“You know,” he said with a hint of admiration, “I like you. Cheeky one, you are. And I must say, I’m somewhat honored that you took the time to visit my grave. But there’s a problem with that, I’m afraid.”
“Which is?” asked Bortnicker.
“Well, I’m not actually buried there.”
“Wait a minute,” said LouAnne. “According to the official records, or what’s left of them, you died of natural causes and were buried in the St. Anne’s Church cemetery. Your wife was later buried with you.”
He sighed. “Sorry to disappoint you, but while she is indeed there, I am not.”
“Did you go down with the Steadfast?” asked T.J.
“How do you know about my ship?”
“We found it, Captain Tarver, off the South Shore.”
“Indeed? And how long ago was this?”
“My father discovered it, actually,” said Ronnie proudly. “About seven months ago.”
“Well, that would explain it then,” he replied.
“Explain what?” asked Bortnicker.
“Why I’ve been...returned.”
T.J., remembering back to the previous year when Major Crosby Hilliard had come back to the Gettysburg Battlefield as a result of his remains being accidentally dug up, figured Jasper Goodwin’s fateful dive in November had similarly awakened the pirate’s spirit in some way. “Captain Tarver,” he said, “if you’re not buried in the St. Anne’s Cemetery, then where are your remains?”
Suddenly there was a hammering on the door of the room. “Dudes! Are you in there?” yelled Weinstein. “Hey! Are you guys all right? Let me in! This door’s locked or something!”
The teens looked to the ghost, whose density seemed to be thinning. “It appears I must be going,” said Tarver. “But since you seem so interested in my whereabouts, I’ll make you a proposition. Return to this place tomorrow night and all will be made clear.”
Bortnicker had barely managed a “But—” when Mike blasted his way into the room and went sprawling as the pirate vanished.
Picking himself up, the Senior Gonzo Ghost Chaser eyed his young protégées. “Dudes, what was going on in here?” he said agitatedly. “And why did you lock me out?”
“He showed up,” said T.J. excitedly. “We were actually speaking with Tarver’s ghost!”
“And we didn’t lock you out,” added Bortnicker, “he locked us in!”
“So I missed him? I can’t believe it!” moaned Weinstein.
“It’s not your fault, Mike,” said LouAnne. “I mean, the electricity’s out and it looks like Tarver drained every battery in the house.”
“But we got his voice on the EVP recorder,” said Bortnicker. “A couple responses to Ronnie’s questions before the battery went dead. We can pop in some new ones at the hotel and play it back for you. Betcha we can use it on the show because it came through pretty well.”
Just then there was a buzz from downstairs. “We’ve got power!” called Tom Sr. from the command post.
“Let’s go down and debrief there,” said Mike. “Looks like the show’s over for tonight.”
By the time they’d made it downstairs, Chappy was sitting with Tom Sr., marveling at the bank of computer terminals and other equipment that Mike had set up.
“Quite a lot of kit you have here,” he said as the group gathered around. “Did you catch anything?”
“Not on the video,” said Tom Sr., “but—”
“We made contact!” blurted Bortnicker, who was met with admonishing glares from Mike and his teammates.
“Is that so?” said Chappy coolly. “With the Captain himself?”
“Yeah, Chappy,” said T.J. “He showed up. It’s funny, though...we didn’t get any hits until Ronnie tried to bring him out.”
“Hmm, interesting,” he replied, the realization becoming clear that this ghost only reacted to those of African descent. “And what did he tell you?”
“Basically, that he isn’t buried in the Tarver crypt at St. Anne’s Cemetery,” said Bortnicker, handing over the video recorder to Mike.
“Well then, where is he, Mr. B?”
“He wants us to come back for another visit,” said LouAnne. “Maybe he’ll tell us then.”
“And you actually...saw him?” asked Chappy, an eyebrow raised.
“Most definitely, Mr. Chapford,” said Ronnie. “He was somewhat transparent, but we could make out his features, which were dead on to the portrait in the study.”
