Spirits of the Pirate House (7 page)

“Well, I was thinking you’ll want to get
unpacked and have lunch somewhere. Then, I suggest you go over to
the Blue Lagoon Dive Shop in Somerset. And I guess, Tom, that you
and I had better get our scooter rentals squared away. Chappy can’t
be in three places as once, and you’ll want to be able to zip over
to St. George’s whenever you want. We’ll both get two-seater models
in case someone needs a ride.”

Chappy spoke up. “I’d also advise that all of
you invest in a weekly bus pass. You’ll find the public
transportation here is quite reliable and comfortable. There goes
one now,” he said, pointing to a pink vehicle passing on their
right, fairly full of beachgoers. “You’ll see bus stops that are
close together, especially along South Road. They’re marked by pink
or blue poles. The pink ones designate buses going toward Hamilton;
the blue, away. The bus will only stop if there are passengers who
are waiting to board or wanting to disembark. The only drawback is
that during the high season, you might have a bit of a wait.”

The minivan cruised at a leisurely pace past
sherbet-colored stucco houses crowned by whitewashed, terraced
roofs designed to catch fresh rainwater which was channeled to
storage tanks for home use. Handmade stone walls alternated with
gardens and wildflowers and small plot farms. Occasionally a moped
zoomed by, usually at speeds far exceeding the posted limit of 20
mph. Chappy, who was used to the recklessness of both residents and
tourists, would just shake his head and carry on. Finally, after
meandering down some connecting roads with colorful names like
Ducks Puddle Drive, they hit South Road, which passed through
Smith’s, Devonshire and Paget Parishes before entering their home
base of Warwick.

“I take it the parishes here are like
counties at home?” asked T.J.

“That’s a fair analogy,” said Chappy, “though
they’re much smaller than in the States. There are nine in all, and
are all different, though those differences are somewhat subtle.
Actually, these land packets were first known as “tribes”, and you
will see designated “tribal roads” here and there. The divisions
have to do with how the island parcels were allocated to different
English shareholders centuries ago. Some of the parishes are even
named for these men.

“You’ll notice differences in population and
even architecture as you go from place to place. Some parishes are
quieter and more residential, while others, like Hamilton, are on
the urban side. Southampton, where we are headed, is decidedly
touristy, which is not to say that it isn’t remarkably beautiful.
It’s just that its shoreline contains a number of the island’s most
stunning beaches, some of them backed by towering cliffs. Quite
impressive.” Chappy was obviously very proud of his homeland and
seemed as delighted to share information with the boys as he
probably had with thousands of other tourists.

They passed by resorts with names like Coco
Reef, Harmony Club, and Elbow Beach, each entranceway spewing forth
tourists on mopeds.

“So, Chappy,” said Mike, “what’s the story
with Hibiscus House and Sir William Tarver? It’s why we’re here,
after all.”

T.J. just happened to be glancing into the
minivan’s rearview mirror and could see an almost imperceptible
cloud settle over the driver’s face. “Ah, yes, Sir William,” he
said evenly. “Interesting man. Made his fortune through piracy,
they say ... then was given the estate by the governor. But I would
imagine you know as much.”

“Was he a bad guy or something?” asked
T.J.

“Well, that depends, young sir, upon what you
categorize as ‘bad’. I think that it would be in your best interest
to do your research here and come to your own conclusions.” From
the polite, yet firm tone of his voice the Americans could tell
they should pursue the subject no further. An awkward moment or two
passed, and then Chappy said, “Ah, here we are.” He turned into a
narrow entrance road framed with bougainvillea and palm trees.
“Gentlemen, I give you the Jobson’s Cove Apartments.”

The beachside hideaway consisted of about
twelve units in an L-shaped, two-story structure overlooking a
moderately-sized, kidney shaped pool. Nestled into a hillside, the
surrounding dense vegetation and tropical flowers gave it a
secluded feeling. A few guests lounged by the pool while an elderly
couple sat on the deck chairs in the Bermuda grass, contentedly
reading. As Chappy helped the travelers unload their bags, a
matronly woman with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail swept
out of the hotel office, her pink caftan flapping in the light
ocean breeze.

