Spirits of the Pirate House (20 page)

“My friends,” said Chappy, “something tells
me that you are going to find out, and more quickly than you think.
But what you make of your finds, and how you plan to share them,
should be a cause for great contemplation on your parts.”

“Okay,” said T.J., not wanting to offend
their friend by pushing him too far. “Enough with this. Who feels
like riding some waves down at Astwood Beach?”

“Cool!” said Bortnicker. “A little body
surfing would be fun. How about you, LouAnne?”

“With that undertow? No way, José. But I will
paddle around a little in Jobson’s Cove and look at the tropical
fish.”

“Deal.”

Chappy gave the teens a pickup time for that
evening’s trip to Hamilton and dropped them at the hotel. Within
minutes they had changed into their beach attire and were on their
way down to the breakers of Astwood Park.

LouAnne snapped pictures as the boys zoomed
along atop the six foot swells, usually coming to a tumbling stop
in the sea foam at the water’s edge. There were others enjoying the
sun, sand, and surf, but no one attacked the waves like T.J. and
Bortnicker, trying to out-daredevil each other before their
alluring female friend.

Finally, after forty minutes or so of
crashing about in the ocean, the boys literally crawled to
LouAnne’s blanket where she sat placidly, reading a paperback.

“You guys done?” he said over her
sunglasses.

“Stick a fork in us,” moaned T.J., his hair
dripping.

“I must have a pound of sand in my bathing
suit,” added Bortnicker.

“Too much info,” said LouAnne, gathering her
belongings. “Let’s go over to Jobson’s Cove so I can wade in the
water. I even brought a mask and snorkel.”

“LouAnne’s going Jacques Cousteau on us!”
cried Bortnicker. “She’s even venturing into the murky depths by
herself!”

“Ha-ha, Mr.
Deep Sea Detective
. Wrong
on both counts. It’s crystal clear and shallow. But even so, you
guys keep an eye on me, okay?”

“Sure thing,” said T.J., hoping Bortnicker
wouldn’t use that as an opening for a wise remark. They strolled up
and around the rock formations that protected the small lagoon, and
the boys spread out their blankets. Luckily, a Bermudian day camp
group of kindergarten age kids was just leaving, their counselor
picking up flip-flops and other belongings inadvertently left
behind.

LouAnne cleaned her mask as T.J. had showed
her, adjusted the snorkel, and pushed off into the shallow
pool.

“This is nice,” said Bortnicker, laying back
with his hands behind his head. “But something’s bothering me, Big
Mon.”

“What?” said T.J., his eyes locked on his
cousin.

“I’m getting a strange vibe from Chappy. It’s
like he wants to tell us stuff, but something’s holding him
back.”

“Yeah, I get that, too.”

“I just don’t wanna tick him off. He’s such a
good guy, not to mention a friend of John Lennon.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, are you psyched for Harbour Night in
Hamilton? Sounds like a cool time.”

“No doubt. Are you inviting Ronnie to join
us?”

“You think it’s okay?”

“I’m sure Dad and Mike wouldn’t mind—”

“I mean with your cousin.”

“Nah. She’s cool. Give Ronnie a call at the
shop and tell her to meet us there around eight. We should be done
with dinner by then. She could show us around Hamilton.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He took out his cell
phone and started dialing the Blue Lagoon’s number.

* * * *

Unfortunately, Ronnie Goodwin wasn’t at the
desk to take his call. She had been sent to Dora’s Corners by her
father to pick up a takeout lunch for him and Skeeter.

“Well, hello, Queen of the Deep!” sang out
Dora as the girl breezed in. “What can I get for you this fine
day?”

“Dad said to bring him whatever’s fresh
today, Miss Dora,” answered Ronnie politely. “A double order for
him and Skeeter.”

“We’ve got a nice grouper, just come in. Give
me a few minutes to fix it up.”

“No rush, ma’am. I’ll sit outside and wait
there.”

She had no sooner gotten comfortable when
Willie B. and his sidekick Hogfish ambled across the crushed shell
parking lot to her table. She tried to wish them away but had no
such luck.

“Hello, Miss Ronnie,” said Willie B., his
forehead glistening in the noonday sun.

“Willie B., Hogfish,” she answered, politely
nodding.

“Hey, your daddy need any work done ‘round
the shop? I’m a little slow right now,” Willie B. said, pulling up
a chair.

“You know, he was talking the other day about
the dock needing some repair. You might want to see him about
that.”