“Quite remarkable. And did you actually document this conversation?”
“I’m afraid the only thing we might have are his original responses to Ronnie’s inquiries,” said Bortnicker. “Then the power in the house went down, and he drained the batteries in our flipcam and EVP recorder to boot.”
“We’ll give a listen back at the hotel,” said Mike. “I have a stash of extra batteries there. One thing’s for certain, though. We’ve gotta come back for a second visit. While you guys are doing the road race tomorrow morning I’ll drop by Mrs. Tilbury’s office and tell her we need another night. Think you’ll be okay for tomorrow night? Not too tired from the running?”
“Nope,” said LouAnne confidently. “We’ll be back at the hotel by noon, and we can chill out at the pool or the beach all afternoon.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Mike. “Now, let’s all pitch in and break this stuff down so we can get back to the hotel at a reasonable hour. Our marathoners need some sleep!”
“I’ll run Ronnie home on my scooter,” offered Tom Sr. “See you all tomorrow morning bright and early for the race.”
It was a happy crew that loaded the equipment into Chappy’s minivan that night. Having an actual exchange with a ghost was Mike Weinstein’s holy grail, and the possibility that their next encounter could be documented on film would be a groundbreaking event in the paranormal community, not to mention a smashing pilot episode for the new TV series.
* * * *
T.J. and Bortnicker were just about to turn in when Mike knocked on their door, excited. “We’ve got the audio, dudes!” he piped. “Sir William Tarver, clearly responding to Ronnie’s questions. And after we clean up the tape a little, it’ll be perfect for the show. So I’ll go see Mrs. Tilbury while T.J.’s doing his running thing and catch up with you guys tomorrow around noon.” He high-fived the boys and strode out, obviously fired up.
“How are you gonna be able to sleep after all this, Big Mon?” asked Bortnicker. “Between the investigation tonight and the race tomorrow, my mind would be spinning!”
“Just watch me,” said T.J. “I’m really exhausted. And I’ll bet my cousin next door is sleeping like a baby already.”
“’Cause she thinks she’ll kick your butt?”
“Exactly. But she just might be surprised come race time.”
“You psyched to talk with Tarver again?”
“Oh yeah. And I have a feeling this whole deal still has a ways to go. We’re gonna break this case wide open!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Saturday dawned sunny and breezy, ideal running conditions. The previous night’s storm had blown out to sea, and all that remained were a few downed trees and palm fronds everywhere. After a light breakfast Mike was on his way to St. George’s for his rendezvous with Constance Tilbury. Bortnicker rode the scooter toward the Royal Naval Dockyard, the race’s starting site, with Tom Sr. while T.J. and LouAnne stretched out in Chappy’s minivan for the twenty minute ride.
“Splendid day for a road race, folks,” said the driver. “I’m assuming you’re both in peak running trim?”
“You know it,” said LouAnne, adjusting the laces on her Nikes.
“Didja sleep okay, Cuz?” asked T.J., adjusting his seatback into a semi-reclining position.
“No reason not to,” chirped his cousin confidently, which is what he figured.
The starting area was awash with volunteers manning registration tables and handing out water bottles. T.J. and LouAnne picked up their pape
r number tags emblazoned with an American flag, which a worker promptly pinned to the back of their tee shirts. They had both decided to wear their Junior Gonzo Ghost Chasers shirts in honor of the team. The cousins found a quiet area to do some last minute stretching while eyeing the crowd.
“Looks like we have quite a few countries represented,” said LouAnne, as she settled into a hurdler’s stretch.
“Yeah,” said T.J., leaning forward into a standing calf stretch. “I’d say overall we’ve got over a hundred runners.”
A portable PA system crackled to life. “Would all runners please assemble at the starting line for a playing of ‘God Save the Queen’?”
“Here we go,” said LouAnne, rising. “See you at the finish line?”
“Yeah,” joked T.J., “I’ll be there waiting for you.”
