Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  “Great.” At that moment Bortnicker emerged frowning from the bedroom. “And speaking of dates, are you set for tonight or what?”

  The teen adjusted his own tropical shirt in the hallway mirror. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he sighed. “She wasn’t able to come to the phone, but her mom took the message and will tell her about tonight. Maybe she’ll show.”

  “My cousin guaranteed it, so you never know.”

  “Either way, I’m pigging out. I haven’t really eaten all day.”

  “Lindsay will be driving me, Mike, and Kim to Elbow Beach in her car. You mind if the three of you call a cab?” asked Tom Sr.

  “Nah,” said T.J. “I’m actually kinda anxious to see Chappy’s band. I bet they’re pretty good.”

  “To get booked at a place like Elbow Beach you’d have to be,” agreed Tom Sr. “It’s one of the swankiest resorts on the Island.”

  There was a knock on the door, and LouAnne made her entrance in the brilliant sundress she’d worn on her flight over. As always, T.J.’s breath caught in his throat as she glided into the room.

  “Have you noticed all the cute green lizards around this place?” she said, flicking her blonde tresses over her shoulder. “I absolutely love them. They remind me of that gecko on those commercials back in the States.”

  “But do they have a British accent?” inquired Bortnicker in his Beatle voice.

  “Well, you seem to be in a better mood,” she observed wryly. “Does this mean Ronnie is coming?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “She’ll be there, you watch.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As the Jackson entourage gathered at the front entrance of the sumptuous Elbow Beach Resort, strains of the steel drum music could be detected wafting from the beachfront patio beyond. It was a brilliant moonlit evening, with a soft breeze coming off the breakers down on the beach.

  “Dudes, I’m starving,” said Mike, who fell in with the others as Lindsay Cosgrove, attired in a chic sundress of her own, led them through the lobby to the spacious patio where the weekly seafood buffet was held.

  “Ah, the Jackson party,” acknowledged the white-jacketed maitre’d. “Please follow me, Mr. Chapford has reserved a table for you.”

  “Splendid,” said Lindsay, and the group was escorted to a round table with a crisp white covering not twenty feet from where The Beachcombers, Chappy’s six piece band, was working their way through “Yellowbird”. Immediately they caught his eye, and he nodded happily as he gently tapped out a soothing Caribbean backbeat behind the lead vocalist, a younger, dark-skinned man with a goatee who sported the same blue tropical shirt with white slacks as his band mates.

  “This is so cool,” said LouAnne, who was turning more than a few heads in the 300 or so people attending the event. “Chappy’s as smooth as I thought he would be!”

  “And just look at that spread!” cried Bortnicker, eyeing the numerous tables laden with every variety of seafood, salads, and side dishes. “I can’t wait to dig in!”

  “Easy there, Hoss,” said Tom Sr., a cautionary hand on the teen’s shoulder. “Let’s take our time and enjoy it. Why don’t the ladies go up first, and we’ll take our turn when they’re done.”

  “Great idea, Uncle Tom!” said LouAnne, popping out of her seat while casting a sly wink back at Bortnicker.

  “While they’re up there,” said Mike, sipping his table water, “let’s discuss the plan for tomorrow. I’m going to be at Hibiscus House by 3:00 p.m. to start setting up the command post equipment. I’ve done it so many times on the show that it won’t take me more than an hour to get the main console running and place DVR cameras in all the key rooms and hallways. Then, if you guys could show up between four and five, we could do a final check that everything’s working, including your handhelds and walkie-talkies, and have a preliminary walk through.”

  “Will there be anyone there to show us around?” asked T.J.

  “Not you guys. Our friend Mrs. Tilbury is meeting me at the house. Hopefully she’ll be gone by the time you show up.”

  “Hallelujah,” said Bortnicker. “Though I’d really like to grill her on those missing documents.”

  “We have to play this cool, dudes,” advised Mike. “Remember, we might need a second night at the house. I don’t want anybody to tick her off and make her throw us out.”

  “He means you, Bortnicker,” chided T.J.

