by Diane Rapp
“Famous for pink beaches and knee-length shorts, Bermuda’s delightful subtropical climate is warmed by Gulf Stream eddies during the winter. The pink color of the beaches comes from tiny coral particles ground into sugar-sized sand by parrot-fish.”
Kayla loved diving with parrot-fish, gentle creatures that ranged in size from a few inches to several feet in length. Underwater, divers often heard the rhythmic crunching as parrot-fish bit off chunks of hard coral and ate the living animal inside. The tree-like ectoderm was digested and discarded as sand. In the Caribbean the sand was a brilliant white color.
“Bermuda was discovered by accident in 1609 when a ship commanded by Sir George Somers sank on a nearby reef. The ship was on its way to Jamestown in America and later returned to establish a colony. Today there are less than 60,000 residents, known as “onions” after the sweet, succulent onion that made Bermuda famous a hundred years ago. Residents play cricket, drink ale in pubs, and are govern by elected members of Parliament.”
Kayla looked forward to spending her day freed from ghosts and tedious logbooks, a day on solid ground. Mostly she looked forward to being with Steven. Her pulse raced as she switched off the television, checked the mirror, sprayed her carefully curled locks, and slid sunglasses into place. The shirt she wore sported a slogan—Yanks do it in T-shirts—in red, white and blue lettering. It was a gift from Steven, trying to prove he had a sense of humor.
The Sea Mist was tiny compared to modern ships, so it could enter St. George’s Harbour and dock at Ordnance Island near the quaint colonial village. Standing on deck at 8:00 a.m., Kayla waited patiently for the ship to dock. With less patience, she waited while customs officials reviewed port papers, and she became positively irritable until permission to disembark was issued.
Steven stood at the foot of the gangplank, wearing a navy golf shirt tucked into white Bermuda shorts and blue knee-length stockings. He looked like a respectable Englishman with short dark auburn hair, trim muscular figure, and a smile that gleamed against his tanned complexion. She visualized sapphire-blue eyes behind the dark glasses. When they first met Kayla “cast” him as the debonair Pierce Brosnan in a James Bond film. He still fit the secret agent image, but he also possessed a quirky sense of humor and thoughtful, sweet disposition. Kayla didn’t try to “cast” him any more, he was simply Steven—her lover.
Steven climbed the gangplank and dropped his gear at the top. He kissed her like a man dying of thirst, drinking water from a sweet desert spring. Just a few inches taller than Kayla, his body fit snugly against hers.
“I’ve gone mad with loneliness,” he murmured between kisses.
The spicy smell of his cologne, the soft warmth of his lips, and the heat of his body enveloped Kayla’s senses. Her arms locked around his neck until they became aware of people flowing around the obstacle they presented at the gangway.
Laughing, the young lovers parted.
Kayla said, “Let’s get your bags to our stateroom.”
Steven grinned and motioned her to lead the way. Kayla knew Steven’s eyes watched her body as she walked down the corridor. Glancing coyly back, she pointed at the door and handed him the key.
“This is it,” she murmured, running her fingers through his thick hair.
Steven fumbled with the lock. Inside, he tossed bags into the closet and locked the door in one fluid motion. Kayla giggled as he grabbed her, sweeping her onto the bed in an eager embrace. It seemed like a dream—his hands exploring her body, and his lips nibbling her neck. Her body responded like a dry forest exploding in flames. Kayla wondered why she bothered to dress so carefully, why she took the time to apply makeup, why she curled her hair. Then she allowed pleasure to erase the long lonely nights they’d spent apart.
Later, laughing at the chaos inside the room, they dressed each other with minor detours.
“Have you eaten?” Steven asked, tracing the slogan on her T-shirt with his fingertip.
“Just coffee.”
“Well, I’m famished.” He checked his watch. “We have enough time for a quick bite before we head out.”
“Oh? You’ve got a schedule to meet?”
He grinned, curling a strand of silken blond hair over her ear.
“It’s a surprise.” He covered her lips with his finger. “No asking! I’ve been trained to resist the most rigorous interrogation, so I won’t divulge information without direct orders from Interpol.”
She stroked his chest, migrating down to his belt. “You’re sure you can resist my kind of torture.”
