Spirits of the Pirate House (26 page)

The man lifted his head, tears spilling down
his chubby cheeks. “Black Bill Tarver’s ghost got him, Mr.
Chapford, no doubt. I tried to talk him out of going, but he just
wouldn’t listen.”

Nigel Chapford rubbed his eyes, processing
all he’d been told. “Right,” he said finally. “What I need from
everyone here is to keep this quiet for the time being, though from
everything I’ve seen the past few weeks it doesn’t look like
anyone
on this island is capable of that.” He looked around
at the others’ expectant faces. “In the end, Willie B. placed
himself in a bad situation and paid the price for his foolishness.
I’ve got to see how the authorities will play this, but my first
responsibility is toward those young people who have put their
trust in me and in the good intentions of the inhabitants of our
happy little island. Miss Pemburton, you just go about your
business and forget this meeting ever happened. Hogfish, let this
be a lesson to you to choose your friends more wisely. I expect a
low profile from you at least until the Americans leave.” He turned
to Dora, took her hand gently, and kissed it softly. “And to you,
my sweet, many thanks for trusting me with this information. Let me
see what I can do to help bring this affair to an acceptable
resolution.”

* * * *

“Aha!” crowed Bortnicker, slapping his hand
on the poolside picnic table. “You have landed on my property once
again, T.J. Let’s see now...Park Place with a hotel, that’ll be
$1500, if you please.”

“You’re brutal,” huffed the other boy. “Did
we have to play
Monopoly
?”

“It’s all Mrs. Maltby had around,” apologized
LouAnne. “Unless you wanted
Chutes and Ladders
, which I
haven’t played since like third grade.”

“Well, that finishes me,” declared T.J.,
counting out the last of his play money and handing it over to
Bortnicker, who was rubbing his hands eagerly. “It’s just you and
LouAnne now.”

“Nah, I’m done too,” said his cousin. “This
isn’t fun anymore.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’t quit now,” pleaded
Bortnicker. “You could still win ... with a little luck.”

“Yeah, right,” she snapped, looking at the
sky. “Think it’s gonna clear?”

“I don’t know, man,” said T.J. “A couple
times the sun’s almost broken through, but I still think we’re
gonna get a good storm sooner or later.”

“I wouldn’t mind this overcast tomorrow for
the race,” said his cousin, packing the
Monopoly
pieces back
in the battered box. “With a cooling offshore breeze to boot.”

“No doubt,” agreed T.J. He looked at his
waterproof dive watch. “Two hours till Chappy picks us up. Think
I’ll go upstairs and catch a quick nap, maybe have a snack.”

“What, the grilled cheese sandwiches and
chips I fixed you guys wasn’t enough?” complained Bortnicker. “I
made them extra thick! It was a lunch fit for a king!”

“They were great, Bortnicker,” said LouAnne
sarcastically, “the most wonderful grilled cheeses in the history
of modern man. But T.J.’s right. We’re not gonna eat again till
maybe late, and I don’t want a load of food sitting on my stomach
during the race tomorrow morning. I’m going up to my room. Ta-ta.”
With a flip of her hair she was on her way, leaving the boys to
finish boxing the game.

“To tell you the truth,” said Bortnicker,
dividing his stack of money into separate piles, “I don’t know if I
could eat much right now anyway. I’m really nervous about tonight,
aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” said T.J., looking out over the
cliffs of Astwood Park to the ocean and horizon beyond. “Tell you
what, I’ve got the same feeling like the first time the three of us
went on the battlefield last year to find Hilliard. It’s as if he
was drawn to us like a magnet.”

“I remember. And, big as that house is, it’s
a lot smaller than the Battlefield Park. If Tarver’s there, he’ll
come calling.”

“I guess Mike’ll let you and Ronnie buddy
up,” said T.J. “I’m sure she’ll be able to work the handheld movie
cam while you explore.”

“Yeah, just me ‘n her, and a lot of dark
spaces,” Bortnicker said, trying to be funny.

“Stop clowning around,” shot back T.J. “We’ve
got a job to do, and besides, she’s so mad at this guy she’s gonna
be all business.”

“You’re right,” relented Bortnicker. “This
should be really interesting.” He paused and crinkled his eyes.
“Maybe I do have room for a snack after all. Let’s go.”

