Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  “Maybe not,” said LouAnne. “I think it’s obvious that somebody doesn’t want us to know what this guy was really about. Somehow, we’re going to have to piece it together from tomorrow’s dive and the house investigation.”

  “Or he could just tell us,” joked Bortnicker.

  “That’s not so far out,” she replied. “If you remember, once we got Major Hilliard talking, it was hard to shut him up.”

  “That is, until you ticked him off,” chided T.J.

  “Hey, how was I to know he considered battle reenactments insulting? Jeez, guys—”

  “I’m just breaking ‘em on you,” said T.J. “But, Cuz, don’t you think we’re kinda taking it for granted that Tarver’s going to show up while we’re there? I mean, I’ve been watching Gonzo Ghost Chasers since it came on, and the most they’ve ever had happen was shadow figures and a few words here and there on the EVP recorders.”

  “That’s been worrying me, too,” admitted LouAnne. “If you remember, last year on the battlefield Hilliard’s voice didn’t come out on the audio tape for either Mike or us, although he was there plain as day. I wouldn’t count on video of Tarver, either, even if we do have a gazillion DVRs positioned all over the house. We’ve just gotta see what turns up ... we can’t do any more than that.”

  “Especially not knowing anything about him,” said Bortnicker in a raised voice he hoped Mrs. Rayburn would hear.

  The woman must’ve been listening, for within seconds she magically appeared, still somewhat nervous at the teens’ obvious displeasure. “Well folks,” she said, “do you need anything copied? Can I be of any further service?”

  “I think we’re done here,” answered T.J. diplomatically. Then he added, “At least for now.”

  They got up and left, and the door behind them had barely closed when Mrs. Rayburn picked up her desk phone and started dialing.

  * * * *

  “Well, it’s only eleven, and we’ve got some time to kill before Chappy picks us up,” said T.J. “How about an early lunch?”

  “You know I’m up for that,” said Bortnicker.

  “Me, too,” LouAnne chimed in. “Let’s walk around and find someplace good.”

  They settled on Wahoo’s Bistro on the waterfront, where LouAnne ordered the Bermuda fish chowder, while the boys shared orders of shark fritters and codfish cakes.

  Chappy met them just as they emerged into the blinding sunshine. “A successful venture this morning?” he asked as they climbed in.

  “Negative,” said Bortnicker, rooting through Chappy’s Beatle CD’s. “It seems that some of the papers on Tarver had been removed, surprise, surprise.”

  “How unfortunate,” the driver replied coolly.

  “Chappy,” said T.J., “I know this is your homeland, and that you’re proud of it, just like everyone we’ve met, but I’m getting the impression that there’s stuff we’re just not supposed to know—”

  “—Which makes us even more determined to know it,” finished LouAnne.

  “And don’t take this the wrong way,” continued Bortnicker, as he slid Beatles for Sale into the console, “but I get the feeling you’re kinda holding back on us also.” His words hung in the air as the distinctive opening to “No Reply” started up.

  If Chappy was hurt or insulted, he didn’t show it. “I’m sure I’m not the fountain of information you suppose me to be,” he began. “Remember, I’m a humble limousine driver, not an historian. But you have to understand the perception of people outside your country of the American media. The publicizing of lurid details and the sensationalism employed by your major media outlets can at times be off-putting and lead to caution, if not downright fear, when it comes to sharing the history of one’s homeland.

  “Bermuda is a country like any other. We’ve had our highs and lows, our heroes and scoundrels. We just downplay the scoundrels, whereas you Yanks seem to revel in them. For example, your gangsters of the 1920s and ‘30s — Al Capone, John Dillinger and the like. And I won’t even touch upon the serial killers who have crossed the American landscape the past 25 or so years whose stories are chronicled on your various history channels. These people—these concepts—are disconcerting, if not frightening, to Bermudians. We are a peaceful, friendly people and would rather not speak of such things.”

  “I get all that,” said T.J., as Paul McCartney warbled “I’ll Follow the Sun”, “but all we want to know is, where does Sir William Tarver fall? Was he a good guy or a bad guy?”

