Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  * * * *

  “You sure you want to do this, man?” asked a dubious Hogfish as Willie B. clicked off his cell phone.

  Willie B. sighed and shook his head, adopting a tone one might take with a three-year-old. “Listen to me now. My cousin Dwight and his buddies hang out at Chumley’s Pub on Court Street. All they’re gonna do is keep an eye on those kids tonight. Dwight knows who Ronnie Goodwin is, so he’ll have no problem finding them on Front Street.”

  “But what’s in it for us, Willie B.?”

  “Like I told you, man, they found something out on the water the other day. I’m sure of it. Maybe Dwight and his boys can get close enough to overhear something about it. Meanwhile, I think I just might take a ride over to Hibiscus House and set up a little surprise for their visit.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m still working on that. Time to bring those big-talking American ghost hunters down a peg.”

  Hogfish chuckled. “Willie B., you always up to some kind of mischief, you know that?”

  “Yeah. And you know what else? I’m tired of doing the same old grunt work day in and day out, fixing docks and whatnot, so that rich Yanks can come over here and walk about like they own the place. And I’m disappointed Jasper Goodwin and his fine lookin’ daughter are falling all over themselves catering to them, especially that goofy one. Lord, Lord if he doesn’t deserve a righteous scarin’.”

  “But aren’t you scared yourself of goin’ in that house alone? Because you know I’ll be havin’ no part of that.”

  “Scared? Of what? Spooky stories about Black Bill Tarver’s ghost walkin’ the grounds? I’m surprised at you, Hogfish. Man your age believing in fairy tales. Everybody knows there ain’t no such things as ghosts.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “A toast to our expedition, and to those who have joined us this fine evening!” said Mike Weinstein as he raised his wine glass.

  “Hear, hear!” agreed Tom Sr., doing likewise as the others clinked glasses.

  The evening had begun quite smoothly, with Chappy picking up the nattily attired Americans precisely at 6:00 p.m. for their night in Hamilton. The men were dressed in khakis, golf shirts, and sport jackets—though Weinstein’s overly muscled torso threatened to split his navy blue blazer at any second—the boys in tropical shirts and slacks, and LouAnne in a peach-colored short sleeve pullover with white capris.

  On the way to the city it was agreed upon that both Kim Whitestone and Lindsay Cosgrove were not to know of the discovery of the Steadfast’s bell, or anything beyond the basic information of the project. T.J. had his doubts, though; it only took a couple drinks to set Mike’s tongue wagging.

  La Trattoria, located in a walkway off Front Street, was quaint and not too pricey by Bermudian standards. The food was your basic Italian fare and quite tasty, though at one point Bortnicker leaned over and whispered, “I’ll take Pizza Palace over this any day,” to T.J.

  From the conversation around the table T.J. could ascertain two things: that Kim Whitestone, though very attractive, didn’t have too much going on upstairs and was star struck with Mike, who didn’t mind at all playing the celebrity; and that Lindsay Cosgrove was quite taken with Tom Sr. Even LouAnne, who sat on his other side, nudged T.J. a couple times when the Bermudian woman complimented his father on his outstanding talent as an architect.

  “So, T.J.,” she said suddenly, fixing him with green eyes that accentuated her reddish-auburn hair, “tell us about this investigation of yours. It sounds quite the adventure.”

  The teen proceeded to give her a somewhat watered-down description of the events so far, leaving out all mention of the bell, of course. But then the inevitable happened, though it didn’t come from Mike Weinstein, who was too busy making eyes at Kim Whitestone as they sipped their Chardonnay.

  “We’ve been trying to do some research on the island, Ms. Cosgrove,” complained Bortnicker, “but it’s like nobody wants us to really get into the history of this Hibiscus House.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for example, we went all the way to St. George’s the other day to meet this Mrs. Tilbury lady at the National Heritage Trust, and the old battle axe basically blew us off.”

  Lindsay’s eyes widened. “Tilbury? Do you mean Constance Tilbury?”

  “Yeah. You’ve heard of her?”

  “Why, yes, actually,” said Lindsay, regaining her composure. “She’s my aunt, as a matter of fact.”

  At this Bortnicker went beet red, LouAnne shut her eyes and bit her lip, and T.J. wished he could slide under the table.

