Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  “You know what would be cool?” ventured Ronnie.

  “What?” replied Bortnicker, hanging on her every word.

  “How about going snorkeling near Somerset? I know the perfect shallow-water cove. My dad and I call it Treasure Beach.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, because of the currents, it seems like a lot of stuff collects there—”

  “Like what?” asked T.J.

  “Old bottles, china, sea glass. You can see it from the surface and actually dive down ten or twelve feet to get it. With all the storms we had over the winter, I bet some interesting things have rolled in.”

  “Cool!” cried Bortnicker. “You guys want to go?”

  “I don’t know,” LouAnne began uncertainly.

  “Oh, you could just paddle about on the surface or sit on the small beach,” Ronnie said with a wave of her hand. “Or just enjoy the scenery.”

  T.J. could sense his cousin doing a slow burn and tried to beg off, but his friend was having none of it.

  “C’mon, guys, it’ll be fun!” he pleaded. “Besides, T.J., we’ll be able to get used to our masks and flippers again before the big dive on Tuesday.”

  LouAnne realized that she was the only thing standing in their way and reluctantly agreed to go. “All right,” she relented, “I’ve gotta start working on my tan anyway.”

  Chappy dropped off the three Americans at the hotel and then pushed on toward Somerset with Ronnie.

  “So, what’d you think?” said Bortnicker as the minivan drove off.

  “About what?” said LouAnne.

  “Ronnie.”

  “A little pushy,” was her reply, and his face fell.

  “Hey, is that LouAnne?” called Tom Sr. from the balcony. “Welcome, my dear! How was the flight?”

  “Great!” she said waving. “And Bermuda’s fantastic.”

  Mike, back from his fishing trip, wandered out of his room. “All right!” he said, clapping. “The Junior Gonzo Ghost Chasers are complete!”

  “Catch any fish, Mike?” called T.J.

  “Couple nice tuna. We’re gonna have tuna steaks tomorrow night. I know just how to grill ‘em. But tonight, to celebrate LouAnne’s arrival, we’re going all out—there’s this British place up the road called King Henry VIII. Good English food and the waitresses all dress like wenches. You’ll love it! But it’s a little dressy. So, why don’t we meet at the pool at seven and I’ll call a cab, give Chappy the night off.”

  “Sounds cool,” said T.J., and they retired to their rooms after some welcoming hugs for LouAnne.

  Once the door to their room was shut, Bortnicker turned on T.J. “What’s up with your cousin?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

  “What?”

  “You know what. Ronnie. She doesn’t like her?”

  “You know how girls are, man.”

  “Exactly. Maybe you should tell her to be nice. The girl’s just being a good host.”

  “I know, I know,” said T.J. tiredly. “It’s just like school. You can’t figure girls out.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t want your cousin to ruin it for me.”

  “Ruin what?”

  “Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but I think Ronnie kinda likes me.”

  “Bortnicker, we’ve only been here like one day. Don’t go jumping to con—”

  “Are you saying it’s impossible for a girl to like me?”

  “No, that’s not what I—”

  “It’s easy for you, T.J. Lots of girls at school want you to go out with them.”

  “Not as many as you’d think.”

  “Yeah, right. The only reason you weren’t booked every weekend back home was LouAnne.”

  “Bortnicker—”

  “As if I can’t see you have the hots for her.”

  “Could we not talk about this?”

  “But I’m really surprised at her. Couldn’t she just be happy for me?”

  “I’m sure she ... will be. But c’mon man, give her a break. She just got here, and she’s probably dead tired. Cut her some slack, okay?”

  “Will you talk to her, please?”

  “And say what?”

  “To be nice! Can you do that for me, at least?”

  T.J. closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose like he always did when he was collecting his thoughts or calming himself down. “Tell you what,” he offered. “I’ll try to talk to her after dinner. But you’ve gotta leave us alone for a while.”

  “No problem.”

  “All right, then. Could we please get dressed and go out for a fun dinner?”

  Bortnicker brightened. “Of course, Big Mon. I was just starting to get hungry again anyway.”

