“We can handle it,” said T.J. somewhat confidently. “Remember, Mike will be there to help us out.”
“Maybe so,” she said, “but I wouldn’t get too carried away. If you remember last year, he was a mess after Hilliard spooked him on the battlefield.”
Indeed, the cousins’ chance encounter with the then-inebriated paranormal investigator had occurred in the deserted bar of the inn were LouAnne worked as a Civil War reenactor.
“Don’t worry, luv,” said Bortnicker in his best Beatle twang, “a splendid time is guaranteed for all.”
“Sergeant Pepper,” she countered. “Talk to you soon.”
Chapter Eight
“We’re here!” crowed Bortnicker triumphantly as he emerged from the plane into the brilliant sunshine of a Bermuda morning. He smacked high fives with T.J. and Tom Sr. as they made their way down the mobile stairway to the tarmac of Bermuda International Airport.
Overall, the trip over had gone quite smoothly. A large SUV limo had come for them at 4:00 a.m. for the ride to LaGuardia Airport in Queens, NY, and the boys had been chatting away ever since. Check-in went without a hitch, with the teens securing their dive equipment and clothes while Mr. Jackson stowed his travel set of golf clubs.
“Some of the best business deals are struck on the back nine,” he was always saying—for a few rounds on the club course he hoped to be renovating. The only thing they’d have to buy in Bermuda was a golf shirt for Bortnicker, who didn’t have one that fit.
T.J. had managed to doze on the flight for a little while, but he was abruptly awakened by Bortnicker punching his shoulder and pointing out the window next to his seat.
“Look at the water!” Bortnicker marveled. “It’s turquoise, just like the commercials!”
T.J. nodded, remembering his long ago childhood visit where he was constantly struck by the greenish-blue shallows and pastel-colored houses that lined the shores.
They walked across the hot tarmac to the terminal, adjusting their watches to Bermuda time, which was an hour ahead of the States. Though the place was a bit nondescript and a heckuva lot smaller than the cavernous US facilities T.J. was used to, he did vaguely remember the huge portrait of Queen Elizabeth and the imposing mounted sailfish that adorned its walls.
Of course, Bortnicker had to make their customs check more interesting. When the very proper inspector was stamping his passport and asked, “Are you here on business or pleasure?” Bortnicker was quick to answer with the former, which caused the official to look up. “And what business might that be, young man?”
“Well, actually,” he sniffed, speaking loudly enough for those—especially the young ladies—in their vicinity to hear, “my friend and I are here to film a television show for The Adventure Channel.”
“Oh really?” answered the inspector, playing along. “Quite the celebrities, you are?”
“Well, not yet,” Bortnicker shot back. “But stay tuned.”
“Oh, I’ll make sure to, Mr. Bootnacker.”
“It’s Bortnicker,” he replied suavely, retrieving his passport while T.J. rolled his eyes in embarrassment.
They picked up their belongings at the luggage carousel and piled them on a cart, heading for the lobby. No sooner had they entered the reception area when they spied Mike Weinstein, in his trademark black cargo shorts and tight, logoed, black Gonzo Ghost Chasers tee shirt, signing autographs for teenaged American tourists with one hand while holding aloft a placard reading JACKSON with the other.
“Dudes, you made it!” he yelled, extricating himself from the throng. “Welcome to Bermuda!” He introduced himself to Tom Sr. with a handshake then gave each of the boys a “bro-hug”. “How was the flight?”
“No problems,” said T.J. “We made it in a little over two hours.”
“Awesome. Let’s get your stuff out to the minivan.”
They lugged the cart out the glass doors to the line of taxis idling at the ready for the wave of arriving tourists. “That would be ours,” he said, pointing to a jet black minivan with large stick-on Gonzo Ghost Chasers decals applied to the side doors. A wiry black man sporting a pink golf shirt, Bermuda shorts, and high blue socks stood nearby, waving them over. With his salt-and-pepper hair and gleaming smile, he resembled a younger Morgan Freeman. “Nigel Chapford,” he said, extending his hand in friendship,” but please call me Chappy.”
“Tom Jackson,” said T.J.’s father, shaking his hand, “and these are the supposed TV stars, my son T.J. and Bortnicker.”