  “Lindsay,” offered Tom Sr., “I’m sure Bortnicker didn’t mean to offend—”

  But Lindsay merely waved him off. “No worries, Bortnicker,” she assured. “Auntie can be a bit of a curmudgeon at times. She’s just very protective of our island and its history, as you have obviously ascertained.”

  “Uh, yeah. But I’m sorry anyway,” he said, flashing his crooked smile.

  “You’re very sweet,” she answered, “as are you all. Let me have a word with Auntie. Perhaps I could sway her a bit to be a little more forthcoming.”

  “That would be great, Ms. Cosgrove,” said T.J. with his winning smile.

  “So, where to from here?” asked Tom Sr. as the waiter dropped off the bill.

  “Well,” said Mike, “if you don’t mind, Kim and I are going to check out a couple of the clubs in town and I’ll catch a cab back to the hotel, or I’ll stay over on the yacht in Hamilton Harbor and get back early tomorrow.”

  “And I think, Mr. Jackson, that I should show you around our Harbour Night,” said Lindsay, lightly placing her hand atop the architect’s. “Maybe even partake in one of those touristy horse and buggy rides?”

  “That would be great,” he smiled.

  “The three of us are meeting a friend down where the cruise ships are docked on Front Street,” said T.J.

  “Okay,” said Tom Sr., checking his watch. “Why don’t we meet back here at 10:30 and take a cab back to the hotel?”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said Lindsay. “I have my Mercedes parked a block or so away. I’ll give you all a lift home. It’ll be a tight fit, but we’ll make do.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll call Chappy and tell him he’s done for the night.”

  The group split up and the teens made their way down to Front Street, where Harbour Night was shifting into high gear. The waterfront, which was completely blocked off to motorized traffic, was awash in color and sound.

  All of the upscale stores along the thoroughfare, such as Triminghams and Astwood Dickinson, were deluged with tourists, as were the smaller gift shops like Onion Jack’s and Gosling’s Liquors. Local vendors in gaily-colored outfits had set up stalls offering everything from homemade food to arts and crafts, clothing, and jewelry. There were jugglers, clowns and face painting for the children, and a reggae band was pounding out tunes from an elevated stage on the embankment near the motor scooter park. It was noisy, joyful, and alive.

  “Too cool!” said Bortnicker above the surrounding din. “And there’s Ronnie, near the band stage!” He waved madly and caught her eye, and she motioned them over. “Let’s go!” he cried, and the three Americans took off at a jog to meet their Bermudian friend, who was looking good in a flowered top and short, white skirt that accentuated her finely-toned legs.

  After hugs all around, Ronnie asked proudly, “So, what do you think? Can we Bermudians throw a party?”

  “No question!” answered T.J., the band’s reggae bass line throbbing through the nearby amplifiers.

  “Can we hit some of the shops?” asked LouAnne hopefully.

  “Why not?” said Ronnie. “Let’s have a go!” She hooked her arm in Bortnicker’s and pulled him across Front Street to the entrance to Trimingham’s, one of the more traditionally British stores. They wandered around, rubbing elbows with hordes of Americans mostly, and some Canadians, before moving to the next shop down the street.

  I
t was in Onion Jack’s where LouAnne first noticed the thin black man with dreadlocks watching her from behind a display of Outerbridge’s sherry pepper sauces, a Bermudian delicacy.

  “T.J.,” she whispered to her cousin, “don’t look over, but there’s a Rastafarian-looking guy on the other side of the shop who I could swear I saw in Trimingham’s.”

  “And?”

  “And I think he’s following us.”

  “Really. Okay, let’s go outside and get an ice cone and see if he follows. We’re going outside!” he called to Bortnicker and Ronnie, who were looking for a Bermuda keychain to take home to Pippa.

  “Give us a minute, we’ll see you out there,” replied Bortnicker.

  T.J. and LouAnne ducked outside and made their way to the ice cone stand, where they both ordered the coconut. As they were paying, Bortnicker and Ronnie joined them. “Have you guys seen any police around?” asked T.J. casually.

  “There were a couple way back on the other end of the block,” said Bortnicker as he ordered a banana ice. “I love those British Bobby hats, but the navy Bermuda shorts gotta go. Why’re you asking?”

