

  “I assure you, Ms. McHugh, we are not trying to shut you out of this investigation,” Worley says. “We intend to keep you in the loop every step of the way.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me about the other two murders?”

  Worley falters for a moment.

  “I apologize for that. I was waiting for the appropriate moment.”

  “That would have been the moment I first sat down with you two days ago. As it was, I knew nothing about the other murders until Zack told me.”

  Worley looks at me.

  “I heard about it from a taxi driver,” I say. “Then his niece told me more. Janeen Hill. She works for the Gazette. Used to anyway.”

  “Yes, I know Janeen Hill.” Worley says it with more than a little weariness. “I’ve dealt with her many times over the years. Spoke with her again yesterday.”

  Fiona and I share a look.

  Fiona says, “She called you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When?”

  “Late. I was getting ready to call it a day.”

  “What did you speak with her about?”

  “Spoke some about your brother. She said she had met with you and Mr. Chasteen earlier in the day and learned that your brother was a marine archaeologist. She said she thought he might have been looking for the same thing that brought the previous victims to Bermuda.”

  “The wreck of the Santa Helena?”

  “Yeah,” says Worley. “That nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?”

  “Let’s just say that I don’t put much stock in the stories I’ve heard about that ship.”

  “And you’re an authority in such matters, Inspector?”

  If Fiona’s words touch a nerve in Worley, then he doesn’t let it show. He observes her coolly for a moment, then says, “No, Ms. McHugh, I’m not an authority. But I’ve consulted on a frequent basis with someone who is—Dr. Michael Frazer.”

  “The curator of wrecks,” I say.

  “That’s right,” says Worley. “You know him?”

  “We’ve met. Briefly.”

  “Frazer’s a smart man, one of the smartest around. If there’s anyone who knows shipwrecks then it’s him,” says Worley. “He says there’s no proof that this Santa Helena ever existed. Calls it an archaeological urban myth, something that has been floating around for years and years, leading people on wild-goose chases all over the world.”

  Fiona says, “What about the Fratres Cruris?”

  A dismissive laugh from Worley.

  “You mean the secret brotherhood that built the ship that doesn’t exist?”

  Fiona plods ahead anyway.

  “I’m told they pulled out the eyes of their victims before they killed them.”

  “And who told you that?”

  “Janeen Hill.”

  Worley studies Fiona for a moment, shakes his head.

  “Ms. McHugh, in training to become a police officer in Australia, did they teach you anything at all about verifying the credibility of an individual who comes forth with possible information in a case?”

  “Of course. Why? Are you saying that Janeen Hill isn’t credible?”

  Worley shrugs.

  “Oh, Janeen’s OK. Flaky as hell, but harmless. Typical journalist. More interested in making headlines than anything else. On a ten-point credibility scale, I’d give her about a two.”

  Fiona mulls it over, says: “Credible or not, Janeen Hill is the only person who has offered me a possible explanation for what might have gotten my brother killed.”

  “And there’s nothing to it, I’m telling you!” Worley’s words are sharp, sharper than they need to be. He recognizes it. “Sorry, but I chased that horse for months after Richard Peach and Martin Boyd were killed. The ship. The secret broth
erhood. The piece of the cross. All that. Know where it got me? Nowhere.”

  Worley drums his fingers on the desk, looks at his watch.

  “What about Martin Boyd?” I ask.

  Worley shoots me a look.

  “What about him?”

  “Janeen Hill talked a lot about Richard Peach, but not much about Boyd. All I know about him is that he was Peach’s partner and a treasure salvor of some reputation.”

  Worley rubs his chin, serves up a sly grin.

  “Had a reputation for a few other things, too,” he says.

  “Do tell.”

  “Let’s just say that for the short time he was in Bermuda, Martin Boyd cut a pretty wide swath among the women here. Including at least one woman that he should have stayed clear of.”

  “She was married, I take it?”

  “Oh yeah, real married. Married to someone who wasn’t exactly openminded about such things.”

  “Care to mention any names?”

  Worley shakes his head.

  “No, not really. Besides, the husband is dead now and his wife has left the Rock. But for a while there—early on, right after Peach and Boyd were killed—it looked like we might have something.”

  “Thought maybe the husband had killed them?”

  Worley nods.

  “He looked good for it, considering who he was and everything. Turned out he was off island, down in Miami, when it happened. And as much as it would have made a nice, tidy little package, I’m convinced he didn’t do it.” Worley lets out a sigh. “Murder typically doesn’t get real complicated. Either a man-woman thing. Or a money-greed thing. In any case, it generally all comes down to somebody wanting something that somebody else has got. Simple as that.”

  “So,” Fiona says. “What have you got?”

  Worley looks at her.

  “Nice segue,” he says.

  “I take my openings where I find them.”

  “As it turns out,” Worley says, “we’re working a lead. A very strong lead.”

  Fiona and I wait for him to add something more, but no, he’s enjoying letting us dangle.

  Fiona scoots closer to Worley’s desk, puts an elbow on it, says: “Well, since I’m in the loop every step of the way, perhaps you could tell me what that lead might be.”

  Worley rubs his tongue along the back of his teeth, smiles.

  “You superstitious, Ms. McHugh?”

  “Sure, about some things. Why?”

  “Well, I’m superstitious about some things, too. And more than anything else I’m superstitious when it comes to talking too much about a case when I can feel that I’m about ready to tie all its pieces together.”

  “Are you telling me that you’re close to finding who killed my brother?”

  Worley shrugs.

  “I would hate to jinx it,” he says.

  Fiona looks at me. There’s hope in her eyes.

  Worley pushes his chair back from the desk, stands.

  “Now, Miss McHugh, if you don’t mind.” He looks at me, then back at her. “I need a few moments with Mr. Chasteen. Alone.”