“You wish.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Good luck, Cuz.”
“You too.”
“Go get ‘em, you guys!” screamed Bortnicker from the side of the road, where he and Tom Sr. were waving madly. “We’ll be right behind you on the scooter!”
T.J. waved back in acknowledgement. “Too bad Ronnie couldn’t make it. She had to work at the dive shop this morning—”
At that second the crowd of runners hushed as the Bermuda Regiment, resplendent in their red tunics, black pants and white pith helmets, began a stately rendition of the anthem. Famous the world over, their performance was both dignified and inspiring. At its conclusion, a cheer rang out from the runners and hundreds more tourists and residents who’d turned out for the event and would be lining South Road all the way from Dockyard to Hamilton, where the race would conclude on Front Street.
“Runners to the mark...” intoned the starter.
The cousins bumped fists.
“Ready...steady...”
“Luv ya, Cuz,” said LouAnne.
“Back atcha.”
“Go!”
And they were off.
The first mile or so, as the road wound its way through Sandys Parish toward Somerset Village, was glorious. Puffy white clouds dotted the sky, and the flowers had opened up after the rain. Gradually, the bunched-up runners of all sizes and colors began to thin out, and T.J. found himself alongside his cousin, their smooth gait no different than on the Railway Trail or the Gettysburg Battlefield the year before. However, T.J. noticed a difference in his cousin on this run. Her jaw was set, her entire being focused on running the perfect race. That’s where she’s got me, he thought. She goes to a place I’ve never been, a higher level of consciousness. He envied her.
Almost as if reading his mind, LouAnne sang out, “Okay Cuz, gotta jet. See ya!” and took off in another gear. Determined not to fall into the trap of trying to match her unquestionable superiority, he kept his normal pace, which wasn’t all that bad, either.
T.J. crossed over into Southampton Parish, now following the curve of South Road that overlooked the cliffs and afforded purely majestic views that distracted him from any fatigue he was feeling. He had left the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse behind and was on the way toward Astwood Park when he first caught sight of his cousin sprawled on a grassy shoulder of the road. As he sprinted toward her, heart racing, he noticed she was clutching her lower leg and writhing in agony. She saw him approaching and cried out, “Charley horse in my calf! Omigod it hurts.”
He fell to his knees in the grass before her. “What can I do—”
“Nothing!” she hissed between clenched teeth. “There’s nothing you can do, and it’ll just have to work its way out. Get going!” She pounded the grass in anger.
“But I can’t—”
“Listen, T.J.,” she rasped, “Your dad will be along and see me. I’ll be fine. Now get your butt back into gear and finish the race! You’re losing time!”
“But—”
“You’re seriously ticking me off here. I’ll see you in Hamilton. Now go!”
“Okay,” he said, affecting a retreating jog toward the road. “See ya later.” He got back into the race, looking over his shoulder intermittently until he rounded a bend and lost sight of her completely.
The rest of the course was run in a fog, with T.J. wondering numerous times if he should give it up. But he was actually more afraid of incurring his cousin’s wrath for quitting than of getting embarrassed by the other runners, who at first were blowing by him at an alarming rate. Gradually, though, he regained his composure and equilibrium and started making up some ground. By the time he began his descent toward the city, whose shops on Front Street twinkled in the morning sun, he’d found his second wind and overtaken a bunch of contestants. Stronger by the second, T.J. went into his kick and sprinted the length of Front Street, whooshing by docked cruise ships and cheering crowds, and crossed the finish line just behind the first clutch of racers. Accepting a bottled water from a backslapping tourist screaming “USA! USA!” he deliberately walked past the horse and buggy stand and found a small palm tree to lean against while his breathing equalized. The sun shone off the water of the harbor, and the salty air revived him. He was extremely proud of himself for sucking it up and finishing, but he worried about his cousin. It was at this moment, as he looked out over the Harbor where sleek sailboats cut the waves under an azure sky, that he realized just how hopelessly in love with LouAnne he was. Which was not altogether a bad thing.
