by Bob Morris
“Hard means to a good end,” he says. “I’m forever in your debt.”
“Yeah, you are. Big time.” I smile. “That’s why I have a proposition for you.”
“What’s that?” asks Teddy.
I look at Aunt Trula.
“Would you mind?” I say.
She responds with more graciousness than I would have expected.
“No, not at all,” she says, getting up from the table. “I’ll leave you to your men’s talk.”
When she’s gone, I lay out my proposition.
Teddy’s eyes light up. He says, “I’d be delighted, consider it an honor.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“A month maybe, certainly no longer.”
“Perfect,” I say.
Inspector Worley shows up while I’m having a midafternoon snack: Fish-and-chips and a Heineken. I can’t talk him into food, but he sits down to drink a beer with me.
“That fellow you were looking for …”
“Brewster Trimmingham?”
“Yeah,” Worley says. “He turned up.”
I wait. Worley looks at his notepad.
“After leaving King Edward Hospital nine days ago, he took a cab to Bermuda International. He boarded U.S. Airways Flight eight thirteen for Washington, D.C., arriving at ten fifteen A.M. He then took Piedmont Airlines Flight ten twenty-four for Charlottesville, Virginia, arriving at …”
“He went to see his wife.”
“Whatever you say.” Worley rips a sheet off the notepad, hands it to me. “That’s the address and the phone number.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“You owe me.”
I don’t say anything.
Worley says, “Finally talked to Nestor Ferreira. Turns out he went down to Miami for a few days. Just got back.”
“What did Nestor have to say?”
“He said you must have been mistaken. It wasn’t him in that blue Toyota. Says he was out fishing with his uncle that day.”
“Well, then, I must have been mistaken.”
Worley looks at me. I look at him. He gets up.
“You heading home soon?” he asks.
“Day after tomorrow,” I say.
“Plan on coming back?”
“I’d say there’s a very high probability of that.”
He sticks out a hand. I shake it.
“Give me some warning,” he says.
88
At fiveish, Barbara joins me on the terrace. I’m sipping a glass of Gosling’s neat. She opens a bottled water.
“You’ve had a busy day,” she says.
“Not over yet. Daniel Denton called to say he needed to speak with me. He should have been here already.”
“What’s he need to speak with you about?”
“No idea,” I say. “It seemed urgent. But then, he’s a lawyer. Everything they do is urgent. To them.”
Fifteen minutes later, Denton shows up. I ask him if he wants a drink.
“I think not,” he says.
He has brought along a manila folder. It sits on the table in front of him. He looks at it. Then he looks at Barbara.
“If you don’t mind, Ms. Pickering, I have a matter I’d like to discuss with Mr. Chasteen,” he says. “A business matter.”
Barbara starts to get up from her chair. I stop her.
“She knows my business, Denton,” I say. “Start talking.”
Denton swallows. He opens the folder, then closes it. He gives me a smile. His face does not wear it well.
“Well, I suppose I should first begin by offering my most sincere and deepest apologies, along with those of my associate, Mr. Urban, for the reception we gave you when you visited our office the other day. We acted rudely and ungentlemanly, and for that …”
“Sugar kisses on a cow’s ass,” I interrupt.
“Excuse me?”
“Something my grandfather used to say. You’re just sweet-talking me to set me up for something else. You didn’t come here to apologize.”
“Why, Mr. Chasteen, I …”
“What’s in the folder?” I say.
Denton takes a deep breath.
He says, “A certain client of ours, who wishes to remain anonymous, has authorized us to make an offer on his behalf for your holdings at Governor’s Pointe.”
“What’s his offer?”
Denton slides the folder to me. I open it, look at the numbers.
“That’s exactly what Brewster Trimmingham paid for those units,” I say.
“Yes, we thought it was a fair offer, considering …”
“Considering what?”
“Considering the manner in which you obtained the property.”
I turn to Barbara.
“Would you mind doing me a favor?”
“I’d be delighted. What is it?”
“Go find a phone book.”
“A phone book?”
“Yes, I want to look up the number of the Bermuda Bar Association. I need to make a call.”
“Now, listen here,” Denton sputters.
“No, you listen, Denton. I’m no legal eagle, but something tells me it’s not exactly kosher for an attorney to represent a client in one matter and then use information obtained through that representation to leverage against the same client in another matter. Am I wrong?”
Denton glares at me.
“I am authorized to negotiate,” he says.
“Negotiate away,” I say.
Denton pulls a pen from his pocket, takes back the folder. He scribbles something on the papers, then pushes the folder back to me. I look at it.
“That’s a little better,” I say.
“No, that is considerably better, Mr. Chasteen. I would urge you to …”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “Thanks for dropping by. I’ll get back to you in a couple of weeks.”
“Really, Mr. Chasteen. I would urge you to take the offer that is on the table. My client has given us an extremely tight timetable under which to …”
“Anxious, is he?”
“Yes, quite.”
“In that case, may I?” I say, pointing to his pen. He hands it to me.
I scribble some numbers of my own. I pass the folder back to him. He looks at it. His mouth drops.
