by Eric Murphy
Because he didn’t pull it back very far the rubber didn’t thwack when he let it go. But thirty yards away, the olive-sized grape smacked into leaves. The gang member flinched. He crouched to peer into the trees on the other side of the clearing. But he still didn’t move. So Will shot another grape farther to the right. This time the gang member skipped over to where it had landed. The trio side-slid about twenty yards closer to the van.
The trees were neither big nor very thick along the driveway back to the house and van. If they went deeper into the thicker woods it would be impossible to make headway through the tangled foliage. Any minute now the gang would reach the back of the quarry and come back to search the return run.
They inched along, not giving in to their anxiety and not making any abrupt or long sprints, barely breathing. Will actually thought they’d make it. Their ruse had fooled everyone — except for Hamlet.
He waggled his way through the trees and rubbed up against Aubrey’s leg, thumping his tail against his shinbone. Stepping away from the safety of the trees, the three scarecrows tiptoed to the van when a voice called out, “Going to a costume party, are you?” It was Drury, his lip curled back in a smile devoid of kindness. His right hand rested on the pistol in his belt.
“So, Will, Harley, we need you and we need that letter you’ve taken from us,” said Drury, letting his pistol hang by his side.
Aubrey pulled the old man’s beard free from his head and shirt collar. “Why are you picking on these children? What harm have they visited upon you that you’d threaten them like this?” he asked, stepping in front of Drury’s gun.
“This doesn’t concern you. It’s between my boss and these two.”
“You point a gun at my guests, on my property, and you’ve made it my concern, young man.”
Harley put her hand on Aubrey’s forearm. “I don’t want you getting hurt now, Aubrey.”
Drury frowned, looked at Aubrey, then at his truck with “Dill Enterprises” stenciled on the door before spinning around. “Are you Aubrey Dill, the cricket player?”
When nobody denied it, Drury enthused, “You’re Bermuda’s most famous cricketer. You held the highest individual score in the country for decades. My father told me all about you.”
“Appears there were a few things your father didn’t tell you that he should have. Manners being one of them.”
Will pulled out the old cellphone, held it out toward Drury, and clicked on the buttons before saying, “Our friend Yeats knows about you being here, Drury. If you even point that gun at us again he’ll have the police waiting before you can gather your gang and get to the bottom of the laneway.”
Drury made a face. “Nice try, but I don’t believe you, Will.”
Will lifted the phone and said, “Hey Yeats, you watching all of this?”
Drury’s look of disbelief morphed into serious concern when he heard, “You betcha.”
“Think you can call the police and get them here before the Red Feather Gang takes us?”
Again the phone blurted, “You betcha.”
“Okay, thanks Yeats,” said Will, making a show of clicking off the non-existent connection.
Drury shot Will a venomous look, put two fingers to his mouth and blew a shrill whistle that brought the rest of the gang running. Drury signaled for them to get on their scooters and go. One of the gang members said something, and Drury barked, “Because I said so, is why.”
After the last scooter disappeared around the bend, Will said, “I don’t think Drury has spoken to Yeats, so he didn’t know that was Humbert’s voice.”
Aubrey and Harley laughed and Harley grabbed Will in a bear hug and spun him around till he was laughing too.
She stopped to catch her breath. “I think we have to go on the offensive and stop running away from them.”
“The fact that you haven’t found Wavelength tells me they’ve either done a great job of hiding her or possibly even scuttled her,” said Aubrey.
“Don’t you find it strange that they keep chasing us?” asked Will.
“They want that letter back,” said Harley.
“They know the content of the letter,” argued Will. “But they keep chasing us, which is a lot riskier than leaving us alone because we have no proof of their involvement. We’re missing something here,” said Will.
After a moment to let this sink in, Will said, “You remember when Drury was talking to Bennett on Wavelength and he mentioned other letters?” Harley nodded. “Well I think we keep looking for the boat but we should try to find and read those other letters.”