  “‘Cause LouAnne thinks we’re being followed.”

  “No way.”

  “I think she’s right,” said Ronnie quietly. “I’ve seen the same two or three men over and over since we started walking about.”

  “Including that guy coming out of Onion Jack’s?” said LouAnne.

  Ronnie nonchalantly glanced over her shoulder. “That would be one of them. Can’t place him exactly, but he’s a local.”

  “So, what do we do?” said Bortnicker. “Go after him?”

  “Calm down, Rambo,” said T.J., aware that his friend was out to impress his date. “Why don’t we just work our way back up the street toward where we saw those Bobbies?”

  “Sounds good, Cuz. Lead the way,” said LouAnne.

  They meandered up Front Street, pausing at the occasional vendor stall. T.J. kept taking furtive looks around, eventually picking out three faces that were keeping pace with the teens, trying to look casual as they clumsily shadowed them. All were dark-skinned men, though only the man in Onion Jack’s sported the Rasta hairstyle.

  They were nearly to the “Bird Cage” at the intersection of Front and Queen Streets from which a solitary Bobby conducted traffic during the daytime when T.J. realized the officers were nowhere to be found. “Any ideas?” he asked Ronnie. “You’re the local expert.”

  “Hmm,” she mused. “Ready for a bit of sport?”

  “We were born ready,” answered Bortnicker as LouAnne rolled her eyes.

  “Then follow me.” She strode briskly to an arcade off Front Street and darted inside, the Americans following close behind. “Now RUN!”

  They took off at a sprint through the tunnel of small shops and came out on Reid Street, where Ronnie hung a right. Bortnicker was already panting as they crossed Burnaby Street and continued on Reid, glancing back over their shoulders every few yards.

  “There they are!” cried LouAnne, easing into her cross country pace. “About a block back.”

  “Keep going!” said Ronnie, who had quite an athlete’s stride herself. They passed the Cabinet Building and Sessions House of the Supreme Court.

  “What now?” said T.J. as they neared another intersection.

  “We don’t want to go inland anymore, especially on Court Street,” said Ronnie as they pounded along. “Lots of shady characters there, the type you never see in the travel adverts. I know an alleyway between here and King Street. Can you all hold up for another block?”

  “We’re okay, but Bortnicker’s fading!” said LouAnne. “Those guys are closing on us!”

  They kept running. Suddenly, Fagan’s Alley appeared on their right. Ronnie took a sharp turn, and they followed in her wake, snaking through the passage. No sooner had they emerged on the far end of Front Street than T.J. spied a familiar face. “Hey, there’s Dad and Lindsay on their carriage ride. Come on!”

  The teens, now winded, waved and called to Tom Sr., who motioned to the driver to stop the carriage. With the last of their strength, the exhausted kids piled into the vacant rear seat of the buggy.

  “So much for the romantic ride,” said Tom Sr. “What’s gotten into you kids?”

  “We’re being followed, Dad,” wheezed T.J., wiping sweat from his brow.

  “Oh my,” said Lindsay. “By whom?”

  “Don’t know. Ronnie thinks they’re locals.”

  Lindsay turned to face the brown-skinned girl, whose face was glistening with perspiration.

  “Ronnie Goodwin,” she said in introduction. “My dad owns Blue Lagoon Dive Shop.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard of it. Lindsay Cosgrove. Pleased to meet you, Ronnie. So, you recognize these men? Why on earth would they be following you?”

  “Can’t figure it, ma’am. We were just trying to enjoy Harbour Night and—”

  Suddenly, a pounding, whooping sound came from way up Front Street in the area from which their flight had begun. Heavy drumbeats and shrieking whistles mixed with the roar of the crowd.

  “It’s the Gombay Dancers!” called out Lindsay. “Quite a show. Why don’t we go have a look? The carriage ride’s almost over, anyway.”

  “I guess so,” said T.J., whose breathing had returned to normal. “Bortnicker?”

  “Yeah, why not,” said the other boy, clearing the moisture off his glasses. “Those guys won’t dare bother us now, what with your dad here.”

  The carriage driver pulled up at the police barricade and Tom Sr. paid, with apologies for the extra last-minute passengers. They climbed off, still a little sore and winded from the merry chase of minutes before.

