Spirits of the Pirate House (24 page)

“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 small 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?”

She pushed herself away to arm’s length and
looked hard into his Coke-bottle glasses. “I need to be there when
you do the Hibiscus House investigation.”

“Why?”

“Why
? Because if that ghost shows up,
I want to spit in his face, that’s why.” Ronnie’s jaw was set, her
blue eyes icy. “Can you do that for me?”

“Hey,” he stammered, “I’ve got no problem
with it but, you know, we’re filming the TV show and all—”

She glared at him harder.

“B-but I’ll talk to Mike. I think I can
convince him. I don’t think you’ll be on the TV show, though—”

“Who cares about that? All I want to do is
come face to face with that piece of garbage!”

“Okay, okay,” he soothed, pulling her to him,
“I’ll take care of it. Please don’t get upset again. It’s too
beautiful an evening to be sad.”

As the Beachcombers deftly transitioned into
“Bermuda is Another World”, she locked on his eyes again, and
Bortnicker’s world stopped. Ronnie reached up and moved an unruly
lock of hair from his glasses. “Thank you,” she whispered, and
kissed him, full on the lips.