Harley nodded. “So where do we look for those letters?”
“I think we should try Brian Ord’s place. The one I saw on Front Street, just past where the cruise ships dock. I saw Ord and Claire on the upstairs patio.”
Harley pursed her lips. “Well, that makes sense, but if Brian Ord’s involved in this, he’s not going to just let us waltz in there. And if you’re right, there are going to be gang members around so it won’t be easy.”
Hamlet came out of the bushes and looked from one human to the other as if he too was looking for an answer. Will leaned over and patted his back as the big tail whacked his legs.
Aubrey glanced at his watch and said, “I know how we can get inside. Will, please give Yeats a call.” They plucked the remaining strands of old man’s beard off, jumped into the van and drove to the races.
*
Yeats led them through the crowds lining the go-kart course along Hamilton’s Front Street. Like the rest of the Windy Farm volunteers, Will, Harley, and Aubrey wore the blue Windy Farm hats, shirts, and pants and had the orange reflector vests like the security personnel wore around the track. The go-karts were a few minutes away from their practise runs and the drivers in their fireproof suits milled about their karts with their respective crews who used the parking lot as a collective pit stop.
The stage on the waterfront side to the left of the go-karts erupted with the sounds of trumpets, drums and strident whistles as a troupe of Gombeys strode out in a circular procession, then appeared to rush the audience brandishing bows and arrows or wooden snakes. When they scooted past Will, he noticed that their masks were made up of mesh crisscrossed with tape. Locals and tourists alike took pictures.
Will, Harley, and Aubrey stopped now and again to help Yeats push a straw bale into a tighter formation or to politely ask parents not to let children stand on them.
Like other stores on the main drag, the Ord Gallery had a sign in the window that said, “Closed for the races,” but Brian Ord and Claire Calloway had not left. Will bobbed his chin upward. Harley looked to the second floor balcony to see Claire come out to where Brian Ord sat in his wheelchair. She leaned in, but because he had his sun-blocking gauze on his face, it was hard to tell if he was talking or listening. She waved to someone in the crowd before wheeling him back inside.
Members of the Red Feather Gang in their white jackets loitered in front of the door to the gallery. But as the go-karts started their warm-up laps, they stepped forward, away from the open door, crowding the bales in order to get a closer look.
As soon as the performance was over, the Gombeys headed for the backstage area. So did Aubrey, Will, and Harley. The spectators turned their gaze to the racecourse.
No one paid attention to the tall Gombey and two shorter ones as they edged around the crowd. They passed by the blue food tents that were doing brisk business. A very large woman to whom people yelled orders like, “Louise, two more jerk chickens,” managed the food tent closest to the sidewalk.
Even though he could see through the Gombey costume’s mesh mask, it wasn’t perfectly clear and took some getting used to. So did the unexpected weight of the three-foot-tall hat adorned with fluttering feathers.
They waited for the sound of approaching go-karts before scooting across the sidewalk. When the crowd started to “ooh” and “ah” and a cart skidded into the bale wall and spun out in a burst of smoking tires,
the gang members whooped and craned forward to see. That’s when Aubrey waved them through the open door and upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, they followed the hall to their right when they heard a woman yelling, “You go out and find those kids and bring them and the letter they stole or the same thing that happened to Bennett will happen to you.”
The door down the hall flew open and Drury scooted out, making sure to close the door behind him. He looked up, saw the three Gombeys and snarled, “What the hell are you doing up here?”
Drury strode toward them. “I said, what the hell are you doing up here?”
Will and Harley froze. Aubrey stepped forward and lowered his voice by an octave. That and the muffling effect of the mask made Aubrey’s voice unrecognizable. “I’m just looking for the restaurant bathroom for my kids.”
“That’s next door,” Drury answered in a calmer voice and flicked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Right, thanks,” mumbled Aubrey, “come on kids, let’s get next door then.” He fluttered his gloved hands forward like he was coaxing chickens back to their roost.