  * * * *

  King Henry VIII provided the Jackson party of five with an evening of atmosphere and hearty food. True to its reputation, the restaurant had a Middle Ages theme, with waitresses and barmaids in low cut peasant outfits—which Mike Weinstein found especially appealing—and the male staff in blousy shirts and breeches.

  After Mike and Tom Sr. enjoyed a pre-dinner cocktail called a Dark and Stormy, comprised of ginger beer, lime, and dark Bermuda rum, the group compared notes on their day. Mike was still beaming over the tuna he’d brought home and was looking forward to seeing again the young lady whose father owned the boat. Tom Sr. lamented the sorry state of his golf game but couldn’t get over the gorgeous vistas from many of the tees; he said that the preliminary vibes from the government officials were promising. T.J., Bortnicker, and LouAnne then regaled the adults with their descriptions of picturesque St. George’s.

  Dinner began with a round of the classic island dish, Bermuda fish chowder, to which the Americans were advised to add a few drops of rum and sherry peppers that was provided in a stylish glass decanter. Then it was on to various British forms of meat and potatoes, though everyone gave a nod to good health by ordering a garden salad.

  While a wandering minstrel entertained the patrons with English folk songs and Bermudian standards, Mike got down to business. “Okay, team,” he said, while dousing his steak and kidney pie with black pepper, “tomorrow the investigation begins. Chappy will drive the four of us to the National Trust Headquarters in St. George’s where you’ll interview one of the government people who oversee Hibiscus House. Take a camcorder along. We’ll see what you can get out of her about the background of Sir William Tarver. If we need it, we’ve also been granted a follow-up visit to the National Trust archives later this week.”

  “Think they’ll tell us anything juicy?” asked Bortnicker.

  “You never know. These people, as you’ve noticed, tend to be reserved. But then again, they’re the ones who contacted us, so I hope they’ll divulge some good stuff about Tarver. Be polite, but firm.”

  “Gotcha,” said T.J.

  “Now, Tuesday morning’s dive is all set for 10:00 a.m.. Chappy will pick the four of us up at 9:00. LouAnne, are you okay with using the underwater camcorder?”

  “Sure, as long as you have something for me to float on,” she answered firmly.

  “That’s been taken care of. Jasper Goodwin has an inflatable he’s bringing. You can stay on the surface and zoom in because the depth of the wreck is so shallow. Hey, we’re only talking about a five minute segment of the show here, so don’t think it has to be a National Geographic documentary or anything.”

  They passed on dessert, paid the tab, and had the front desk call a cab for the ride back to the hotel.

  “I’m bushed,” said Tom Sr. with a yawn as he held the door open for LouAnne upon their return. “Sweetheart, I’ll call your dad and tell him all is well.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Tom. Tell him and Mom I miss them, and I’ll speak to them soon or shoot them an email tonight.”

  “Will do. Then I’m going to take a hot shower and turn in. I’m due back on the golf course at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

  “Two days in a row?” said Bortnicker.

  “It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gott
a do it,” Tom Sr. joked.

  “I’ll phone Chappy to pick us up around 9:30,” said Mike. “That should give you guys time enough to—”

  “Go for a run,” finished LouAnne.

  “And eat and shower, I hope!” joked Bortnicker.

  “What should we wear to meet this lady?” asked T.J.

  “Well, I think it’s time to break out the team shirts. Since we’re in Bermuda I got you guys both tees and golf shirts. I’d go with the collared shirts and clean shorts. You’ll have to be on your best behavior.”

  Everyone’s gazes drifted toward Bortnicker.

  “What?” he said defensively.

  “Oh, nothing,” said LouAnne airily.

  “Hey, Cuz,” said T.J., “we’ve still got some daylight left. Want to see the cliffs across the street?”

  “Sounds great. Bortnicker, you coming?”

  “Nah,” he said tiredly, “I’m gonna go online for a bit. You two go on ahead.” He gave T.J. a quick look and then went upstairs.

  The cousins crossed South Road and cut through Astwood Park. “Hear the waves?” said T.J. “Just watch your step on the rocks.”