“That I will. Hey, Hogfish, fetch me a ginger
beer, will you?” he said to his bulky companion, who sighed and
waddled off to the restaurant entrance. Once he was out of earshot,
Willie B. fixed his eyes on hers. “I see those American boys have
hired out your daddy’s boat. Was working on a neighboring dock and
saw you all pull out of the lagoon the other day.”

“Yes, that’s right,” she said guardedly.

“I had the pleasure of meeting them the other
day, right here,” he said genially. “Seem like good boys.”

“They are.”

“Told me they’re here to do some ghost
hunting. At least that’s what the one with the glasses said.”

“Oh.”

“Well, he was right, wasn’t he? No reason to
tell me a tall tale.”

“Yes, they’ve come to look into—”

“Hibiscus House. And all that nonsense about
it being haunted.”

“Who says it’s nonsense?” the girl snapped,
suddenly defensive.

“Ooh, sorry,” he said soothingly, his teeth
flashing. “Didn’t know you saw it that way, Miss Ronnie. I’m sure
they’re very serious about it. So, when is the big investigation to
take place?”

“Soon. They didn’t say exactly,” she
lied.

“Well, we’ll all be anxious to see what they
found out on old Sir William,” he said as Hogfish banged out of the
shack’s screen door with two frosty cans of Barritt’s ginger beer.
“You tell them I said good luck, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Then good day, Miss Ronnie. I’ll see your
dad about that dock repair.” The two started up the road, and
Ronnie couldn’t wait to get back inside and pick up her order.

“Just about to come get you,” said Dora,
handing over a brown paper bag bulging with Styrofoam containers of
food. “That’ll be £12.” She read the look of consternation on
Ronnie’s face as the girl counted out her money. “What’s wrong,
girl?” she asked. “Willie B. bothering you?”

“He gives me the creeps,” she replied, laying
the money on the countertop.

“He’s mostly harmless, and that Hogfish is
just an imbecile. Pay them no mind.” She scooped up the bills and
coins and propped a meaty elbow onto the counter. “So, how is the
investigation going?”

Ronnie rolled her eyes. Had the boys blabbed
to
everyone
? “Okay, I guess,” she managed. “Listen, Miss
Dora, I’ve got to go. Daddy likes his food warm.”

“Okay, dear. You just take care of yourself.”
As Ronnie snapped the screen door shut behind her Dora added, “And
those cute boys, too!”

* * * *

Back at the Jobson’s Cove Apartments, the
teens parted to relax a bit, send emails home, and shower for the
evening’s festivities in Hamilton. Mike looked in on the boys to
find how their morning research had gone and was annoyed to learn
they’d come up empty. “So, you think some incriminating stuff on
Tarver had been removed?” he said, rummaging through the teen’s
refrigerator.

“Definitely,” said Bortnicker. “The archivist
was really embarrassed.”

“T.J.?”

“Bortnicker’s right,” he agreed, popping open
a Coke. “And even if we go back, I don’t know if we’ll get any
further.”

Weinstein smiled. “Dudes, we’re on to
something. All this non-cooperation and secrecy have to mean
something. But, see, they don’t know we have secrets of our own. We
found the bell. That’s why tomorrow’s dive and Friday night’s
investigation at the house could be enormous.”

“Looks like it,” said Bortnicker, flopping on
the couch. “Hey, Big Mon,” he said to T.J., “who’s first in the
shower, me or you?”

“You go first today,” he answered. “I want to
talk to Mike.”

“Aww, and I was just getting comfortable.,”
he moaned, shuffling off to the bathroom.

“You joining us for dinner in Hamilton?” T.J.
asked the senior
Ghost Chaser
.

“That I am,” beamed Weinstein. “And the girl
I met down here is meeting us at the restaurant your dad picked.
Her name’s Kim, Kim Whitestone, and her father’s filthy rich. I’ve
been hanging out on their yacht whenever I have some down time. But
she’s pretty down-to-earth, all things considered.” He gave a sly
smile. “And attractive, I might add.”

“Way to go, Mike,” chuckled T.J.

“And that’s not all, dude,” said Weinstein.
“Word on the street is that your pop is bringing a date.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. A lady he met at the golf club.
We’re going to end up with quite the entourage.”

Outside, the engine of a moped could be heard
in the car park. “That must be him now,” said T.J., anxious to find
out about Tom Sr.’s companion.

“Well, I gotta go shower,” said Mike. “I’ll
tell your dad to drop in on you. Oh, by the way, he said collared
shirts and slacks for tonight, gotta look presentable.”