Drury rushed past them on the stairs. By the time they skipped out the door and turned left, Drury was pulling his gang together in a huddle.
A few minutes later, shed of the Gombey costumes they had borrowed from people Aubrey knew, Will and Harley followed Aubrey past Louise’s blue food tent. They hurried up to the restaurant’s second floor balcony next door to Brian Ord’s building. Will kept thinking about what they’d heard Claire Calloway say: “Or the same thing that happened to Bennett will happen to you.” What had happened to Bennett?
Because he knew the restaurant owner, Aubrey was able to get three chairs placed behind the tables at the front corner, just ahead of a concrete wall. Here they didn’t block anyone’s view. Better still, unlike the tables in front of the windows, they weren’t on display for the Red Feather Gang to spot them.
Will got up and pretended to be interested in the race below. With the sunglasses on he looked just like an eager spectator. But keeping his head straight and his eyes to the right, he saw that Brian Ord’s second floor balcony was empty.
The security divider from the restaurant balcony to Ord’s building was in the shape of a fantail or a sun whose rays were made of sharp, steel, javelin-like rods where rust marks leeched through the faded yellow paint.
Will stole a glance through the rays. The blinds on the large windows to Ord’s balcony had not been closed. Will saw the outline of a woman as she pulled a bundle of keys from a desk drawer. She shouldered her purse, opened the door, then used a key to lock the door behind her. Claire Calloway hadn’t seen him.
The crowd rose to its feet as two go-kart engines shattered the briny air with barely muffled motors racing toward this neck of the course. When they came to the turn, they bumped and the crowd roared in either support or dismay.
Will slipped a foot onto one of the sun’s rays. He felt it slacken under his weight, then he sprang up and around the sharp points. He backed along the concrete wall to be sure he wasn’t seen from across the street. Will pushed the unlocked patio door open and took a few tentative steps into the office.
There was a computer monitor on the big desk facing the ocean and a large TV mounted on the wall. The cupboards at the back of the wall were made of well-varnished, honey-hued Bermuda cedar.
The one thing missing from the office was Brian Ord. On the side table at the back, Will saw a stack of gauze gloves and face masks that Dr. Doan had said Ord used because of his skin cancer. Will pulled on a pair of gloves so he wouldn’t leave fingerprints. The wastepaper basket was filled with sunflower seed shells that had been spat there. Dr. Doan had said it was one of Ord’s peculiar habits.
With the gloves on, he tried the desk drawers. The center one was locked. The four side drawers contained the usual stuff from an office desk: a stapler, a scotch tape dispenser, paper clips, note pads, pens, pencils, erasers. But there was no old letter from Papineau Benoit.
He sat in the big leather chair and swiveled this way and that as he pondered his next move. A breeze swayed the blinds back into the room and something fluttered and caught his eye. He pulled himself out of the chair and went to one of the wall panels where he found a piece of gauze wedged. He tugged on it and the strand came out a tiny bit, then refused to move further. How could someone have managed to shove it so far into the panel and why? Unless it was caught there.
When he pushed on the panel it sprang back. He stifled a scream. The panel was a floor to ceiling piece that opened on a big dumbwaiter elevator.
When it sprang open, a light came on. There was a lit-up panel on the inside that had buttons to the basement and floors one and two.
He stepped into the box and pressed on the “B.” A very faint whirr could be heard from below and he was carried down at a very slow pace.
It came to a stop with a faint shudder and a click. He pushed the brass handle and the door swung open. He didn’t realize that the lift hadn’t stopped at a completely level surface, so he caught his toe on the lip, sprawled forward, and landed on his stomach.
He shook his head at the smell of decay, looked up and screamed. He was staring into the gauzed face of Brian Ord sitting in his wheelchair, his head tilted to one side, staring at him through his sunglasses.
Chapter Twenty
Dead Men Tell No Tales
Mummified: The state of a body preserved and shrunken due to embalming or drying out.