He grabbed her hands and kissed her fingertips. “I don’t dare test my resolve. Let’s be off, shall we? You won’t want to miss my surprise.”
As they ate breakfast, Kayla admired the view of St. George. White roofs covered the pastel tinted buildings and reminded her of snow in the middle of dense green leaves and vibrant red bougainvillea vines.
She asked, “Why are the roofs white?”
Steven said, “There is no supply of fresh water on Bermuda. Since colonial days, they built using white limestone slate or simply whitewashed their steep roofs with lime. Elaborate gutter systems capture rainwater and guide it into underground cisterns for storage. Guests are politely encouraged to conserve water. I’ve never taken such short showers in my life.”
The alarm on Steven’s wristwatch beeped insistently. “We’d better run.” He gulped down his tea. “I parked a moped in the square. Come along, luv.”
They ran down the gangway and over the bridge to King’s Square. Steven unlocked a rented moped. Nearby, tourists stood in line to put their necks and hands in a wooden replica of a Stock and Pillory. Those who reached the head of the line looked like unrepentant lawbreakers, smiling for photos.
Motoring through the colonial city of St. George, Kayla marveled at the tidy, well-preserved cobbled streets. Colonial-styled stone and stucco buildings with steep pitched roofs were painted in a cheerful range of pastels, but elaborate borders decorated stepped roof outlines to remind colonists of the European homes they’d left behind.
The moped passed horse-drawn carriages filled with tourists inside the historic city. Outside the city, a surprising number of mopeds and small motorcycles sped along the winding narrow roads. Taxis were plentiful but many visitors drove mopeds, their heads covered by brightly-colored helmets.
Climbing a hill to an observation point, Kayla gazed out across gently rolling hills pierced by sparkling cerulean blue water. The vista looked like a lacy green cutout floating on a pond, ready to drift away in a strong breeze.
As the scooter raced across the Castle Harbour Causeway, Kayla wrapped her arms tightly around Steven’s waist and snuggled against his back. Warm wind caressed her face like velvet fingertips, a reminder of Steven’s touch.
The ride lasted about twenty minutes. Steven stopped at BAMZ—the Bermuda Aquarium Museum & Zoo. Kayla climbed off the moped. Steven flipped down the kickstand and pocketed the key.
“We’ve got to run,” he said, grabbing Kayla’s hand. “They’re holding the bus.” He pointed at a van. A BAMZ logo and pictures of fish, turtles, otters, and eels decorated the van.
“Hope we didn’t keep you long, mate,” Steven said to the driver as they climbed inside.
“This must be Kayla.” The black driver grinned and held out a large meaty hand. “I’m Benjamin.” He resembled a young Sidney Poitier, tall with white teeth against caramel-colored skin. His accent was British with a distinct island lilt.
Kayla accepted the handshake with a bewildered expression. “Where are we going?”
Benjamin arched an eyebrow and frowned at Steven. “You left her in the dark?”
Steven chuckled. “Why ruin the surprise?”
“Well, somebody tell me!” Kayla huffed.
“We’re going to hunt sea turtles, my dear.” Benjamin’s deep voice resonated through the van as it bumped down the gravel road.
“But that’s illegal!”
“Scientists who work on the Be
rmuda Sea Turtle Project have permits. We catch juvenile green turtles, measure, weigh, and tag them, then we release the turtles back into the ocean.” He cast a sideways glance at Steven. “This one claimed that you’d be eager to volunteer today. I guess he neglected to inform you.”
“Oh! I’d love to volunteer!” She hugged Steven’s neck, nearly choking him. “This is wonderful!”
“Good, good.” Benjamin pointed at the busy dock just ahead. “We’re the last to arrive.”
They boarded the vessel, a modern cruiser with a radar tower, and sophisticated-looking equipment surrounding the dashboard. The crew shoved off and the captain gunned the motor, heading north of the island.
Kayla snuggled against Steven, thoroughly enjoying their adventure.
Benjamin sat on the bench shouting over the roar of the engine as he pointed out to sea. “We’re heading to a ledge of flat reefs where sea grass grows in abundance but when we get close the captain will cut the engines. Turtles have an acute sense of hearing and are easily chased away.”