  They reached the crest of the cliffs and gingerly sat down, their legs hanging over the edge. “I can’t believe how beautiful this is,” said LouAnne, the wind fluffing her hair.

  “Bortnicker and I checked out the beach before,” said T.J. “The sand really is pink.”

  “Cool.” She looked sideways at her cousin. “Okay, so what’s up?” she said.

  “With what?”

  “I saw that look Bortnicker gave you. You have to talk to me about something?”

  “Well, yeah, actually. He wants you to lighten up on Ronnie.”

  “Oh, really? Was I that much of a witch today?”

  “No, nothing like that. He’s just sensitive, that’s all.”

  “Listen, T.J.,” she said, looking out to sea, “I care about you guys a lot. I know what you’ve had to go through to be his friend, and I admire you for it. But it doesn’t take much to turn his head, and this girl has absolutely steamrolled him. Unfortunately, in two weeks we’ll all be home, and this place will just be a memory. This girl must meet hundreds of guys who are just passing through. I don’t want our friend to get hurt.”

  “I won’t let that happen,” said T.J. earnestly.

  LouAnne shivered involuntarily. “Getting a little chilly up here.”

  “Want to go?”

  “Nah,” she said. “Just put your arm around me.”

  They sat awhile longer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You were right, Cuz,” panted LouAnne as they clipped along The Railway Trail. “It’s as beautiful as you described it.” Tropical birds sang gaily in the dense foliage as another glorious Bermuda morning got underway.

  The cousins had met poolside for their 6:45 pre-stretch and were on the running path by 7:00. As they ran they went through their athletic accomplishments of the past year. Overall, LouAnne had the more notable results, but T.J. had lettered in two completely different sports, which was impressive.

  “So, what do you know about this race on Saturday?” she said, her blonde ponytail swishing behind her.

  “Well, it’s open to athletes on the island, of course, but there are a few visitors like us who’ve entered, too. Could be over a hundred runners total.”

  “Cool. And we’re running on South Road?”

  “Yeah, and it follows the water most of the way, so it’s pretty scenic.”

  “I’ll concentrate on the scenery some other time. My goal is to win the thing.”

  T.J. smiled. His cousin was a real competitor, and he knew she’d go all out to win. He’d have to work hard to stay with her.

  “How was Bortnicker when you got back last night?” she asked, knowing full well he’d begged off so T.J. could talk to her about Ronnie.

  “Okay. He’d just gotten done texting back and forth with his mom. She’s at some Feng Shui expo in New York or something. He just wants you to give the girl a chance.”

  “Okay, okay. I won’t mess up whatever wonderful things he’s imagined for himself. By the way, I had a good time last night, just talking.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Race you back!” she called out over her shoulder, breaking into a sprint. T.J. took off behind her but never closed to within ten yards the whole way back. This girl was serious!

  * * * *

  “I fixed you some cereal and O.J.,” said Bortnicker, who emerged from the steamy bathroom with a towel around his skinny waist. “How was your run?”

  “She kicked my butt,” confessed T.J. “I think she’s gonna be tough on Saturday.”

  “I don’t know, I’ve got a feeling you’re gonna surprise yourself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. Oh, by the way, Mike dropped off our shirts. Very classy.” He held up one of the black golf shirts with JGGC embroidered on the left breast. The tee shirts, also black, were a little more ornate, with the Gonzo Ghost Chasers logo of a running Casper-like being on the back.

  T.J. hopped in the shower and then dressed while mixing in bites of his cereal. “No gourmet breakfasts on this trip, I guess,” he lamented, remembering the feasts Bortnicker and Aunt Terri had whipped up the previous summer in Gettysburg.

  “No ingredients, no gourmet breakfasts,” answered Bortnicker. “Hey, I’m glad your dad bought us as much food as he did. Have you seen the prices on the cereal boxes and granola bars? Mucho expensivo, Big Mon.”

  They finished dressing and met LouAnne, who’d chosen khaki capris to go with her golf shirt. “This is scary,” she said. “I never pictured the three of us with identical outfits.”