When Will sprawled out of the elevator, the old phone Dr. Doan had lent them flew from his pocket. It clattered out in front of him and slid till it touched one of the front wheels on Ord’s wheelchair. The man just stared straight ahead.
Will pulled himself onto his knees, forced himself to breathe and snatched his phone back. He turned it on but the reception wasn’t strong enough in the basement.
Ord didn’t know that. So Will sat back on his haunches and pretended to make a call. He stood as he dialed and tried to act as casual as possible by taking a few steps to the left. Ord’s head didn’t swivel to follow his movements. Was he that cool, that sure that Will was his prisoner?
“That’s a dummy,” croaked a voice. Will jumped and brought up his hands defensively.
“It’s a dummy, a mannequin, so it can’t hurt you,” said the voice, “and I can’t hurt you either, Will.”
Bennett. The voice belonged to Bennett and it was coming through an open door to a darkened room on the left. Will turned and walked to Ord and pulled the gauze back to reveal a plastic mannequin face.
Will tiptoed over to the open door, ready to bolt to the elevator if he needed to. He felt for the light switch and flicked it on.
The room was full of paintings. Every inch of every wall was covered in paintings. Most of them were framed but some stretched-canvas pieces were leaning against each other here and there.
In the back of the room, Bennett, or Benoit, or whatever his real name was, slumped forward in his chair. He blinked away at the unexpected brightness. Will held his breath. Will could see blood had dripped onto his soiled, white shirt.
“Mr. Bennett?” said Will.
Bennett sat up and Will saw that his arms were handcuffed behind his back, secured to the chair’s steel frame.
“Can you help me get out of here, Will? Please. She’ll kill me if she can. She’s crazy,” blurted Bennett.
Inching closer, Will saw that Bennett’s face was cut. His bruises had taken on yellow and purple hues so they weren’t fresh.
He blurted, “She’s gone, but when she gets back, she’ll finish me off. I know it.”
“Who are you talking about, Mr. Bennett?” interrupted Will.
“Claire. Claire Calloway of course. Who else? She’s the mastermind of this whole thing,” said Bennett, shaking his head at Will’s lack of understanding.
“I thought she worked for Brian Ord,” said Will.
“She did when I met Ord six months ago. When I showed him
the painting.”
“What painting?” asked Will.
Bennett took a breath to calm himself. “There, see those two, almost identical paintings of the blockade runner in the middle of the wall?”
Bennett motioned toward the paintings to urge Will to go over, which he did. The identical paintings were signed Edward James. Both had his little cameo of his goateed self sitting on a hill, painting as a screw steamer at anchor was firing up its boilers. The two frames bore the inscription, “H.M.S. Lily in St. George Harbour, 1863.”
“Okay, now that you’ve seen them, please help get me free,” pleaded Bennett.
“No. Not until you explain what this is about. You kidnapped Harley and me and tried to kill us. So no, I’m not doing anything till you explain what’s going on,” said Will, crossing his arms to show the determination he didn’t really feel.
“For God’s sake, Will, she’s going to come back and kill me. And you too if she finds you here.”
“Then you’d better talk fast,” urged Will.
“That painting on the left belonged to Papineau Benoit, my great, great grandfather. When my grandmother died seven months ago I inherited her house. In the attic, amidst a ton of junk, I found this painting, which I thought was worthless. Until I found the letters.”
“Papineau Benoit’s letters? The ones he’d sent to his wife?” asked Will.
Bennett shook his head, yes. “Most of the letters were just about day-to-day things, but then I found four that seemed to indicate that money, a considerable sum of money had been made during the Civil War while he was here. And one letter in particular spoke of money that disappeared during the shipwreck of Papineau’s blockade runner off the coast of Bermuda.”
“The one he named Lily, after his wife?” asked Will.
“Yes, yes,” Bennett snapped with impatience. “So I read about this guy, Edward James in the letters. His paintings have a certain worth among those who collect Bermudian paintings.”
