Spirits of the Pirate House (19 page)

“They shouldn’t. It’s all in the agreement
they signed with The Adventure Channel. We’re supposed to have
total access, no matter what that grump Tilbury says. If it gets
dicey, you have my cell number. Call me and I’ll contact the proper
higher-ups. I’ll see you back here this afternoon.”

“I betcha he has a date,” mused Bortnicker as
Mike started up the scooter down below.

“Well, we shouldn’t need him all the time
anyway,” said T.J. “And we won’t see my dad till tonight, so we’re
kinda on our own.” They checked their look in the mirror—Bortnicker
especially seemed to be doing more of that lately—and met up with
LouAnne on the balcony. As usual, she was radiant in her black
JGGC
tee shirt and matching ponytail scrunchy. “Man, did I
ever sleep last night,” she declared. “Even the tree frogs didn’t
bother me. Good thing we took today off from running.”

“No doubt,” agreed T.J., whose arms were
still sore from digging out that bell the previous day.

They strolled downstairs just as Chappy was
pulling in. “And how is the team today?” he asked, holding a door
open for LouAnne.

“Relaxed and ready for some research!” said
LouAnne pertly.

“Got any music for us today, Chappy?” asked
Bortnicker as he buckled up.

“Why don’t you choose, Mr. B?” he replied,
handing Bortnicker a travel case of CD’s.

“Hmm,” the boy said, shuffling through the
pile. “I think we’ll go with
Abbey Road
.” As “Come Together”
came on the kids chatted about their upcoming night on the town in
Hamilton.

“So, Chappy,” said T.J., “this Harbour Night
thing is supposed to be pretty cool, right?”

“Oh yes. They hold it every Wednesday
because, by then, the weekly cruise ships are docked on Front
Street. All the shops stay open later, and there are all kinds of
vendors on the sidewalk selling everything from snacks to jewelry.
And they have face painting and whatnot for the little ones. It’s
more or less a huge street festival. My favorite, however, would be
the Gombay Dancers.”

“What’s that?” asked Bortnicker.

“Well,” said the driver, “Gombay is a kind of
traditional folk music that mixes British, West African, and other
cultures. The dancers, usually male, wear masquerade costumes with
bright colors and tall, crazy hats that give the effect of tropical
birds.”

“What kind of instruments do they use?” asked
Bortnicker.

“The drumbeat is key,” answered Chappy. “They
employ both the snare and kettle drum; occasionally a fife is
added.”

“Sounds like us last year,” quipped T.J.

“How so?”

“Chappy,” volunteered LouAnne, “you should’ve
seen these guys last summer in Gettysburg. Since T.J. and
Bortnicker played the kettle drum in their school orchestra, my dad
recruited them as drummer boys for his Civil War reenactment unit.
They were playing the snare drum during the battle
reenactment!”

“Well,” he answered, “having seen a few Civil
War movies, I can tell you that Gombay is a bit more energetic and
can get pretty wild, depending upon how much the performers and
spectators are into it.”

“So what you’re saying,” said Beatle
Bortnicker, “is that not even our Ringo would be a suitable
Gombay.”

“Something like that.”

LouAnne turned to her cousin, a sneaky smile
on her face. “Hey, T.J., you been noticing how Bortnicker’s inner
Beatle never seems to come out around Ronnie?”

“Yeah,” said the boy. “I wonder why that
is?”

“Ah, she wouldn’t get it,” he explained
embarrassedly. “Besides, it’s kind of
our
thing.”

The cousins let his words settle for a few
seconds and then burst into laughter.

“You guys are brutal,” acknowledged
Bortnicker with his trademark crooked smile.

“So,” said Chappy, coming to his rescue,
“what time do you anticipate being finished at the museum?”

“I’d give us a couple hours,” estimated T.J.
“Maybe a little more if we want to grab a quick lunch
afterwards.”

Despite their earlier bravado with Mike, the
junior ghost hunters approached the museum with an air of
trepidation. LouAnne had brought the camcorder in case anything
turned up during their research.

“Here we go,” said T.J., opening the front
door for his colleagues.

A young man was at the front desk today,
smartly dressed in a blue sport jacket and tie. “May I help you?”
he inquired politely.

“Ah, we’re here from The Adventure Channel
show to look in the archives,” said T.J., trying to be as suave as
possible. “Mrs. Tilbury said it would be no problem?”