* * * *

Constance Tilbury watched Nigel Chapford’s
black minivan with the
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
vinyl decal turn
into the driveway of Hibiscus House from the front entrance
doorway, her lips pressed together so tightly they were bloodless.
Her day so far had been disastrous, to say the least. First, she
had been roused from her sleep by an inspector of the Bermuda
Police to inform her of the discovery of Willie B.’s body. Then had
come a terrible row with the members of the Bermuda Heritage Trust
over whether to let the TV people go through with their scheduled
investigation that evening. Of course, she had been outvoted again,
the rationale of her colleagues being that the
Junior
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
had only a few days left on the island
and had been promised a couple visits by the authorities. Why
should the accidental death of a thief dash their plans to
jumpstart island tourism with worldwide exposure of Hibiscus House
that a prime time show on The Adventure Channel would provide? When
one of the younger upstarts on the committee had volunteered to
take up the reins for her as the “go to” person for the remainder
of the project, she had firmly declined, assuring them that she
could handle it despite her misgivings. To acquiesce to their
suggestions that she step aside would be an admission of her
ineffectiveness as chairperson. And so she waited, standing proud
and tall, as Nigel Chapford and Mike Weinstein began unloading the
various black trunks and suitcases with
Gonzo Ghost
Chasers
stenciled on the sides.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she managed. “Do you
need any help with those?”

“Afternoon, Mrs. Tilbury,” replied Chappy
affably. “No worries ... we can bring these in easily enough.”

Weinstein, sporting one of those ghastly
GGC
tee shirts, shook her hand gently. “If you don’t mind,
ma’am,” he said politely, “we’ll set them down in the foyer for a
bit, along with a couple card tables and folding chairs we’ve
brought along. If you could just show me where the closest outlets
are, I can start hooking up the computer screens and such.”

Tilbury suppressed a grimace as Chapford
lugged a wind-up reel of extension cord into the house, then turned
back to Weinstein. “Would you like a quick tour?”

“That would be much appreciated.”

“All right then,” she said primly, “come
along.”

He followed her around, taking notes in a
small loose-leaf pad, as she went through the house’s history, from
its construction in the early 1700s to the dates of its various
renovations and additions. Of course, he was given the sanitized
version; no mention was made of slave ships or plantation
cruelty.

When they entered Tarver’s library, Weinstein
was immediately struck by the size of the Captain’s portrait, which
hung above the fireplace. “He cut quite a dashing figure,” said
Mike tactfully, probing for information.

“
That he did,” was her clipped
response.

“
Uh, where is he buried?” inquired
Weinstein, casting about for any nuggets. “Is there a family burial
plot on the property?”

“No. Both the Captain and Mrs. Tarver are
interred in the family crypt in the cemetery of St. Anne’s Church
in Southampton Parish, which dates back to the early 1700s.”

“Really,” said Mike, making a notation in his
writing pad. “Is the crypt above ground, like a walk- in? Maybe we
could—”

“Mr. Weinstein,” she scolded irritably, “you
apparently have neglected to research Bermudian burial customs.
Here is the way it works: each family has a plot. A trench is dug
for the first of the deceased, and the casket is lowered to the
bottom. Then, a layer of palm fronds is put over the casket. This
is done with each succeeding casket, until they reach the top of
the crypt, which is covered with a slab of stone and perhaps a
monument.

“When the hole is filled, it’s everybody out.
The coffins, or what’s left of them, are discarded, as are the
rotting clothes or whatever else is in there. The skeletons are
removed and placed at the bottom of the hole, again covered with
palm leaves, and the process begins again.

“Upon completion of the second ‘stack’, if
you will, the original first layer of skeletons is pulverized and
covered with the second layer. And then we repeat the alternating
of coffins and palm leaves. Thus, you can have multiple generations
piled upon each other.” She gave a self-satisfied half smile as
Weinstein wrote furiously.

“But ... I thought the Tarver’s were
childless.”