  “My friends,” said Chappy, “something tells me that you are going to find out, and more quickly than you think. But what you make of your finds, and how you plan to share them, should be a cause for great contemplation on your parts.”

  “Okay,” said T.J., not wanting to offend their friend by pushing him too far. “Enough with this. Who feels like riding some waves down at Astwood Beach?”

  “Cool!” said Bortnicker. “A little body surfing would be fun. How about you, LouAnne?”

  “With that undertow? No way, José. But I will paddle around a little in Jobson’s Cove and look at the tropical fish.”

  “Deal.”

  Chappy gave the teens a pickup time for that evening’s trip to Hamilton and dropped them at the hotel. Within minutes they had changed into their beach attire and were on their way down to the breakers of Astwood Park.

  LouAnne snapped pictures as the boys zoomed along atop the six foot swells, usually coming to a tumbling stop in the sea foam at the water’s edge. There were others enjoying the sun, sand, and surf, but no one attacked the waves like T.J. and Bortnicker, trying to out-daredevil each other before their alluring female friend.

  Finally, after forty minutes or so of crashing about in the ocean, the boys literally crawled to LouAnne’s blanket where she sat placidly, reading a paperback.

  “You guys done?” he said over her sunglasses.

  “Stick a fork in us,” moaned T.J., his hair dripping.

  “I must have a pound of sand in my bathing suit,” added Bortnicker.

  “Too much info,” said LouAnne, gathering her belongings. “Let’s go over to Jobson’s Cove so I can wade in the water. I even brought a mask and snorkel.”

  “LouAnne’s going Jacques Cousteau on us!” cried Bortnicker. “She’s even venturing into the murky depths by herself!”

  “Ha-ha, Mr. Deep Sea Detective. Wrong on both counts. It’s crystal clear and shallow. But even so, you guys keep an eye on me, okay?”

  “Sure thing,” said T.J., hoping Bortnicker wouldn’t use that as an opening for a wise remark. They strolled up and around the rock formations that protected the small lagoon, and the boys spread out their blankets. Luckily, a Bermudian day camp group of kindergarten age kids was just leaving, their counselor picking up flip-flops and other belongings inadvertently left behind.

  LouAnne cleaned her mask as T.J. had showed her, adjusted the snorkel, and pushed off into the shallow pool.

  “This is nice,” said Bortnicker, laying back with his hands behind his head. “But something’s bothering me, Big Mon.”

  “What?” said T.J., his eyes locked on his cousin.

  “I’m getting a strange vibe from Chappy. It’s like he wants to tell us stuff, but something’s holding him back.”

  “Yeah, I get that, too.”

  “I just don’t wanna tick him off. He’s such a good guy, not to mention a friend of John Lennon.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So, are you psyched for Harbour Night in Hamilton? Sounds like a cool time.”

  “No doubt. Are you inviting Ronnie to join us?”

  “You think it’s okay?”

  “I’m sure Dad and Mike wouldn’t mind—”

  “I mean with your cousin.”

  “Nah. She’s cool. Give Ronnie a call at the shop and tell her to meet us there around eight. We should be done with dinner by then. She could show us around Hamilton.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He took out his cell phone and started dialing
the Blue Lagoon’s number.

  * * * *

  Unfortunately, Ronnie Goodwin wasn’t at the desk to take his call. She had been sent to Dora’s Corners by her father to pick up a takeout lunch for him and Skeeter.

  “Well, hello, Queen of the Deep!” sang out Dora as the girl breezed in. “What can I get for you this fine day?”

  “Dad said to bring him whatever’s fresh today, Miss Dora,” answered Ronnie politely. “A double order for him and Skeeter.”

  “We’ve got a nice grouper, just come in. Give me a few minutes to fix it up.”

  “No rush, ma’am. I’ll sit outside and wait there.”

  She had no sooner gotten comfortable when Willie B. and his sidekick Hogfish ambled across the crushed shell parking lot to her table. She tried to wish them away but had no such luck.

  “Hello, Miss Ronnie,” said Willie B., his forehead glistening in the noonday sun.

  “Willie B., Hogfish,” she answered, politely nodding.

  “Hey, your daddy need any work done ‘round the shop? I’m a little slow right now,” Willie B. said, pulling up a chair.