  “That’s show biz!” thundered Mike, bursting out of his room. “Is my team ready to start the investigation or what?”

  “Can’t wait!” said T.J.

  “I’ve got the camcorder right here,” said LouAnne, patting the camera.

  “Great. How do I look?” he said, sporting a larger-sized golf shirt and black slacks.

  “Like an overgrown Junior Gonzo,” said Bortnicker playfully.

  “Perfect! Let’s get downstairs. I’m sure Chappy’s waiting for us.”

  And he was. “Beautiful day, folks!” he beamed. “We’re off to the National Trust Museum in St. George’s, correct?”

  “That’s it,” said Mike, slipping into the front seat. “My team here is ready to grill a Mrs. Tilbury. Ever heard of her?”

  “That would be Constance Tilbury,” said Chappy, nodding. “Been with the National Trust forever. A rawther proper one, is Mrs. Tilbury,” he added, rolling his r’s for effect. “I’d mind my manners around her. She’s considered one of the foremost authorities on Bermudian history pre-1900. Always being interviewed on TV and all that. Make sure you’ve worked out your questions ahead of time; I don’t think she’d suffer unprepared interviewers gladly, even if they are young people.”

  At that, Bortnicker whipped out a small notebook he’d been preparing for the trip, and they all contributed ideas for the list, Mike included. Before they knew it, they were again in St. George’s. Chappy pulled up in front of an old stone building.

  “Here we are, my friends. The Bermuda National Trust Museum, built around 1700 by Governor Samuel Day. Good luck with Mrs. Tilbury. I’ll go for a cup of tea and meet you back here.”

  As they approached the museum’s entrance, Mike stopped them and looked around. “Okay, guys, now I have to do my part. For this show, I’m going to introduce each segment, since I’m acting as the technical advisor. Then, you can expect to be doing a lot of sound bites before, during, and after each part of the investigation, explaining the use of different equipment, or stuff you might have seen or heard.

  “We’re going to end up with loads of footage. Then I’ll send it off to the production people in LA, and they splice it all together into an hour TV show. But I will have some say into the final cut. So let’s film this first intro. LouAnne, you want to h
andle it? Just give me a 3-2-1.”

  “Sure thing,” she said, shouldering the camcorder. She counted down, and Mike began his monologue:

  “We begin our investigation of the strange goings-on at Hibiscus House in Bermuda with a visit to the National Trust Museum, where the team will be meeting with Mrs. Constance Tilbury, chairman of the National Trust. Perhaps she will be able to shed some light on the exploits of the pirate William Tarver and why he has apparently decided to come back and terrorize the visitors and staff at his former residence.”

  “Got it,” said LouAnne, clicking off.

  The foursome walked through the front door and gave their name at the desk. The receptionist pointed toward a large mahogany door at the end of the hallway. “Through there,” she said in a businesslike manner. “Mrs. Tilbury is expecting you.”

  Mike gave the door a soft knock, and they entered Constance Tilbury’s domain. The walls were lined with cedar shelves filled with books, some of which appeared to go back centuries. The wood floor was polished to a high sheen, and her mahogany desk gleamed. T.J. noticed that it was probably the most neatly ordered desk he’d ever seen.

  “Come in, please,” said the petite woman with snow white hair. She had been reading at her desk, and her granny glasses were pushed far down on her nose. By the time she came around the desk to shake their hands they had been removed.

  “Please sit,” she offered, pointing to four rather uncomfortable straight-backed chairs that had been arranged facing her desk. She returned to her seat behind the imposing piece of furniture and sat back, tenting her fingers in front of her pink blouse.

  “Quite a room,” said Mike, breaking the ice.

  “Yes, well, it was Governor Day’s library originally. We use it as our office.”

  “Fantastic. Mrs. Tilbury, I’m Michael Weinstein, we spoke on the phone—”

  “Yes, I remember. Pleased to meet you finally.”

  “And these are my colleagues for the project: Mr. Jackson, Mr. Bortnicker, and Miss Darcy.”