“My pleasure, boys,” he said with a mannered nod. “Welcome to our beautiful island.”
“Chappy will be our driver during our stay,” said Weinstein. “He’s lived here all his life and knows the island inside and out.”
“Including the best places to eat?” asked Bortnicker.
Chappy laughed out loud. “Of course! But not just the most popular tourist establishments. There are some hole-in-the-wall eateries that are quite good.” The men helped load their luggage into the back of the minivan, and they were off.
The minivan made its way out of the congested terminal lot, crossed a two-lane causeway that spanned Castle Harbor, and headed south. Before long they passed the famous Swizzle Inn, which even at this mid-morning hour was teeming with patrons lounging on its wraparound porches, their moped scooters parked below.
“What’s a Swizzle?” asked T.J., eyeing the revelers.
“One of Bermuda’s most famous drink concoctions,” answered Chappy merrily. “A combination of fruit juices, grenadine, and Bermuda rum. Quite tasty, but I’m afraid unsuitable for gents your age.”
“They’re sneaky good,” nodded Mike, who seemed to have gathered first-hand experience in the two days he’d preceded them.
“Funny story,” offered Tom Sr. “When Cheryl and I were on our honeymoon we went on a glass bottomed boat night cruise. The bottom of the boat had these lights, and you could see schools of fish below, which was pretty cool. Anyway, there was an open bar, T.J., and your mom started drinking those Swizzles, which seem pretty harmless because they’re so fruity. Well, by the end of the cruise she was pretty looped, and I remember her waking me up in the middle of the night, moaning, “Stop the boat, honey. Stop the boat!” Tom Sr. was smiling at the memory, but even his son could see his eyes misting over. T.J. patted his father on the knee.
Bortnicker, sensing a need to change the subject, asked Mike, who was riding up front with Chappy, what the itinerary was for the day.
“Well, I was thinking you’ll want to get unpacked and have lunch somewhere. Then, I suggest you go over to the Blue Lagoon Dive Shop in Somerset. And I guess, Tom, that you and I had better get our scooter rentals squared away. Chappy can’t be in three places as once, and you’ll want to be able to zip over to St. George’s whenever you want. We’ll both get two-seater models in case someone needs a ride.”
Chappy spoke up. “I’d also advise that all of you invest in a weekly bus pass. You’ll find the public transportation here is quite reliable and comfortable. There goes one now,” he said, pointing to a pink vehicle passing on their right, fairly full of beachgoers. “You’ll see bus stops that are close together, especially along South Road. They’re marked by pink or blue poles. The pink ones designate buses going toward Hamilton; the blue, away. The bus will only stop if there are passengers who are waiting to board or wanting to disembark. The only drawback is that during the high season, you might have a bit of a wait.”
The minivan cruised at a leisurely pace past sherbet-colored stucco houses crowned by whitewashed, terraced roofs designed to catch fresh rainwater which was channeled to storage tanks for home use. Handmade stone walls alternated with gardens and wildflowers and small plot farms. Occasionally a moped zoomed by, usually at speeds far exceeding the posted limit of 20 mph. Chappy, who was used to the recklessness of both residents and tourists, would just shake his head and carry on. Finally, after meandering down some connecting roads with colorful names like Ducks Puddle Drive, th
ey hit South Road, which passed through Smith’s, Devonshire and Paget Parishes before entering their home base of Warwick.
“I take it the parishes here are like counties at home?” asked T.J.
“That’s a fair analogy,” said Chappy, “though they’re much smaller than in the States. There are nine in all, and are all different, though those differences are somewhat subtle. Actually, these land packets were first known as “tribes”, and you will see designated “tribal roads” here and there. The divisions have to do with how the island parcels were allocated to different English shareholders centuries ago. Some of the parishes are even named for these men.
“You’ll notice differences in population and even architecture as you go from place to place. Some parishes are quieter and more residential, while others, like Hamilton, are on the urban side. Southampton, where we are headed, is decidedly touristy, which is not to say that it isn’t remarkably beautiful. It’s just that its shoreline contains a number of the island’s most stunning beaches, some of them backed by towering cliffs. Quite impressive.” Chappy was obviously very proud of his homeland and seemed as delighted to share information with the boys as he probably had with thousands of other tourists.