  “Very funny. So this means we’re kinda free until late afternoon?” inquired Bortnicker while eying the buffet tables longingly.

  “Seems like it,” said Mike.

  “Would you guys like to play a little golf with me at the club?” asked Tom Sr.

  “Nah, Dad, I think we’ll pass,” answered T.J. “Not our type of crowd. Besides, Bortnicker gets all bent out of shape when we play miniature golf at home. One bad putt and he loses it. I don’t want him pulling a Caddyshack and flinging his club into the dining area. I think I’ll just do an easy jog with LouAnne for the road race Saturday, and then we’ll laze around the pool.”

  “Someone mention my name?” said his cousin, returning to their table with her plate heaped with crab legs and shrimp.

  “Yeah, I was saying that tomorrow you and I will just loosen up with a jog for the race Saturday. Jeez Louise, Cuz, think you’ve got enough food there?”

  “Girl’s gotta keep up her strength,” she retorted, placing a napkin on her lap as the other women returned with more moderately portioned plates.

  “Can we finally hit the buffet?” pleaded Bortnicker. “This is torture!”

  * * * *

  As the men were attacking the seafood buffet at Elbow Beach, Willie B. was on a mission of his own at Hibiscus House. Annoyed that his knuckleheaded cousin and his cronies had bungled their surveillance of the teens, he’d decided to take matters into his own hands by trying to sabotage what was sure to be the impending ghost team investigation of the plantation house. What exactly that entailed, he wasn’t quite sure. However, scaring the bejesus out of them seemed like a feasible idea. But to do that he’d have to scope out the mansion, and that was why he’d easily disabled the alarm system so similar to those he’d dealt with in his general handyman work around the island and was now prying open one of the numerous rear windows of the first floor gallery. With the implementation of no more than a simple putty knife he was quickly inside, hardly disturbing the white window frame paint.

  “Let’s see, now,” he muttered to himself, “on that Gonzo Ghost Chasers show they usually stick to the biggest rooms and places where the owner hung about. Let’s check out Black Bill’s library, shall we?” He crept around, guiding his flashlight over the walls of books, Tarver’s formidable desk, and the fireplace, above which a portrait of the captain himself glowered menacingly. However, there were no closets or secret compartments that would afford him a hiding place from where he might manufacture bogus sounds or taps that would drive the group’s EVP recorders crazy and ultimately make fools of the entire bunch.

  After a cursory search of the ornate dining room and a couple side rooms, he decided to venture up the winding mahogany staircase to the second floor, confident that the master bedroom would contain a concealed hidey-hole or two from which to conduct his mischief. But alas, even as Willie B. ascended the stairs, mentally patting himself on the back for his brilliance, his flashlight, whose batteries he’d not thought to change anytime recently, suddenly winked out. This threw the house into inky darkness, save for some moonlit beams emanating from random windows.

  He held tightly onto the polished bannister with one hand while whacking the flashlight on his thigh to get it to work, but had no luck. Cursing his misfortune, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and made the decision to continue up the stairs, hoping there would be enough natural light in the bedrooms to help him see.

  Willie B. reached the top step and peered into the darkness. Before him lay a long hallway with at least four rooms on each side. At the end was a smal
l window from which a shaft of moonlight shone. As he set foot on the landing, though, something strange happened. A figure, really a black silhouette, seemed to step from one of the farthest rooms into the murky hallway.

  They hired a security person? For a deserted house? he thought, panic starting a knot in his stomach. Willie B. grabbed a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his suddenly sweaty face. The figure had stopped moving. He had no choice but to try to brazen it out.

  “What you doin’ here, man?” he attempted in his harshest voice. “You a security guard or police or what?”

  No answer.

  “I ain’t scared o’you, whoever you are. Show yourself!”

  The answer, delivered in a Scotch-Irish accent, made his blood run cold.

  “This is my house.”

  “Your house?”

  “Quite right, Boy.”

  “Boy? Who you callin’ Boy, man? You want me to kick your sorry butt right here and now?” he barked, his courage fueled by the racial epithet. Again he slammed the flashlight on his thigh, planning to use it as a weapon if necessary.