  “Think I need another ice cone,” said Bortnicker.

  “We could all use one,” agreed LouAnne.

  They made it to the Front Street flagpole as the Gombay dancers paraded past, many of the somewhat inebriated tourists in tow. The Americans marveled at the wild feathered costumes of the Gombays as they dipped and swirled to the beat.

  “It’s a mix of Caribbean and African traditions,” offered Ronnie. “Gets the heart pounding, doesn’t it?”

  “Like we really needed it,” joked Bortnicker.

  “I thought you did quite well, actually,” said Ronnie, and she leaned over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. LouAnne and T.J. exchanged amused glances.

  “Well, guys,” said Tom Sr., checking his watch, “I’d say it’s time to head back. I think we’ve had enough action for one night, and you all have a 10:00 a.m. appointment at the dive shop. Lindsay, are you sure that giving us a lift back is no problem?”

  “Not at all,” she said reassuringly. “I’ll even run Miss Ronnie home. It’s the least I can do after such a wonderful evening of food and friends—and a little intrigue!”

  * * * *

  As Lindsay and Ronnie turned out of the Jobson’s Cove Apartments lot onto South Road, Tom Sr. huddled with the teens. “I’m worried, guys,” he said somberly. “Why would anyone be following you kids? Do you think they found out about the bell? Maybe this whole investigation thing is getting out of hand.”

  “Dad, we can’t stop now,” said T.J. “We’ve put too much into it so far. And besides, if we quit on this it would reflect badly on Mike. This project is his baby.”

  “I agree, Uncle Tom,” said LouAnne, her hair a bit askew from their earlier run through the streets of Hamilton. “I think we have to let this thing play out.”

  “We all think we’re onto something,” said Bortnicker. “Tonight just made me more determined to see it through.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Tom Sr., surrendering in the face of overwhelming odds. “But do me this favor. First thing tomorrow, explain what happened to Mike and Chappy. I’m sure Ronnie is going to tell her dad. No matter where you go from here on in, keep your eyes peeled. Any trouble, you call me on my cell at the golf club.”

  “You got it,” said T.J.

  “So you all better get some sle
ep. Jeez, it’s eleven already.” He turned to LouAnne and said, “Please tell me you two aren’t thinking of working out tomorrow morning.”

  “Sorry, Uncle Tom. Tomorrow’s our last workout before Saturday’s race. Tell you what, though. Since we did some running tonight, we’ll cut down tomorrow’s distance by half. Okay, Cuz?”

  “Sounds great,” said T.J.

  “And then we go find Tarver’s treasure!” sang Bortnicker.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Followed, you say?” said Chappy as he helped the Gonzo Ghost Chasers stow their diving gear in the minivan.

  “Dudes, I feel bad I wasn’t there for you,” lamented Mike, who looked a little worse for wear from his night of club-hopping with Kim.

  “Not your fault, Mike,” said T.J. “We handled ourselves pretty well. Even Bortnicker was zooming along like a track star. He actually wanted to go after those guys!”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way,” frowned LouAnne. “Sometimes he just flips into attack mode.”

  “Yeah, like when he chased you out onto the battlefield last year and almost got run over by Hilliard’s horse!”

  “Don’t remind me,” moaned Bortnicker.

  “Shush. It was very heroic,” said LouAnne primly. “Besides, my dad said you executed a perfect form tackle on me, and he should know.” Indeed, Bortnicker had brought the girl down at the last second before LouAnne’s father—a former Big Ten linebacker—had blown the horseman back into the past with his Sharps rifle.

  “Well, I don’t like the thought of people bothering you,” said Chappy as they pulled out onto South Road. “Not a great show of hospitality, to say the least. If you don’t mind, I’m going to ask around if anyone knows about this nonsense.”

  “You don’t have to, but thanks,” said T.J.

  The ride to Blue Lagoon Dive Shop seemed to take forever; everyone in the car was lost in thought and filled with anticipation. The sun beamed brilliantly overhead, and the views over the cliffs to the ocean below were something out of a Beach Boys oldie. The promise, however remote, of pirate treasure was palpable, and the boys had to fight their excitement to maintain a calm appearance.