“So, no
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
attire?”
joked T.J.

“Nah, we don’t want to look
too
conspicuous,” said Weinstein, who was probably only being half
truthful. He exited, and seconds later T.J. was almost dozing, the
steady hiss of Bortnicker’s shower in the background, when his dad
entered, energized and upbeat.

“Long day?” he asked, taking a seat next to
his son.

“Well, the Heritage Trust was a dud, but we
got some quality beach time. But, man, those waves knocked me out.
So, Dad, Mike tells me you’ve got a date for tonight?”

The elder Jackson reddened a bit. “If you
don’t mind. She’s a nice lady I met at the club. Handles their
corporate bookings and such.”

“And does this ‘lady’ have a name?”

“Oh, yeah. Lindsay Cosgrove. Grew up here
outside of St. George’s. She’s been in on a lot of the meetings and
we kinda hit it off.”

“Is she pretty?”

“You could say that, yes,” he smiled, which
meant she was probably a knockout.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it, Dad,” said T.J.
“It’s been kinda sparse since Wendy.”

“Please don’t mention that name,” frowned Tom
Sr. “And you’ll be happy to know she’s actually within a few years
of my age.”

“Who is?” said Bortnicker, emerging from the
steamy bathroom.

“Dad’s got a date for tonight,” said T.J.
proudly. “A Miss Cosgrove. It is ‘Miss’, correct?”

“Yes, it is,” laughed Tom Sr., “and enough
with the interrogation. Bortnicker, jeez, you’re dripping all over
the floor!”

“Oops, my bad,” said the teen, holding a
towel around his waist. “T.J., your turn. But I was right. Wait’ll
you see all the sand that came out of me in the shower!” He padded
off to the bedroom as both father and son shook their heads.

“Seriously, though, Dad, I’m happy you have a
date tonight. Can’t wait to meet her,” T.J. said, heading for the
bathroom. “Where are we eating, anyway?”

“I’ve decided on La Trattoria,” said Tom Sr.
“Pretty fair Italian food. You’ll like it.”

“Yeah, Chappy mentioned it, too.” He closed
the door and smiled broadly, happy to see the sparkle in his
father’s eye once again.

* * * *

“Skeeter, Dad, got your lunch!” Ronnie sang
out as she elbowed open the front door to the dive shop.

“Your dad’s out back, honey,” Skeeter
muttered while pouring over a scuba equipment catalog. “Meeting
with that character Willie B. about some dock work.”

Ronnie silently berated herself. “Me and my
big mouth,” she said under her breath. “He couldn’t wait to get
over here.” She put the food down on a table and walked out back
where Jasper was pointing to some rotted wood in one of the boat
slips. Willie B. caught her eye and winked. She managed the barest
of smiles.

“Are you back with lunch? I’m famished!” said
the Divemaster, straightening up and wiping his hands on his cargo
shorts.

“It’s inside. You’d better get to it before
Skeeter eats it all.”

“Will do. And, oh, by the way, your friend
Bortnicker called. He’d like you to meet him this evening at 8:00
in front of the cruise ship wharf in Hamilton. I told him I’d drop
you there, but you might have to take the bus back.”

“If it’s okay with you,” she said
hopefully.

“Not a problem. But you can’t stay out
too
late, and neither should those boys. We’ve got a big day
tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, hating the fact
that Willie B. had heard it all. “Well, it’s kind of slow so I’ll
walk home and make myself presentable. Spend some time with
Mum.”

“You do that. See you later.”

She bid good afternoon to Skeeter and hiked
up the road to their cottage, all the while thinking of Willie B.’s
knowing wink and hoping she wouldn’t have to run into him again for
a good long time. Of course, on an island as small as Bermuda that
was pretty near impossible. But then she thought of her new
friends, and the exciting possibilities of Harbour Night in
Hamilton, and all was forgotten. By the time she walked in the
front door, Ronnie Goodwin was singing.

* * * *

“You sure you want to do this, man?” asked a
dubious Hogfish as Willie B. clicked off his cell phone.

Willie B. sighed and shook his head, adopting
a tone one might take with a three-year-old. “Listen to me now. My
cousin Dwight and his buddies hang out at Chumley’s Pub on Court
Street. All they’re gonna do is keep an eye on those kids tonight.
Dwight knows who Ronnie Goodwin is, so he’ll have no problem
finding them on Front Street.”