“Yes, of course, the
Junior Gonzo Ghost
Chasers
,” the clerk said with what T.J. interpreted as a hint
of derision. “Our archives room is down the hall opposite Mrs.
Tilbury’s office. I hope you don’t need to see her because she’s
out sick today.”

“No, that’s okay,” T.J. said, inwardly
pleased that the old woman wouldn’t be hovering over them.

“Fine, then. Mrs. Rayburn, our archivist,
will be happy to assist you.” He smiled faintly and went back to
doing busywork in his ledger.

“Hope it’s not another old battle axe,”
LouAnne whispered as they entered the door marked ARCHIVES—NO
ADMITTANCE WITHOUT PERMISSION.

“Well, hello there!” called a matronly black
woman who was on a rickety ladder replacing a book.

Bortnicker immediately ran over and steadied
the ladder, which seemed to be wobbling under the woman’s
weight.

“You’re so kind!” she called down, somewhat
relieved at the boy’s assistance. “I’m Violet Rayburn, National
Trust Archivist. You must be those ghost chasers!”

“That’s us,” said T.J.

The woman gingerly eased her way down, the
ladder creaking with every step. Introductions were made all
around, and the teens were pleased to have been greeted warmly.
“Mrs. Tilbury told me to expect you. I take it you’ll want to see
our materials dealing with Sir William Tarver?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said LouAnne respectfully.

“Well, have a seat at that small table over
there and I’ll get the files. You’ll find a box of white cotton
gloves on the table. Please put them on so as to not damage the
papers. Some of them are quite fragile. Would you like a cup of
tea? I was about to put on a kettle in the back room.”

“No, thanks,” said T.J., flashing his most
ingratiating smile. “We just appreciate you helping us.”

“It’s a pleasure to assist our friends from
the States,” she said. “And TV personalities at that! I’ll be right
back.” She hustled off, leaving the kids to seat themselves and
pull on the cotton gloves.

“Must be really old stuff,” said Bortnicker.
“At least this lady is nice. Remember the woman in Charleston who
helped us out last year?”

“Yeah,” said T.J. “What was her name?
Thibodeaux, that was it. From the Museum of the Confederacy. We got
some really good background stuff on Major Hilliard that helped us
figure out his situation.”

“All right, here she comes,” said LouAnne
hopefully. Mrs. Rayburn approached the table a little hesitantly
and put a large archival box down. As Bortnicker went to open it,
T.J. could sense a look of distress on her face. He removed the
cover, then looked up quizzically, his long bangs drooping over his
glasses. “That’s
it
?” he said with a mixture of
disappointment and surprise.

The only contents of the rather substantial
box were a couple of dusty ledgers. T.J. wondered why they would be
stored in such a roomy container. Mrs. Rayburn seemed just as
confused. “Well, ah, it appears that, ah—”

“Something’s been removed?” said LouAnne
impatiently.

“It would appear so, yes,” she said quietly,
perspiration forming on her forehead.

“Well,” said T.J., “let’s at least go through
what’s here. Can we have you photocopy things, Mrs. Rayburn?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Jackson, that shouldn’t be a
problem. I’ll, ah, leave you three alone to work. Call me if you
need me.” She disappeared into the stacks, and the teens looked at
each other blankly.

“Something stinks here,” said Bortnicker.

“No duh,” said LouAnne, “but did you notice
that even Rayburn was surprised?”

“And embarrassed,” added T.J. “Well, we might
as well look through what’s here.”

There wasn’t much. The most notable document
was the deed for the acreage upon which Hibiscus House and the
surrounding plantation were created. Dated 1722, it looked very
official, with a lot of whereases and heretofores in flowing
calligraphy. The fragile parchment was signed by the governor and
featured a wax seal with his official crest.

There was also a commendation, again with the
governor’s seal, recognizing Sir William Tarver for his assistance
in the construction of Fort St. Catherine. Rounding out the file
were some period newspaper articles that mentioned Tarver, usually
for such mundane things as his hosting of a gala ball at Hibiscus
House or his participation in boundary dispute hearings and such.
Nothing pertaining to piracy, the
Steadfast
, or his death
could be found.

“I don’t know if there’s anything here that’s
even worth copying,” said T.J. dejectedly. “All this stuff reflects
is that the guy was a wealthy, respected citizen of the
island.”