They passed by resorts with names like Coco Reef, Harmony Club, and Elbow Beach, each entranceway spewing forth tourists on mopeds.
“So, Chappy,” said Mike, “what’s the story with Hibiscus House and Sir William Tarver? It’s why we’re here, after all.”
T.J. just happened to be glancing into the minivan’s rearview mirror and could see an almost imperceptible cloud settle over the driver’s face. “Ah, yes, Sir William,” he said evenly. “Interesting man. Made his fortune through piracy, they say ... then was given the estate by the governor. But I would imagine you know as much.”
“Was he a bad guy or something?” asked T.J.
“Well, that depends, young sir, upon what you categorize as ‘bad’. I think that it would be in your best interest to do your research here and come to your own conclusions.” From the polite, yet firm tone of his voice the Americans could tell they should pursue the subject no further. An awkward moment or two passed, and then Chappy said, “Ah, here we are.” He turned into a narrow entrance road framed with bougainvillea and palm trees. “Gentlemen, I give you the Jobson’s Cove Apartments.”
The beachside hideaway consisted of about twelve units in an L-shaped, two-story structure overlooking a moderately-sized, kidney shaped pool. Nestled into a hillside, the surrounding dense vegetation and tropical flowers gave it a secluded feeling. A few guests lounged by the pool while an elderly couple sat on the deck chairs in the Bermuda grass, contentedly reading. As Chappy helped the travelers unload their bags, a matronly woman with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail swept out of the hotel office, her pink caftan flapping in the light ocean breeze.
“So nice to meet you!” she chirped in a lilting British voice. “I’m Virginia Maltby, the proprietor. Sorry to say, my husband Morris is visiting our daughter in England, so I’ll be your go-to person for whatever you might need. Mr. Weinstein has told me all about your exciting adventure! I’m so glad you chose Jobson’s Cove, and we’ll try to make your stay as pleasant as possible.
“As I told Michael the other day, I’ve put your four rooms together on the second floor because, that way, you’ll avoid any poolside noise, or people coming and going at all hours. It will be a bit of an effort lugging your bags up the stairs, but you’ll see that it’s well worth it. From your balconies you’ll just be able to peek over the treetops of Astwood Park and view the ocean in all its glory.
“As you can see, we have a delightful pool, and there are also barbeque grills under the palm trees over there in case you’d want to eat in.
“There’s a bus stop a stone’s throw from the entrance, but I can see that you’ve hired one of our best drivers for your stay.” She shot Chappy a wink; they were obviously old acquaintances, veterans of the tourist trade.
“Where’s the beach, ma’am?” asked Bortnicker, slinging his carry-on over his shoulder.
“It’s quite simple, really. Cross the road from our main entrance and you will be in Astwood Park. Follow the path through the trees down to the cliffs. From there you’ll see walkways to the beach. Jobson’s Cove, from which we draw our name, is tucked away behind some massive boulders to the right, forming a kind of shallow lagoon. It’s quite picturesque.”
The party thanked Virginia as she handed them the keys to their rooms. “Ta-ta!” she trilled, scurrying off to check on the other patrons.
“Well, let’s get all this stuff upstairs,” said Mike. “Like Virginia said, the view from up there will make it all worthwhile.”
“Would you want me to stick around a bit?” asked Chappy, cleaning some squashed bugs off the minivan’s windshield.
“That would be great,” said Tom Sr. “We’ll drop off our bags, and then maybe you can bring me to that market up the road so I can stock up on necessities for myself and the boys.”
“I’ll need to pick up some stuff, too,” added Mike. “The only thing in my fridge is some beer and tuna fish from yesterday.”
“No worries. And then I suppose you’ll want me to drop you at the cycle rental place?”
“That makes sense,” said Mike. “Then you can pick up the boys, grab some lunch, and run them over to the Blue Lagoon Dive Shop to check on their rentals.”
“You aren’t diving?” asked Bortnicker.
“Nah, not my thing,” said Mike. “I’ll be on the charter boat with you, but it’s your show. You’ll be doing all the diving and the filming. I’ve got all the equipment for land and sea in my apartment. If you’re not too tired tonight, we’ll meet there and go over how to use it all. Then you can explain it to LouAnne when she gets here.”