  “You know, he was talking the other day about the dock needing some repair. You might want to see him about that.”

  “That I will. Hey, Hogfish, fetch me a ginger beer, will you?” he said to his bulky companion, who sighed and waddled off to the restaurant entrance. Once he was out of earshot, Willie B. fixed his eyes on hers. “I see those American boys have hired out your daddy’s boat. Was working on a neighboring dock and saw you all pull out of the lagoon the other day.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said guardedly.

  “I had the pleasure of meeting them the other day, right here,” he said genially. “Seem like good boys.”

  “They are.”

  “Told me they’re here to do some ghost hunting. At least that’s what the one with the glasses said.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, he was right, wasn’t he? No reason to tell me a tall tale.”

  “Yes, they’ve come to look into—”

  “Hibiscus House. And all that nonsense about it being haunted.”

  “Who says it’s nonsense?” the girl snapped, suddenly defensive.

  “Ooh, sorry,” he said soothingly, his teeth flashing. “Didn’t know you saw it that way, Miss Ronnie. I’m sure they’re very serious about it. So, when is the big investigation to take place?”

  “Soon. They didn’t say exactly,” she lied.

  “Well, we’ll all be anxious to see what they found out on old Sir William,” he said as Hogfish banged out of the shack’s screen door with two frosty cans of Barritt’s ginger beer. “You tell them I said good luck, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then good day, Miss Ronnie. I’ll see your dad about that dock repair.” The two started up the road, and Ronnie couldn’t wait to get back inside and pick up her order.

  “Just about to come get you,” said Dora, handing over a brown paper bag bulging with Styrofoam containers of food. “That’ll be £12.” She read the look of consternation on Ronnie’s face as the girl counted out her money. “What’s wrong, girl?” she asked. “Willie B. bothering you?”

  “He gives me the creeps,” she replied, laying the money on the countertop.

  “He’s mostly harmless, and that Hogfish is just an imbecile. Pay them no mind.” She scooped up the bills and coins and propped a meaty elbow onto the counter. “So, how is the investigation going?”

  Ronnie rolled her eyes. Had the boys blabbed to everyone? “Okay, I guess,” she managed. “Listen, Miss Dora, I’ve got to go. Daddy likes his food warm.”

  “Okay, dear. You just take care of yourself.” As Ronnie snapped the screen door shut behind her Dora added, “And those cute boys, too!”

  * * * *

  Back at the Jobson’s Cove Apartments, the teens parted to relax a bit, send emails home, and shower for the evening’s festivities in Hamilton. Mike looked in on the boys to find how their morning research had gone and was annoyed to learn they’d come up empty. “So, you think some incriminating stuff on Tarver had been removed?” he said, rummaging through the teen’s refrigerator.

  “Definitely,” said Bortnicker. “The archivist was really embarrassed.”

  “T.J.?”

  “Bortnicker’s right,” he agreed, popping open a Coke. “And even if we go back, I don’t know if we’ll get any further.”

  Weinstein smiled. “Dudes, we’re on to something. All this non-cooperation and secrecy have to mean something. But, see, they don’t know we have secrets of our own. We found the bell. That’s why tomorrow’s dive and Friday night’s investigation at the house could be enormous.”

  “Looks like it,” said Bortnicker, flopping on the couch. “Hey, Big Mon,” he said to T.J., “who’s first in the shower, me or you?”

  “You go first today,” he answered. “I want to talk to Mike.”

  “Aww, and I was just getting comfortable.,” he moaned, shuffling off to the bathroom.

  “You joining us for dinner in Hamilton?” T.J. asked the senior Ghost Chaser.

  “That I am,” beamed Weinstein. “And the girl I met down here is meeting us at the restaurant your dad picked. Her name’s Kim, Kim Whitestone, and her father’s filthy rich. I’ve been hanging out on their yacht whenever I have some down time. But she’s pretty down-to-earth, all things considered.” He gave a sly smile. “And attractive, I might add.”

  “Way to go, Mike,” chuckled T.J.

  “And that’s not all, dude,” said Weinstein. “Word on the street is that your pop is bringing a date.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. A lady he met at the golf club. We’re going to end up with quite the entourage.”