  This time it blinked on.

  He pointed it at the shadow figure.

  It was the man’s eyes that hit him first. Cold and hard and ice blue, like twin lasers. Longish hair pulled back into a ponytail capped a ruddy, bearded face accentuated by a strong nose and high cheekbones. The man’s outfit was almost foppish, his blue velour waistcoat unbuttoned over a lacy white undershirt and tan breeches. Black knee-high boots of an expensive make gave him a height advantage over the stocky waterfront workman. The other thing that gave him an advantage was the flintlock pistol leveled at Willie B.’s chest.

  “What is this, some kind of joke?” he managed. “You supposed to be a pirate or something?”

  “I think you know who I am, Boy. And, as such, you also understand the consequence of being where you’re not supposed to be, and giving your master backtalk besides.”

  “My master? You’re-you’re Black Bill Tarver? No way, man! You’re long dead!”

  The captain shook his head. “Dear me, aren’t you the cheeky one. I can see you’re one of the incorrigible. Too bad, as you’re obviously capable of heavy work in the fields. I simply cannot deal with your insolence, so you will have to be made an example of.”

  Willie B. heard the flintlock’s hammer clicked back and decided he’d had enough. Leave this maniac ghost to those snotty kids and let them deal with it!

  He took a reflexive step backward but forgot he was barely onto the staircase landing. All Willie B.’s workboot found behind him was air and he pinwheeled down and down, coming to a smashing halt on the foyer floor, his neck broken, the flashlight still clutched in his hand. The last thing he saw before departing this world was the figure at the top of the stairs, hands on hips, and feet planted wide.

  And he was grinning.

  * * * *

  “Jeez, Bortnicker,” hissed T.J., “they let you go up for seconds here. Don’t overload your plate so much. It’s embarrassing!”

  “Good point,” acknowledged the famished teen, flipping a solitary Alaskan King Crab leg back onto a chafing dish.

  They returned to the table where Mike and Tom Sr. had taken the liberty of ordering bottles of white wine for the adults and a pitcher of iced tea for the teens.

  Everyone was digging into the expertly prepared seafood when the Beachcombers went on break and Chappy strolled over to their table. “Everything okay, folks?” he inquired pleasantly, full well knowing the answer.

  “This is fantastic, Chappy,” wuffed Bortnicker through a mouthful of boiled shrimp. “My compliments to the chef.”

  “Yeah,” agreed T.J., “I could easily get used to this.”

  “Thanks so much for your hospitality,” offered Lindsay. “It seems I’m dining with some real celebrities!”

  “That they are,” grinned Chapford. “And how are you enjoying the music? We play most Caribbean standards, but there are a few original compositions we’ll be working in, along with our take on some popular tunes.”

  “Any Beatles?” asked LouAnne eagerly.

  “I think we can arrange that,” he chuckled. “Well, I don’t want your food to get cold. Just let Peter, the maitre’d, know if you need anything else. See you in a bit.”

  Bortnicker was just polishing off his third plate to the tune of “Bermuda is Another World” when T.J. nudged him in the ribs. “Wipe your mouth, man,” he whispered, “somebody’s here to see you.” He looked up through his unruly bangs to find Ronnie, standing at the patio entrance with the maitre’d, offering a tentative wave. Even from a distance he could identify her red-rimmed eyes that a brave half-smile could not mask. His heart broke for her, and he navigated through some dancing couples to where she stood.

  “I’m glad you made it,” he said, awkwardly hugging her.

  “I almost didn’t, but my mum talked me into it. Said it would cheer me up.”

  “She’s right. Come sit with us, okay?” He led her to their table where T.J. quickly pulled up another chair and introductions were conducted.

  “So, how are you doing?” LouAnne discreetly inquired.

  “Better now. Thanks,” she managed.

  “Well, I don’t know about you dudes, but I feel like dancing,” said Weinstein. He pulled Kim out of her seat and they were soon swaying together on the flagstone floor.