“Sounds like a plan!” said T.J. enthusiastically.
The boys opened the door to their room and were greeted with walls of a warm yellow and cushy twin beds. There was a rather large beach-scene painting on the wall, a comfy couch, and a teak and rattan dinette set. Off to the side was a kitchenette with a sink, some cabinets, and a refrigerator. A microwave oven sat on the Formica countertop.
“All the comforts of home!” sighed Bortnicker, flopping onto the closest bed.
“Yeah,” said T.J., “and we’ve got a big overhead fan in case the sea breeze cuts out.” He slid open the glass balcony door and stepped outside. “Nice,” he said to himself as the wind carried the scent of flowers from Astwood Park.
“Hey,” said Bortnicker, “why don’t we get unpacked and check out the beach while Mike and your dad are running their errands?”
“Sounds good.” He went next door and encountered Tom Sr., who was dropping shirts into a bureau drawer in his nearly identical room. “Hey Dad, Bortnicker and I are going down to the beach. Make sure you buy a lot of food so we can grill a couple times. Some snacks, too. And some breakfast cereal. And—”
“T.J.,” said Tom Sr. patiently, “I know how to stock a refrigerator. And although all this is on The Adventure Channel’s dime, I don’t want us to overdo it. And another thing...” He closed the door to the apartment. “I want you to keep in mind that although I’m sure Mike is a responsible adult, he is only in his late 20s, and he, understandably, likes to have a good time. Bermuda, especially Hamilton, has a pretty lively nightclub scene, and as you can see, he enjoys his celebrity. So, while I’m sure he’ll be all business when you guys are doing the show, don’t be surprised if we lose him once in a while. I’m counting on you guys to take care of yourselves and LouAnne when we’re not around. I know you guys aren’t drinkers or anything—”
“Dad, I gotcha,” answered T.J. “We won’t do anything dumb. I promise.”
“Okay,” said Tom Sr. He gave T.J. an unexpected hug. “This is such a great opportunity for you guys, and this place is wonderful, but it feels so weird—”
“Being here without Mom?”
“Yeah. Bermuda was our sp
ecial place.” He broke away gently and wiped his eyes. “Sorry.”
“Hey, Dad, no problem. Maybe you’ll meet somebody here. You never know.”
“What? Like Wendy? No, thank you,” he said, referring to the previous summer when he’d run off to Paris with a much younger—albeit gorgeous—woman while T.J. stayed in Gettysburg. The trip had ended in disaster, with the flirtatious Wendy leaving him for a suave Parisian waiter.
“Well,” said T.J., “whatever you choose to do, I want you to know I’m okay with it. I was a little selfish last year, giving you a hard time about leaving me at Uncle Mike’s. I mean, if you didn’t go, I never would’ve helped solve the ghost mystery or got to know LouAnne. So, it all worked out, on my end anyway.”
“You like her, don’t you?” his father said, fixing him with a serious look.
“Well, of course, Dad, she’s my cousin—”
“You know what I mean, son. I realize she’s only related to you by adoption—”
“Aw, jeez, Dad,” the boy said, feeling his face redden.
“Just be very, very careful with people’s feelings, T.J. You’ve always had a good heart, but sometimes your heart gets ahead of your brain.”
Mercifully, there was a knock on the door, and Mike Weinstein poked his head in. “Dude, Chappy’s waiting downstairs with the car,” he said brightly. “Let’s get motoring!”
“Right behind you,” called out Tom Sr. Father and son walked out together into the noonday sun.
Chapter Nine
“Can you believe this?” said T.J. as the boys sat atop the majestic limestone cliffs and watched foaming waves crash upon the beach below. The refreshing spray of the ocean, filled with salt and seaweed, reached all the way to their perch at the edge of Astwood Park. Below them, birds called longtails peeked in and out of the pockmarked headland. Clouds scudded across an azure sky, and the water seemed to go on forever.
“Makes you forget why we’re actually here,” said Bortnicker. “Hey, did you notice how Chappy clammed up when Mike mentioned William Tarver?”
Spirits of the Pirate House Page 5