  Outside, the engine of a moped could be heard in the car park. “That must be him now,” said T.J., anxious to find out about Tom Sr.’s companion.

  “Well, I gotta go shower,” said Mike. “I’ll tell your dad to drop in on you. Oh, by the way, he said collared shirts and slacks for tonight, gotta look presentable.”

  “So, no Gonzo Ghost Chasers attire?” joked T.J.

  “Nah, we don’t want to look too conspicuous,” said Weinstein, who was probably only being half truthful. He exited, and seconds later T.J. was almost dozing, the steady hiss of Bortnicker’s shower in the background, when his dad entered, energized and upbeat.

  “Long day?” he asked, taking a seat next to his son.

  “Well, the Heritage Trust was a dud, but we got some quality beach time. But, man, those waves knocked me out. So, Dad, Mike tells me you’ve got a date for tonight?”

  The elder Jackson reddened a bit. “If you don’t mind. She’s a nice lady I met at the club. Handles their corporate bookings and such.”

  “And does this ‘lady’ have a name?”

  “Oh, yeah. Lindsay Cosgrove. Grew up here outside of St. George’s. She’s been in on a lot of the meetings and we kinda hit it off.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “You could say that, yes,” he smiled, which meant she was probably a knockout.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it, Dad,” said T.J. “It’s been kinda sparse since Wendy.”

  “Please don’t mention that name,” frowned Tom Sr. “And you’ll be happy to know she’s actually within a few years of my age.”

  “Who is?” said Bortnicker, emerging from the steamy bathroom.

  “Dad’s got a date for tonight,” said T.J. proudly. “A Miss Cosgrove. It is ‘Miss’, correct?”

  “Yes, it is,” laughed Tom Sr., “and enough with the interrogation. Bortnicker, jeez, you’re dripping all over the floor!”

  “Oops, my bad,” said the teen, holding a towel around his waist. “T.J., your turn. But I was right. Wait’ll you see all the sand that came out of me in the shower!” He padded off to the bedroom as both father and son shook their heads.

  “Seriously, though, Dad, I’m happy you have a date tonight. Can’t wait to meet her,” T.J
. said, heading for the bathroom. “Where are we eating, anyway?”

  “I’ve decided on La Trattoria,” said Tom Sr. “Pretty fair Italian food. You’ll like it.”

  “Yeah, Chappy mentioned it, too.” He closed the door and smiled broadly, happy to see the sparkle in his father’s eye once again.

  * * * *

  “Skeeter, Dad, got your lunch!” Ronnie sang out as she elbowed open the front door to the dive shop.

  “Your dad’s out back, honey,” Skeeter muttered while pouring over a scuba equipment catalog. “Meeting with that character Willie B. about some dock work.”

  Ronnie silently berated herself. “Me and my big mouth,” she said under her breath. “He couldn’t wait to get over here.” She put the food down on a table and walked out back where Jasper was pointing to some rotted wood in one of the boat slips. Willie B. caught her eye and winked. She managed the barest of smiles.

  “Are you back with lunch? I’m famished!” said the Divemaster, straightening up and wiping his hands on his cargo shorts.

  “It’s inside. You’d better get to it before Skeeter eats it all.”

  “Will do. And, oh, by the way, your friend Bortnicker called. He’d like you to meet him this evening at 8:00 in front of the cruise ship wharf in Hamilton. I told him I’d drop you there, but you might have to take the bus back.”

  “If it’s okay with you,” she said hopefully.

  “Not a problem. But you can’t stay out too late, and neither should those boys. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, hating the fact that Willie B. had heard it all. “Well, it’s kind of slow so I’ll walk home and make myself presentable. Spend some time with Mum.”

  “You do that. See you later.”

  She bid good afternoon to Skeeter and hiked up the road to their cottage, all the while thinking of Willie B.’s knowing wink and hoping she wouldn’t have to run into him again for a good long time. Of course, on an island as small as Bermuda that was pretty near impossible. But then she thought of her new friends, and the exciting possibilities of Harbour Night in Hamilton, and all was forgotten. By the time she walked in the front door, Ronnie Goodwin was singing.