  Tom Sr. looked at Lindsay. “May I have this dance, Ms. Cosgrove?” he offered gallantly.

  “I was thinking you’d never ask!” she chirped. They, too, joined the mostly adult crowd, leaving the four teens to share an awkward moment.

  It was LouAnne, predictably, who broke the ice. “Well, I don’t know about you all, but I want to move around a little bit. You gonna dance with me, Cuz, or do I have to ask one of the busboys?”

  “I’m not much of a dancer,” mumbled T.J.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s just Caribbean and reggae stuff. Just hold onto me and we’ll shuffle around. C’mon!” With that she grabbed his hand and yanked him out of his chair. “Help me!” he mouthed over his shoulder as Bortnicker and Ronnie waved him goodbye.

  “Uh, that leaves just us,” said Bortnicker hesitantly. “So, would you, uh, want to go up there?”

  “After today,” she said, her lip trembling slightly, “I just want someone to hold me.”

  Her words hung in the air.

  “I can do that,” he said finally, offering his hand. “Let’s go.”

  “Oh, good,” said LouAnne, acknowledging their entrance to the dance floor.

  “Jeez, first time I’ve ever seen Bortnicker try to dance with a girl,” observed T.J. wryly.

  “You’re one to talk. Do you always stand two feet away during a slow dance?”

  T.J. reddened and pulled her closer, finally experiencing the firm curves of her body he’d been admiring for the past year. Those around them could hardly ignore their nearly perfect complimentary appearances—T.J. with his doe eyes that gave him the appearance of a young Paul McCartney, LouAnne the blonde, all-American girl next door.

  “That’s better,” she whispered softly, resting her head on his shoulder as the Beachcombers finished up “Everything’s Gonna Be All Right”.

  After a round of applause Chappy stepped to the mic and announced, “We have a special number I’ve arranged for some good friends of mine who are here tonight, which was first done by another friend you might have heard of in your travels ... Mr. John Lennon. It’s called ‘Imagine’.” He shot Bortnicker a wink, and The Beachcombers drifted into the opening riff.

  Ronnie eased her body into Bortnicker’s, murmuring into his ear, “I’m so sorry about my behavior today. I overreacted, I guess.”

  He could feel a tear bleeding through the shoulder of his Hawaiian shirt and struggled for a response. “I don’t blame you,” he managed. “I mean, hey, I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to be bl- er, a person of color, but I know you thought a lot of this guy as, you know, a
historical figure—”

  “He was a low-rent piece of scum, Bortnicker,” she said quietly. “I’ve come to terms with that.”

  “The thing is, Ronnie, with this Tarver situation, I feel like I can’t make it better for you ... kind of helpless.”

  “Just holding me is good right now.” She sniffled, then managed a smile. ”Am I making you uncomfortable?” she said, as John Lennon’s words described a brotherhood of man.

  “No, no,” he said shakily. “I’m just not ... used to dancing and stuff like that.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “Thanks.” He couldn’t believe a girl so athletic looking could be so soft.

  “I never asked, but do you have a girlfriend back in the States?”

  His answer was, “Ah, that would be a no,” but his eyes said Are you kidding me?

  “Well, you should,” she murmured, burying her face in his shoulder. “I think you’re the kind of person who looks inside someone and appreciates who they really are, not just what they look like.”

  “Yeah, Ronnie, thanks for that, though if you don’t mind me saying, you are kind of beautiful. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Listen,” she said, “when you’re in the tourist business you hear all kinds of things. You don’t know how many jerks I have to deal with, and some of them are a lot older than you. But you’re honest. And I think you have a good heart, Bortnicker.”

  He felt tears welling in his eyes and tried hard to blink them away. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he managed.

  “Good. Now stop stepping on my feet.” They danced for a few moments, Bortnicker conscious of not treading on Ronnie’s toes. She looked up at him. “There’s something you need to do for me—”

  “Anything. Just name it.”

  “You’re sweet,” she breathed, kissing him lightly on the cheek, which nearly buckled his knees, “but don’t say yes unless you can deliver on it.”

  “What is it?”