“Let me think out loud here while you’re digesting those numbers, Denton. See, I’m thinking that your law firm, while highly reputable and certainly beyond reproach, is, after all, a Bermuda law firm and, therefore, from time to time, does represent certain clients who need to move large amounts of money in very hasty fashion with not a lot of questions asked. That’s OK. Comes with the turf. And, you know, I don’t really have a problem with that.
“What I do have a problem with, is you coming here with your apologies and your slick smile, thinking that you can lowball me based on knowledge obtained by our previous relationship, then turn around and flip those properties at Governor’s Pointe for a hell of a lot more than you are offering to pay me.”
Denton doesn’t say anything.
I say, “Look at those numbers again, Denton. And tell me the truth, is this client of yours prepared to pay you more than that for those goddamn condos?”
Denton doesn’t say anything.
I turn to Barbara.
“I think there’s a phone book on that stand in the kitchen,” I say.
“No, wait,” Denton says. He looks at me. “I think we have some wiggle room.”
“Well, wiggle away, Denton. Those are the numbers. Take them or leave them.”
I grab the folder. I flip through the papers. I find the bottom line. I hand Denton his pen.
I say, “You need to sign right there.”
89
We’ve booked a late afternoon flight back to Florida. It gives me plenty of time to do what I need to do.
Boggy goes with me. Barbara doesn’t really like the idea of me driving the Morris Minor, but I tell her that working the clutch will be good therapy. I’m going to miss
that car.
We go to Richfield Bank. I meet with Mr. Bunson and Mr. Highsmith.
“The funds have arrived from Mr. Denton,” Mr. Bunson says.
“Very good,” I say. “There will be more after the closing.”
“We have done as you instructed,” says Mr. Highsmith.
He hands me a cloth money bag. It’s pretty hefty. I look inside. I don’t bother to count it. I get up.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” I say.
Boggy and I don’t talk much on the drive to Flatts Village. When we get to Ferreira Grocery, we park near the tree where men play dominoes. Paul Andrade is there. So are some of the others.
Andrade gets up when he sees us.
“Don’t bother,” I say. “We know the way.”
Andrade sits backs down.
We walk into the store. The same middle-aged woman sits behind the counter reading a magazine. She barely gives us a glance.
I knock on the door to the back room, hear Papi Ferreira say: “Yes, come in.”
We step inside. Ferreira sits behind his desk, smoking a cigar. Nestor Ferreira sits in a chair across from him. There are plates on the desk, remains of a recent meal. Music plays from the old stereo—fado.
Ferreira opens his arms in greeting, smiles.
“My grandson and I were enjoying a late breakfast together,” he says. He looks at Nestor. “The music.”
Nestor steps to the stereo, switches it off.
“Please, sit,” says Ferreira. There are only two chairs. Boggy and I take them.
Nestor leans against the wall, watching us. He’s a good-looking guy, no more than twenty-four or twenty-five. Sad brown eyes, long dark hair.
I take the money bag, put it down in the middle of Ferreira’s desk.
“That’s yours,” I say. “Eighty thousand dollars.”
Ferreira looks at it. He leans back in his chair, smokes his cigar. He looks at me.
“You are an honorable man,” he says.
“I have my moments,” I say.
Ferreira smiles.
“I, too, am an honorable man,” Ferreira says. He reaches for the money bag, pushes it across the table to me. “That is why I cannot accept this.”
“Why not?”
Ferreira shrugs.
“You have paid your debt to me,” he says.
I look at Nestor. His face shows nothing. I look at Ferreira.
“Tell me how it happened,” I say.
“It is not necessary,” Ferreira says.
“Yeah, it is. It is something I need to know.” I look at Nestor. “That was you in the Toyota, wasn’t it?”
Nestor says nothing. He looks at his grandfather.
Ferreira says, “When you came here before, you said that if I wanted my money then I should help you. So, I asked Nestor to keep an eye on you, should you require my assistance.”
“Go on,” I say.
“Nestor is good at keeping an eye on people,” Ferreira says.
“Did he keep an eye on Michael Frazer?”
Ferreira puffs on his cigar, flicks ashes on the floor.
“I thought it would be a good job for him, yes. I talked to some people. He got the job.” Ferreira looks at Nestor. “You liked that job, didn’t you?”
Nestor nods.
Ferreira says, “Nestor, he grew suspicious that morning. Frazer called him very early, told him that he could take off the next few days. A free vacation. That was very much not like Frazer. So Nestor, he followed Frazer. Saw him get the woman …”
“Fiona McHugh.”
“Saw him take her to the boat. And that is when he decided to follow you,” Ferreira says. “He saw you go to Teddy Schwartz’s house. Saw you leave on his boat.”
“And that is when the two of you decided to go fishing?”
“There were many of us who went fishing that day. The sea it is big. Many boats were needed,” says Ferreira. “I must apologize to you.”
“Why is that?”
“We saw the explosion, the fire that took the boat of Teddy Schwartz. We were not far away. We could have come to help you. But instead …”
“You went after Michael Frazer.”
Ferreira nods.
“We were three boats. Three good, fast boats. He had little chance.”
I think about it.