“Big Mon! You did it!” cried Bortnicker, who embraced him after a sprint across still-congested Front Street.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “I’m pretty whipped. Where are Dad and LouAnne?”
“We got to her first on South Road; then Chappy came along and we put her into the minivan. Everyone’s parked on a side street because Front Street’s blocked off.”
“How is she doing?”
“Physically, not bad. Just a bad cramp we slapped some ice on. But mentally? Boy, is she cheesed off.”
“Because of me?”
“No, no, nothing like that. She’s just mad at herself because—”
“Because that’s never happened to me before,” said LouAnne, suddenly materializing behind his friend. “I’m really proud of you, Cuz,” she added before giving him a heartfelt hug.
“Watch it, I’m kinda yucky,” managed T.J., looking over her shoulder to where Bortnicker was grinning and flashing a double thumbs-up of approval.
“And I’m not?”
They parted, and T.J. asked about her leg. “It’s no big deal. I’ve already kinda walked it out.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t win anything.”
“Oh, yes you did,” she said with a wink. “Now, let’s get some lunch with your dad and Chappy.”
“A capital idea!” said Bortnicker in his best John Lennon voice, and the trio made their way back across Front Street.
* * * *
“You most certainly may not conduct another investigation at Hibiscus House,” snapped Constance Tilbury from behind her desk, the color rising in her powdered cheeks.
“But we were promised—” spluttered Mike, who was having a hard time keeping from vaulting over the desk to choke her.
“You were offered two investigations. From what you’ve described, your first investigation was a smashing success, affording you ample material on which to base an episode of your ridiculous show.”
“But this isn’t fair!” he cried.
“Fair? It’s more than fair, when you understand that there were certain circumstances unbeknownst to you that should have precluded any visits whatsoever!”
“Like what?”
She rose, leaned across the table until practically nose to nose with the muscled ghost hunter, and hissed, “Like the man who was found dead in the house the morning of the same day you conducted your search. You’re lucky we let you in at all!”
He sat back with a thud into the leather chair. “Someone was murdered in Hibiscus House?” he asked incredulously.
“The cause of death is deemed accidental at this time,” she sniffed. “You should be thanking me.�
��
Mike pondered for a moment. “May I ask a question about the man?”
“You can try, but I’m sure I cannot divulge what you want.”
“White or black?”
“Pardon?”
“I’m asking if he was Caucasian or African.”
“He was a black man, and that’s all I can say. In fact, it’s too much. As far as I am concerned, your business is done here, especially your dealings with the National Trust. Any further attempts to enter the grounds of Hibiscus House will be considered trespassing and open you and your group for prosecution to the fullest extent of Bermudian law. Good day, Mr. Weinstein. Please close the door behind you on the way out.”
T.J.’s group was just finishing a light lunch at the Hog Penny Pub in Hamilton when a thoroughly demoralized Mike Weinstein shuffled in. After finding Tom Sr. via cell phone, he’d made the scooter trip from St. George’s to the capital in record time, his knuckles white on the handle grips from anger.
“Mike, what’s the matter?” asked LouAnne with concern. “You look like your dog just died.”
“Well,” he said, pulling up a chair, “my dog didn’t die, but the second investigation did. Mrs. Tilbury just pulled the plug on us.”
“What! This is an outrage!” cried Bortnicker, springing to his feet.
T.J., who was sitting next to him, reached up, grabbed the back of his tee shirt, and yanked him down onto his seat while the Hog Penny’s patrons gawked. “Tell us what happened, Mike,” he said quietly.
After Weinstein’s recap, Tom Sr. let out a low whistle. “Wow, a guy found dead the same day you investigated. We’re lucky they permitted the first investigation.”
“That was her opinion as well,” said Mike forlornly.
“So that’s it?” said Bortnicker, somewhat more composed. “We’re outta here?”
Spirits of the Pirate House Page 22