  Fiona starts to say something, but Worley nods her to the door.

  “It won’t take long,” Worley says. “I promise.”

  43

  No sooner has Fiona closed the door behind her, than Worley grabs a manila file from a drawer, then steps around to the front of his desk. He leans against it, looking down at me. He holds up the file, shakes it at me.

  “What the hell were you up to last night, Chasteen?”

  “It has nothing to do with the murders, Inspector. It’s a private matter.”

  Worley opens the file, studies it for a moment.

  “Says here that the complainant reported gunfire.”

  I don’t say anything.

  Worley studies the file some more.

  “It says that three men were questioned as they left the building where the gunfire was reported. These three men just happen to be known associates of Papi Ferreira.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “It says that these three men looked as if they had been in a scuffle of some sort and had come out on the short end of things. You know anything about that?”

  “Wasn’t much of a scuffle,” I say. “Over almost as soon as it began.”

  Worley studies me.

  “What’s your business with Papi Ferreira?”

  “Tell you the truth, Inspector, I’m still trying to nail that down. I’ve yet to meet the man.”

  “But you don’t deny that you are here in Bermuda to conduct business with Ferreira?”

  “It’s not what brought me here, if that’s what you mean. It’s more like I inherited a situation after I arrived.”

  “Care to share the details of this situation?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  Worley holds up the file again.

  “There’s something else in here,” he says. “Want to guess what that is?”

  “I have a pretty good idea. You’ve got computers. Ten minutes and you can find out just about everything you need to know about me.”

  “Didn’t take that long,” says Worley. “Baypoint Federal Prison Camp. You served almost two years for counterfeiting, that right?”

  I look at him for a long while.

  I say, “You read the whole report?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you saw the amended writ of adjudication. Cleared on all counts. With special citations for meritorious service from the federal prosecutor and the governor of Florida.”

  “Yeah, I saw all that,” says Worley. “Still …”

  “Still what?”

  “Still, you seem to have a knack for associating with individuals of ill repute.”

  “Present company excluded?”

  Worley doesn’t laugh.

  “Why is that, Mr. Chasteen?”

  “Why is what?”

  “Why is it that you regularly find yourself in the company of criminals?”

  “Just my gregarious nature, I suppose. A friend to one and all.”

  Worley tosses the file onto his desk. He folds his arms across his chest and looks at me.

  “Bermuda attracts all kinds of people, Mr. Chasteen. People with money. More money than you or I will ever know. And I have no doubt that a goodly number of those people either got their money in a questionable fashion or are trying to hide it in a way that might not be strictly legal. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “That doesn’t bother me. I mean, I don’t like it. But I don’t waste my time worrying about people like that. They’re aren’t good people, but they aren’t real bad people either. You know what I mean?”

  I nod. Worley looks at me.

  “Papi Ferreira is real bad people, Chasteen. Your gregarious fucking nature notwithstanding, you do not want to be friends with him. And if you’re up to anything with Ferreira and I find out about it, then I’m coming after you. We clear on that?”

  “We’re clear.”

  Worley nods to the door.

  “Get out of here,” he says.

  44

  “So you feeling better about things now?” I ask Fiona when we’re back in the car.

  “Yeah, a bit.”

  “But not so much better that you want to go back to Cutfoot Estate, lollygag around the pool, and let things take care of themselves. Am I right?”

  “Right as rain,” she says. “I’d like to visit the place where Ned worked.”

  “The dive shop?”

  She nods.

  “Deep Water Discoveries. I’ve got the address somewhere.” She pulls out a notepad, flips through it. “Somerset. Know where that is?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been to Somerset. Teddy Schwartz lives near there.”

  “Really now? How convenient. Maybe we could drop by, let me introduce myself and thank him in advance for letting me use his boat for Ned’s service tomorrow.”

  “Maybe. I’ll have to see what the time looks
like after we get finished at the dive shop. I’m supposed to be meeting Barbara at noon.”

  “So what do the two of you have planned?”

  “Don’t know. It’s her idea. She’s calling it a playdate.”

  “My, my. Sounds like fun. Could mean any number of things, now, couldn’t it?”

  “Yes, it could. Although I’m hoping that pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and ring-around-the-rosy aren’t involved.”

  Fiona laughs.

  “So what’s in store for the two of you?”

  “I just told you, I’m meeting Barbara at noon and …”

  “No, no. Not that.” She waves me quiet. “I’m talking long term. You plan on fastening your muzzles, sharing the old feed bag?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You going to marry her, Zack?”

  She grins an impish grin.

  “You know, you’re the second person who’s asked me that recently.”

  “The other being?”

  “Aunt Trula.”

  “Oh, now that’s serious. And what did you tell her?”

  I concentrate on the road, don’t say anything.

  “Ha,” laughs Fiona. “Dodged the question, did you?”

  I look at her.

  “What’s with you women, anyway?”

  “Why, Zack,” she says, all innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’ve got friends, men friends, who I’ve known all my life and they would never even once think of asking me if I planned to marry Barbara. Wouldn’t cross their minds. Here I’ve known you, what, two days, and Aunt Trula only a day or two longer, and both of you apparently think you’re already on a need-to-know basis regarding me and Barbara.”

  Fiona laughs.

  “It’s because women are more honest than men.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really. Put four women who’ve never seen each other together in a room, give them an hour, and they’ll walk out of there knowing the nitty-gritty about one another. The names of all their children. Their hopes, their dreams, their fears. How much money they’ve got in the bank. And how many times their blokes knock boots with them in a week.” She catches the look on my face. “Really, Zack. Women do talk freely about such things.”

  “And men?”

  “Ha, men. You put four men in a room and the sum of all their knowledge would likely be reduced. Unless, of course, it applied to brands of beer or the scores of ball games or what highway to take to get somewhere.”