“They were, unfortunately. Since there were
no offspring, the only people in the Tarver crypt are the captain
and the missus, who survived him by a good many years, at which
time the estate was abandoned and then fell into a state of
disrepair until it was rescued by the Bermuda Heritage Trust,
restored, and established as a museum.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Tilbury,”
said Mike, closing the writing pad. “One last question. If you had
to describe William Tarver in one sentence, what would it be?”

She gave him an icy look. “
Sir
William
Tarver was a patriot and a cornerstone of our island’s history.
This house is a testament to his legacy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I
have to be off. What time do you estimate as the conclusion of your
activities tonight?”

Mike blew out his cheeks and looked around.
“Well,” he said, “we have a lot of rooms to cover, but I can’t see
it going past 2:00 a.m.”

“That late?”

“Believe me, Mrs. Tilbury, we’ve had sessions
that have gone longer, sometimes till sunrise. But I’m factoring in
the possibility of a second investigation, as per our original
agreement.”

“Oh, that,” she sniffed. “Well, I don’t have
to tell you that I think you’re on a fool’s errand. My prediction
is that you’ll find absolutely nothing tonight that would warrant
further activities. All this is, is a beautiful house.”

“That may be, ma’am,” he said as politely as
possible, “but remember, you called
us
.”

She breathed out slowly, holding her anger in
check. “That we did. I’d only ask that you try to leave everything
exactly as you found it, and tell your team that you will be held
accountable for any broken or damaged furnishings. And please don’t
leave any windows or doorways open. We’re expecting some rain
tonight. Good day.”

With that, Constance Tilbury marched out of
Hibiscus House with a quick nod to Chappy, who offered a brief bow
of respect as she blew by him.

“Wow,” said Mike as Tilbury gunned her Mini
and took off down the long drive. “She’s not a happy camper. Any
reason for her to be so defensive?”

“Mrs. Tilbury’s set in her ways, Mr.
Weinstein,” said Chappy coolly, unfolding a card table. “She just
wants this to be over, I’m afraid.” He felt badly about not
leveling with Mike at this point, but figured it was for the
best.

“Well, whatever. Just help me get the tables
set up here and you can take off. Bring the kids back around six
and we’ll get the show on the road.”

“Will do.”

Weinstein shot the driver a sideways look.
“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“The thing is, I’m confused here. When our
producers get contacted by the places who want us to investigate
them, they’re thrilled to be selected for the show. Then, when our
team shows up on site they practically fall all over themselves
making us feel comfortable, showing us around, and putting us in
touch with people who have supposedly had experiences at the site
so we can interview them.”

“That’s understandable,” said Chappy.

“Of course it is, because once the show airs,
whether the place is a fort or a prison or a hotel, the visitor
rate increases by like 75 percent.

“Which is why, on an island that seems to
pride itself on hospitality, this has to be the least amount of
cooperation we’ve ever gotten. It’s like they want us gone, and in
a hurry.”

Chappy snapped open a folding chair,
searching for the right words. “I think you’re doing a bit of
generalizing,” he said calmly. “Even on her best day, Constance
Tilbury can be maddeningly disagreeable. Unfortunately, she’s the
point person for the Bermuda Heritage Trust when it comes to the
various buildings. I apologize for her brusqueness.”

Mike waved him off. “It’s not your fault,
Chappy,” he said, uncoiling an extension cable. “I just get the
feeling there’s stuff going on we don’t know about but should.”

“In all fairness,” countered Chappy, “your
group, of which I am a part by association, is withholding
information itself, or have you forgotten about the discovery of
the
Steadfast
and its cargo?”

“You got me there,” admitted Mike. “Oh well,
we’ll just make the best of it. I think the kids are gonna do a
great job.”

“I would agree,” said Chappy. “I’ll have them
back here by six, as promised.”

“Thanks, Chappy,” said Mike, extending his
hand. “I can’t tell you how much of a help you’ve been, man.”

“No worries,” he said reassuringly, hoping
the nervous sweat that was now running down his back wouldn’t be
visible on the way out of Hibiscus House.

Chapter
Twenty-Three

The teens, attired
in their black
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
tee shirts and shorts,
were waiting when Chappy pulled into the Jobson’s Cove Apartments
lot. “T.J., your father phoned to say he’ll be meeting us at
Hibiscus House,” said the driver as they piled in. “He was having a
late lunch with Ms. Cosgrove.”