Kayla nodded, her loose hair whipping in the wind. “How do we help?”
“After the turtles are captured, your job is to keep the shells wet. We usually catch about five but the record for one day is thirty-one.”
A short time later the cruiser approached a buoy marking the study site. The captain slowed, cut the engine, and drifted toward the buoy. Below Kayla saw beds of sea grass waving languidly in the shallow aqua blue water. Dark round shapes darted away from the boat’s shadow, diving into the grass. After securing the large research vessel to the buoy, the team members launched a small workboat towing a large net, and a dingy with smaller nets inside.
Benjamin explained, “The entrapment net is designed to entangle sea turtles. Our divers deploy the net in a large circle and watch for turtles. They must free the turtles from the net and bring them to the surface quickly. Turtles breathe surface air and might drown if kept underwater too long. The specimens are brought to this vessel where we measure and tag them and record the data.”
It wasn’t long before the first turtle was caught. They hauled a medium-sized creature aboard and placed it onto a float—a swim noodle bent into a donut shape and strapped to other floats on the deck. The turtle’s white underbelly rested on the float while its legs tried to “swim” back toward the water.
Kayla poured seawater over the turtle and marveled at the beautiful olive-brown shell streaked with gold and dark brown colors. “Why do they call them green turtles when they look so brown?” she asked Benjamin.
“The name comes from the greenish body fat islanders use to make turtle soup,” Benjamin replied with a shrug.
Kayla grimaced and swore she’d never eat a bowl of turtle soup again—even the mock variety. She stroked the rippled surface of the hard shell as the turtle stretched its neck and peered at her with unblinking sad eyes.
“Sorry, fella. It’ll be over soon.” Kayla sprinkled seawater over the leathery spotted skin covering the legs, neck, and head of the docile captive.
Two more turtles arrived. The scientific team worked quickly, measuring, weighing, and taking blood samples from the specimens. Suddenly the divers shouted with excitement as they hauled in the largest turtle of the day. It already sported a tag.
“This one’s ready to leave Bermuda,” Benjamin said. “Juveniles stay in our water for a few years to grow, like basking in a safe incubator. When they reach adult size, the turtles venture out into the dangerous water of the deep ocean. This one’s female. We’ll attach a satellite transmitter to her shell and track her movements with our Geographic Information System. In 1998 our GIS system recorded a female for 2,000 miles until we lost her signal near Cuba.”
“What do these other tags do?” Steven asked, fingering a bubble-shaped device.
“Data storage tags record depth, temperature and tilt angle, and sonic tags monitor migratory patterns. We offer rewards to fishermen who return the tags. The Bermuda Turtle Project educates the public about the plight of endangered sea turtles through school classes, tour groups, and slide shows.”
“It sounds like important work,” Steven said.
Benjamin nodded then returned to work.
By the time they finished releasing the specimens, Kayla’s back and legs ached but she felt exhilarated. Lowering a turtle into the water, she watched the cumbersome creature swiftly dart into the sea grass like a round rocket. Her skin tingled under the hot sun and she inhaled the sea air with a sense of welcome freedom. Onboard the ship, she felt weighed down by gloom and wondered if the ghost felt trapped on the ship.
“Hungry?” Steven asked.
“Starving!”
“I’ll buy you lunch at the aquarium straight away and then we’ll motor about the island.”
The captain gunned the engines and they relished the cool sea spray on sunburned skin as the cruiser plowed through waves. Benjamin asked, “Did you enjoy the morning?”
Kayla nodded. Steven shouted over the engine noise. “We had a brilliant time. Thanks ever so much for including us.”
“It’s a good job you came along today. The weather looks chancy the rest of the week and we can’t risk taking civilians out. We ask volunteers to spread the word about sea turtles. America prohibits turtle products from being imported, but criminals still find a way to break the law. These turtles need our help to survive.” He saluted then ambled forward to chat with the captain.
Inside the aquarium, they bought BAMZ T-shirts with pictures of green turtles at the gift shop and headed to the snack stand. They ate conch sandwiches and sipped iced tea in front of a 140,000 gallon tank with a living replica of the North Rock, part of the northern-most chain of coral reefs in the world. Neon-colored juvenile fish darted through fingers of pink coral, green moray eels peeked out of their holes, and crabs skittered sideways across the sandy bottom of the artificial coral reef.
