Spirits of the Pirate House (21 page)

“But what’s in it for us, Willie B.?”

“Like I told you, man, they found
something
out on the water the other day. I’m sure of it.
Maybe Dwight and his boys can get close enough to overhear
something about it. Meanwhile, I think I just might take a ride
over to Hibiscus House and set up a little surprise for their
visit.”

“Like what?”

“I’m still working on that. Time to bring
those big-talking American ghost hunters down a peg.”

Hogfish chuckled. “Willie B., you always up
to some kind of mischief, you know that?”

“Yeah. And you know what else? I’m tired of
doing the same old grunt work day in and day out, fixing docks and
whatnot, so that rich Yanks can come over here and walk about like
they own the place. And I’m disappointed Jasper Goodwin and his
fine lookin’ daughter are falling all over themselves catering to
them, especially that goofy one. Lord, Lord if he doesn’t deserve a
righteous scarin’.”

“But aren’t you scared yourself of goin’ in
that house alone? Because you know I’ll be havin’ no part of
that.”

“Scared? Of what? Spooky stories about Black
Bill Tarver’s ghost walkin’ the grounds? I’m surprised at you,
Hogfish. Man your age believing in fairy tales. Everybody knows
there ain’t no such things as ghosts.”

Chapter
Eighteen

“
A toast to our
expedition, and to those who have joined us this fine evening!”
said Mike Weinstein as he raised his wine glass.

“Hear, hear!” agreed Tom Sr., doing likewise
as the others clinked glasses.

The evening had begun quite smoothly, with
Chappy picking up the nattily attired Americans precisely at 6:00
p.m. for their night in Hamilton. The men were dressed in khakis,
golf shirts, and sport jackets—though Weinstein’s overly muscled
torso threatened to split his navy blue blazer at any second—the
boys in tropical shirts and slacks, and LouAnne in a peach-colored
short sleeve pullover with white capris.

On the way to the city it was agreed upon
that both Kim Whitestone and Lindsay Cosgrove were not to know of
the discovery of the
Steadfast
’s bell, or anything beyond
the basic information of the project. T.J. had his doubts, though;
it only took a couple drinks to set Mike’s tongue wagging.

La Trattoria, located in a walkway off Front
Street, was quaint and not too pricey by Bermudian standards. The
food was your basic Italian fare and quite tasty, though at one
point Bortnicker leaned over and whispered, “I’ll take Pizza Palace
over this any day,” to T.J.

From the conversation around the table T.J.
could ascertain two things: that Kim Whitestone, though very
attractive, didn’t have too much going on upstairs and was star
struck with Mike, who didn’t mind at all playing the celebrity; and
that Lindsay Cosgrove was quite taken with Tom Sr. Even LouAnne,
who sat on his other side, nudged T.J. a couple times when the
Bermudian woman complimented his father on his outstanding talent
as an architect.

“So, T.J.,” she said suddenly, fixing him
with green eyes that accentuated her reddish-auburn hair, “tell us
about this investigation of yours. It sounds quite the
adventure.”

The teen proceeded to give her a somewhat
watered-down description of the events so far, leaving out all
mention of the bell, of course. But then the inevitable happened,
though it didn’t come from Mike Weinstein, who was too busy making
eyes at Kim Whitestone as they sipped their Chardonnay.

“We’ve been trying to do some research on the
island, Ms. Cosgrove,” complained Bortnicker, “but it’s like nobody
wants us to really get into the history of this Hibiscus
House.”

“How so?”

“Well, for example, we went all the way to
St. George’s the other day to meet this Mrs. Tilbury lady at the
National Heritage Trust, and the old battle axe basically blew us
off.”

Lindsay’s eyes widened. “Tilbury? Do you mean
Constance Tilbury?”

“Yeah. You’ve heard of her?”

“Why, yes, actually,” said Lindsay, regaining
her composure. “She’s my aunt, as a matter of fact.”

At this Bortnicker went beet red, LouAnne
shut her eyes and bit her lip, and T.J. wished he could slide under
the table.

“Lindsay,” offered Tom Sr., “I’m sure
Bortnicker didn’t mean to offend—”

But Lindsay merely waved him off. “No
worries, Bortnicker,” she assured. “Auntie can be a bit of a
curmudgeon at times. She’s just very protective of our island and
its history, as you have obviously ascertained.”

“Uh, yeah. But I’m sorry anyway,” he said,
flashing his crooked smile.