I say, “But how did you know?”
“Know what?”
“Know that Frazer was after the reliquary?”
Ferreira looks at his grandson, nods.
Nestor says: “Frazer was a man obsessed. His books, his papers—they were all about the Reliquarium de Fratres Cruris. He was writing his own book. I saw the pages in his desk. And that day when the young man and his girlfriend came into the office …”
“Ned McHugh?”
“Yes, the one who died,” says Nestor. “After they left, Frazer was very agitated. The paperwork, he made it very difficult for Ned McHugh. The young man, he kept coming back and each time Frazer would tell him: ‘You must be more precise. You must tell where this site is exactly.’ And that is how I knew. There is nothing else that would have made him like that.”
There is a long silence. Then Ferreira says: “When finally we caught him on his boat, when finally we saw the blessed reliquary, he tried to tell us it was not real. He said it was a fake.” Ferreira stubs out his cigar. “It was over soon after that. Nestor returned his boat to the marina.”
“And the reliquary?” I ask. “What will happen to it?”
Ferreira smiles.
“It will go home, to Portugal, to a place of honor. Finally, after all these years.”
90
It’s a fine May morning and I’m standing on the dock behind my house in LaDonna, cast net poised and ready to sling. Mullet are schooling with the flood tide. I’ve every intention of filling my smoker with a goodly number of them.
About forty feet out, dorsal fins slice Vs in the water. It’s well beyond my net-throwing range.
I wait.
A mosquito lands on my ankle. I shake my leg. It flies away.
The mullet move in—thirty feet and closing.
The boathouse phone rings.
I finger the monofilament, adjust the balance of weight on my shoulder. These mullet are skittish. As soon as the net touches water they’ll scatter. It will take a good spread to haul them in.
The phone rings.
More mosquitoes find me. I shake both legs, do a little dance. Can’t set down the net to slap them.
The phone rings.
Twenty-five feet … twenty feet … come to Poppa, come to Poppa. I can see their big googly-eyed, silver heads now, swimming right at the surface, just where you want them to be.
I rear back, get ready to let it fly …
“Yo, Zachary!”
Stutter-step … lead weights snag on my shirtsleeve, the net collapses in midarc, goes kerplunk in the water.
I turn around. Boggy stands in the door of my office. He holds up the phone.
“For you,” he says.
I haul in the net. Nothing to offer but oyster shells. I leave it in a heap and walk to the boathouse.
Boggy holds out the phone.
I say, “You couldn’t just let it ring like we usually do?”
Boggy shrugs.
“The phone,” he says, “it told me to answer.”
“Get a grip.”
I grab the phone.
“Zack Chasteen.”
A man’s voice: “Who is Fiona McHugh?”
“What? Who is this?”
“I said, who the hell is Fiona McHugh?”
As I try to place the voice, Boggy walks out to the end of the dock. He picks up the net, shakes loose the oyster shells.
And then it clicks.
“That you, Trimmingham?”
“Yes, it’s me. And I am sitting here in my office looking at a thank-you note from someone by the name of Fiona McHugh.”
“You back in Bermuda?”
“Nice to hear.”
“Yeah,” he says. “So who is Fiona McHugh? I got this thank-you note from her. The letterhead says ‘Ned McHugh Memorial Foundation.’ The trustees are listed in the margin. I saw you were one of them.”
So I tell him the story of Ned McHugh. And I tell him how Fiona started a foundation to honor her brother.
“It awards scholarships to students who want to study marine archaeology,” I say. “I made a donation in your name.”
“Oh, really? How much?”
“Forty thousand dollars.”
Silence from Trimmingham’s end.
On the dock, Boggy ties the cast-net line to his wrist. He lifts the net, folds the top half over his shoulder, studies the water.
I say, “If it helps, I gave forty thousand dollars, too. Eighty thousand dollars total. What we owed Papi Ferreira. I paid him off in trade.”
Trimmingham doesn’t ask for details, not that I’d tell him.
He says, “The condos. At Governor’s Pointe. You sold them?”
“I did.”
“I don’t want to know how much you got for them, do I?”
“No, Brewster, you really don’t.”
Another long pause on his end.
Boggy tosses the cast net—a perfect spread. He hauls it in, shakes it open. A dozen mullet flop around on the dock.
“You know,” says Trimmingham, “I was lying there in that hospital bed and thought: OK, this is it. Now or never, you’ve got to pull it together. So I got out of there, got back with Sally. I’m making a clean start of things.”
“Clean starts are good.”
“Yeah, they are,” he says. “And I was going to thank you for it, but jeez, forty thousand dollars? That stings.”
“What about your car?”
“What about it?”
“I washed it, waxed it, left it with a full tank of gas.”
A pause on his end, then: “Thanks, Chasteen.”
91
By the time Barbara gets home that evening it’s eight o’clock and I’ve got everything ready. Table set, candles lit, Andrea Bocelli on the stereo. A tad hokey, but romantic as all get-out. The steaks are warming to room temperature, au poivre in waiting.
We start with appetizers on the front porch—smoked mullet dip, Ritz crackers. A bottle of Schramsberg in the ice bucket.