“So fill me in about your ghost,” Steven said, shattering Kayla’s dreamy mood.
She swallowed the food that threatened to stick in her throat and outlined the recent events on ship, including her alarming visions. Steven quietly absorbed her tale with an unreadable expression.
Kayla asked, “Do you think I’m crazy?”
Steven blinked. “Crazy? I’m an Englishman raised on tales of ghosts. We’ve two dead princes playing on the ramparts of the Tower of London, while a headless queen roams the corridors. In fact any castle worthy of renown boasts a full compliment of ghosts. Seamen believe that mates who die at sea end up following their ship as birds. You’d never catch a seaman harming an albatross or a seagull—it’s dead unlucky.
“I heard a story about a riveter who died inside the fuel tanks of the Queen Mary.
People onboard the ship hear still tapping and banging inside the hull although the ship no longer runs its engines. Old salts claim he’s still down there working.”
Kayla shuddered. “I thought you’d claim there must be a logical explanation. This whole experience has me unnerved.”
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re still daft.” Steven’s eyes twinkled and Kayla punched his shoulder. “Some clever chap might pull off a devious prank, but I never discount the supernatural.”
Kayla kissed his cheek. “My hero!”
Steven grinned. “Hero? Do you expect me to defend you against a specter using a cross and a sword?”
“No, the Lady wants us to solve her murder. We’re reading all the ship’s logs to discover her identity. We need to solve the crime—just like a real investigation. That’s your expertise.”
Steven frowned. “I hope I won’t disappoint you, too.”
“What’s wrong? Did you run into trouble on your last investigation?”
“Trouble is putting it mildly.” Steven sighed. “I’ve been suspended without pay.”
“What happened?” Kayla asked, alarmed.
Steven shrugged. “We tried to break a smuggling ring operating in the Mediterranean—right clever blokes. The
y smuggle real artifacts doctored up to look like those horrid pieces they sell to tourists in bazaars. We found a small Greek statue covered with plaster and painted with gilt.
“Somehow my cover was compromised and the crooks killed a local policeman working with me, a good friend.” Steven’s cheeks turned red and he tried to blink back tears. “Pending a full investigation, I’m suspended, ordered to stay away from the case.”
“Are you in danger?” She thought about their cottage. “You know about the threatening note left at our cottage?”
He averted his gaze from her penetrating scrutiny. “Yeah, we heard about the burglary, but they’re not sure the incidents are connected. The danger is minimal. No one knows where I’ve gone and good men are handling the investigation.”
“The crooks left a threatening note meant for you. They know your identity, tracked you to our cottage, and warned you off. They might plan to kill you, too!”
“Rubbish! I’m perfectly safe and your ghost will distract me from my problems. I’m ready to start work straight away.” He wadded the paper wrapping from his sandwich and tossed it into the nearest trash bin.
Kayla frowned. “You promised me a day off.”
“So I did.” He bowed deeply. “Come this way to your chariot, milady.”
Kayla tossed the remnants of her lunch into the bin and followed Steven to their moped. Twenty-two miles of island sped by quickly. Warm wind blew through her hair as they drove through Hamilton, a bustling modern commercial port sprinkled with historic sites—the castle-like structure of the Sessions House where government assembled, a cathedral built from native limestone, and Fort Hamilton which overlooked the city and harbor.
Leaving the congestion of the city, they followed Harbour Road along the southern side of Great Sound, which looked like a small glittering sea bordered by a green fringe of islands in the distance. Heading south, they admired the lush green landscape of the Southampton Princess Hotel
Approaching Gibbs Hill Lighthouse, Kayla saw a wide expanse of ocean beyond the slender white spire. They sipped tea and ate scones with marmalade in the Lighthouse Tea Room, a restaurant in the former keeper’s house. When they climbed the 180 steps to the observation deck they saw that the friendly blue sky had mutated into a dismal fog rolling toward the west end of the island like a hazy blanket creeping across the water. Soon the lighthouse would beam a warning to passing ships.