“You’re very sweet,” she answered, “as are
you all. Let me have a word with Auntie. Perhaps I could sway her a
bit to be a little more forthcoming.”

“That would be great, Ms. Cosgrove,” said
T.J. with his winning smile.

“So, where to from here?” asked Tom Sr. as
the waiter dropped off the bill.

“Well,” said Mike, “if you don’t mind, Kim
and I are going to check out a couple of the clubs in town and I’ll
catch a cab back to the hotel, or I’ll stay over on the yacht in
Hamilton Harbor and get back early tomorrow.”

“And I think, Mr. Jackson, that I should show
you around our Harbour Night,” said Lindsay, lightly placing her
hand atop the architect’s. “Maybe even partake in one of those
touristy horse and buggy rides?”

“That would be great,” he smiled.

“The three of us are meeting a friend down
where the cruise ships are docked on Front Street,” said T.J.

“Okay,” said Tom Sr., checking his watch.
“Why don’t we meet back here at 10:30 and take a cab back to the
hotel?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said Lindsay.
“I have my Mercedes parked a block or so away. I’ll give you all a
lift home. It’ll be a tight fit, but we’ll make do.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call Chappy and tell him
he’s done for the night.”

The group split up and the teens made their
way down to Front Street, where Harbour Night was shifting into
high gear. The waterfront, which was completely blocked off to
motorized traffic, was awash in color and sound.

All of the upscale stores along the
thoroughfare, such as Triminghams and Astwood Dickinson, were
deluged with tourists, as were the smaller gift shops like Onion
Jack’s and Gosling’s Liquors. Local vendors in gaily-colored
outfits had set up stalls offering everything from homemade food to
arts and crafts, clothing, and jewelry. There were jugglers, clowns
and face painting for the children, and a reggae band was pounding
out tunes from an elevated stage on the embankment near the motor
scooter park. It was noisy, joyful, and alive.

“Too cool!” said Bortnicker above the
surrounding din. “And there’s Ronnie, near the band stage!” He
waved madly and caught her eye, and she motioned them over. “Let’s
go!” he cried, and the three Americans took off at a jog to meet
their Bermudian friend, who was looking good in a flowered top and
short, white skirt that accentuated her finely-toned legs.

After hugs all around, Ronnie asked proudly,
“So, what do you think? Can we Bermudians throw a party?”

“No question!” answered T.J., the band’s
reggae bass line throbbing through the nearby amplifiers.

“Can we hit some of the shops?” asked LouAnne
hopefully.

“Why not?” said Ronnie. “Let’s have a go!”
She hooked her arm in Bortnicker’s and pulled him across Front
Street to the entrance to Trimingham’s, one of the more
traditionally British stores. They wandered around, rubbing elbows
with hordes of Americans mostly, and some Canadians, before moving
to the next shop down the street.

It was in Onion Jack’s where LouAnne first
noticed the thin black man with dreadlocks watching her from behind
a display of Outerbridge’s sherry pepper sauces, a Bermudian
delicacy.

“T.J.,” she whispered to her cousin, “don’t
look over, but there’s a Rastafarian-looking guy on the other side
of the shop who I could swear I saw in Trimingham’s.”

“And?”

“And I think he’s following us.”

“Really. Okay, let’s go outside and get an
ice cone and see if he follows. We’re going outside!” he called to
Bortnicker and Ronnie, who were looking for a Bermuda keychain to
take home to Pippa.

“Give us a minute, we’ll see you out there,”
replied Bortnicker.

T.J. and LouAnne ducked outside and made
their way to the ice cone stand, where they both ordered the
coconut. As they were paying, Bortnicker and Ronnie joined them.
“Have you guys seen any police around?” asked T.J. casually.

“There were a couple way back on the other
end of the block,” said Bortnicker as he ordered a banana ice. “I
love those British Bobby hats, but the navy Bermuda shorts gotta
go. Why’re you asking?”

“‘
Cause LouAnne thinks we’re being
followed.”

“No way.”

“I think she’s right,” said Ronnie quietly.
“I’ve seen the same two or three men over and over since we started
walking about.”

“Including that guy coming out of Onion
Jack’s?” said LouAnne.

Ronnie nonchalantly glanced over her
shoulder. “That would be one of them. Can’t place him exactly, but
he’s a local.”

“So, what do we do?” said Bortnicker. “Go
after him?”