“That’s why it’s still in the file,” said
Bortnicker. “What a waste of time.”

“Maybe not,” said LouAnne. “I think it’s
obvious that somebody doesn’t want us to know what this guy was
really about. Somehow, we’re going to have to piece it together
from tomorrow’s dive and the house investigation.”

“Or
he
could just tell us,” joked
Bortnicker.

“That’s not so far out,” she replied. “If you
remember, once we got Major Hilliard talking, it was hard to shut
him up.”

“That is, until you ticked him off,” chided
T.J.

“Hey, how was I to know he considered battle
reenactments insulting? Jeez, guys—”

“I’m just breaking ‘em on you,” said T.J.
“But, Cuz, don’t you think we’re kinda taking it for granted that
Tarver’s going to show up while we’re there? I mean, I’ve been
watching
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
since it came on, and the most
they’ve ever had happen was shadow figures and a few words here and
there on the EVP recorders.”

“That’s been worrying me, too,” admitted
LouAnne. “If you remember, last year on the battlefield Hilliard’s
voice didn’t come out on the audio tape for either Mike or us,
although he was there plain as day. I wouldn’t count on video of
Tarver, either, even if we do have a gazillion DVRs positioned all
over the house. We’ve just gotta see what turns up ... we can’t do
any more than that.”

“Especially not knowing anything about him,”
said Bortnicker in a raised voice he hoped Mrs. Rayburn would
hear.

The woman must’ve been listening, for within
seconds she magically appeared, still somewhat nervous at the
teens’ obvious displeasure. “Well folks,” she said, “do you need
anything copied? Can I be of any further service?”

“I think we’re done here,” answered T.J.
diplomatically. Then he added, “At least for now.”

They got up and left, and the door behind
them had barely closed when Mrs. Rayburn picked up her desk phone
and started dialing.

* * * *

“Well, it’s only eleven, and we’ve got some
time to kill before Chappy picks us up,” said T.J. “How about an
early lunch?”

“You know I’m up for that,” said
Bortnicker.

“Me, too,” LouAnne chimed in. “Let’s walk
around and find someplace good.”

They settled on Wahoo’s Bistro on the
waterfront, where LouAnne ordered the Bermuda fish chowder, while
the boys shared orders of shark fritters and codfish cakes.

Chappy met them just as they emerged into the
blinding sunshine. “A successful venture this morning?” he asked as
they climbed in.

“Negative,” said Bortnicker, rooting through
Chappy’s Beatle CD’s. “It seems that some of the papers on Tarver
had been removed, surprise, surprise.”

“How unfortunate,” the driver replied
coolly.

“Chappy,” said T.J., “I know this is your
homeland, and that you’re proud of it, just like everyone we’ve
met, but I’m getting the impression that there’s stuff we’re just
not supposed to know—”

“—
Which makes us even more determined
to know it,” finished LouAnne.

“And don’t take this the wrong way,”
continued Bortnicker, as he slid
Beatles for Sale
into the
console, “but I get the feeling you’re kinda holding back on us
also.” His words hung in the air as the distinctive opening to “No
Reply” started up.

If Chappy was hurt or insulted, he didn’t
show it. “I’m sure I’m not the fountain of information you suppose
me to be,” he began. “Remember, I’m a humble limousine driver, not
an historian. But you have to understand the perception of people
outside your country of the American media. The publicizing of
lurid details and the sensationalism employed by your major media
outlets can at times be off-putting and lead to caution, if not
downright fear, when it comes to sharing the history of one’s
homeland.

“Bermuda is a country like any other. We’ve
had our highs and lows, our heroes and scoundrels. We just downplay
the scoundrels, whereas you Yanks seem to revel in them. For
example, your gangsters of the 1920s and ‘30s — Al Capone, John
Dillinger and the like. And I won’t even touch upon the serial
killers who have crossed the American landscape the past 25 or so
years whose stories are chronicled on your various history
channels. These people—these
concepts—
are disconcerting, if
not frightening, to Bermudians. We are a peaceful, friendly people
and would rather not speak of such things.”

“I get all that,” said T.J., as Paul
McCartney warbled “I’ll Follow the Sun”, “but all we want to know
is, where does Sir William Tarver fall? Was he a good guy or a bad
guy?”