“Calm down, Rambo,” said T.J., aware that his
friend was out to impress his date. “Why don’t we just work our way
back up the street toward where we saw those Bobbies?”

“Sounds good, Cuz. Lead the way,” said
LouAnne.

They meandered up Front Street, pausing at
the occasional vendor stall. T.J. kept taking furtive looks around,
eventually picking out three faces that were keeping pace with the
teens, trying to look casual as they clumsily shadowed them. All
were dark-skinned men, though only the man in Onion Jack’s sported
the Rasta hairstyle.

They were nearly to the “Bird Cage” at the
intersection of Front and Queen Streets from which a solitary Bobby
conducted traffic during the daytime when T.J. realized the
officers were nowhere to be found. “Any ideas?” he asked Ronnie.
“You’re the local expert.”

“Hmm,” she mused. “Ready for a bit of
sport?”

“We were born ready,” answered Bortnicker as
LouAnne rolled her eyes.

“Then follow me.” She strode briskly to an
arcade off Front Street and darted inside, the Americans following
close behind. “Now RUN!”

They took off at a sprint through the tunnel
of small shops and came out on Reid Street, where Ronnie hung a
right. Bortnicker was already panting as they crossed Burnaby
Street and continued on Reid, glancing back over their shoulders
every few yards.

“There they are!” cried LouAnne, easing into
her cross country pace. “About a block back.”

“Keep going!” said Ronnie, who had quite an
athlete’s stride herself. They passed the Cabinet Building and
Sessions House of the Supreme Court.

“What now?” said T.J. as they neared another
intersection.

“We don’t want to go inland anymore,
especially on Court Street,” said Ronnie as they pounded along.
“Lots of shady characters there, the type you never see in the
travel adverts. I know an alleyway between here and King Street.
Can you all hold up for another block?”

“We’re okay, but Bortnicker’s fading!” said
LouAnne. “Those guys are closing on us!”

They kept running. Suddenly, Fagan’s Alley
appeared on their right. Ronnie took a sharp turn, and they
followed in her wake, snaking through the passage. No sooner had
they emerged on the far end of Front Street than T.J. spied a
familiar face. “Hey, there’s Dad and Lindsay on their carriage
ride. Come on!”

The teens, now winded, waved and called to
Tom Sr., who motioned to the driver to stop the carriage. With the
last of their strength, the exhausted kids piled into the vacant
rear seat of the buggy.

“So much for the romantic ride,” said Tom Sr.
“What’s gotten into you kids?”

“We’re being followed, Dad,” wheezed T.J.,
wiping sweat from his brow.

“Oh my,” said Lindsay. “By whom?”

“Don’t know. Ronnie thinks they’re
locals.”

Lindsay turned to face the brown-skinned
girl, whose face was glistening with perspiration.

“Ronnie Goodwin,” she said in introduction.
“My dad owns Blue Lagoon Dive Shop.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard of it. Lindsay Cosgrove.
Pleased to meet you, Ronnie. So, you recognize these men? Why on
earth would they be following you?”

“Can’t figure it, ma’am. We were just trying
to enjoy Harbour Night and—”

Suddenly, a pounding, whooping sound came
from way up Front Street in the area from which their flight had
begun. Heavy drumbeats and shrieking whistles mixed with the roar
of the crowd.

“It’s the Gombay Dancers!” called out
Lindsay. “Quite a show. Why don’t we go have a look? The carriage
ride’s almost over, anyway.”

“I guess so,” said T.J., whose breathing had
returned to normal. “Bortnicker?”

“Yeah, why not,” said the other boy, clearing
the moisture off his glasses. “Those guys won’t dare bother us now,
what with your dad here.”

The carriage driver pulled up at the police
barricade and Tom Sr. paid, with apologies for the extra
last-minute passengers. They climbed off, still a little sore and
winded from the merry chase of minutes before.

“Think I need another ice cone,” said
Bortnicker.

“We could all use one,” agreed LouAnne.

They made it to the Front Street flagpole as
the Gombay dancers paraded past, many of the somewhat inebriated
tourists in tow. The Americans marveled at the wild feathered
costumes of the Gombays as they dipped and swirled to the beat.

“It’s a mix of Caribbean and African
traditions,” offered Ronnie. “Gets the heart pounding, doesn’t
it?”

“Like we really needed it,” joked
Bortnicker.

“I thought you did quite well, actually,”
said Ronnie, and she leaned over to give him a quick peck on the
cheek. LouAnne and T.J. exchanged amused glances.