“So nice to meet you!” she chirped in a
lilting British voice. “I’m Virginia Maltby, the proprietor. Sorry
to say, my husband Morris is visiting our daughter in England, so
I’ll be your go-to person for whatever you might need. Mr.
Weinstein has told me all about your exciting adventure! I’m so
glad you chose Jobson’s Cove, and we’ll try to make your stay as
pleasant as possible.

“As I told Michael the other day, I’ve put
your four rooms together on the second floor because, that way,
you’ll avoid any poolside noise, or people coming and going at all
hours. It will be a bit of an effort lugging your bags up the
stairs, but you’ll see that it’s well worth it. From your balconies
you’ll just be able to peek over the treetops of Astwood Park and
view the ocean in all its glory.

“As you can see, we have a delightful pool,
and there are also barbeque grills under the palm trees over there
in case you’d want to eat in.

“There’s a bus stop a stone’s throw from the
entrance, but I can see that you’ve hired one of our best drivers
for your stay.” She shot Chappy a wink; they were obviously old
acquaintances, veterans of the tourist trade.

“Where’s the beach, ma’am?” asked Bortnicker,
slinging his carry-on over his shoulder.

“It’s quite simple, really. Cross the road
from our main entrance and you will be in Astwood Park. Follow the
path through the trees down to the cliffs. From there you’ll see
walkways to the beach. Jobson’s Cove, from which we draw our name,
is tucked away behind some massive boulders to the right, forming a
kind of shallow lagoon. It’s quite picturesque.”

The party thanked Virginia as she handed them
the keys to their rooms. “Ta-ta!” she trilled, scurrying off to
check on the other patrons.

“Well, let’s get all this stuff upstairs,”
said Mike. “Like Virginia said, the view from up there will make it
all worthwhile.”

“Would you want me to stick around a bit?”
asked Chappy, cleaning some squashed bugs off the minivan’s
windshield.

“That would be great,” said Tom Sr. “We’ll
drop off our bags, and then maybe you can bring me to that market
up the road so I can stock up on necessities for myself and the
boys.”

“I’ll need to pick up some stuff, too,” added
Mike. “The only thing in my fridge is some beer and tuna fish from
yesterday.”

“No worries. And then I suppose you’ll want
me to drop you at the cycle rental place?”

“That makes sense,” said Mike. “Then you can
pick up the boys, grab some lunch, and run them over to the Blue
Lagoon Dive Shop to check on their rentals.”

“You aren’t diving?” asked Bortnicker.

“Nah, not my thing,” said Mike. “I’ll be on
the charter boat with you, but it’s your show. You’ll be doing all
the diving and the filming. I’ve got all the equipment for land and
sea in my apartment. If you’re not too tired tonight, we’ll meet
there and go over how to use it all. Then you can explain it to
LouAnne when she gets here.”

“Sounds like a plan!” said T.J.
enthusiastically.

The boys opened the door to their room and
were greeted with walls of a warm yellow and cushy twin beds. There
was a rather large beach-scene painting on the wall, a comfy couch,
and a teak and rattan dinette set. Off to the side was a
kitchenette with a sink, some cabinets, and a refrigerator. A
microwave oven sat on the Formica countertop.

“All the comforts of home!” sighed
Bortnicker, flopping onto the closest bed.

“Yeah,” said T.J., “and we’ve got a big
overhead fan in case the sea breeze cuts out.” He slid open the
glass balcony door and stepped outside. “Nice,” he said to himself
as the wind carried the scent of flowers from Astwood Park.

“Hey,” said Bortnicker, “why don’t we get
unpacked and check out the beach while Mike and your dad are
running their errands?”

“Sounds good.” He went next door and
encountered Tom Sr., who was dropping shirts into a bureau drawer
in his nearly identical room. “Hey Dad, Bortnicker and I are going
down to the beach. Make sure you buy a lot of food so we can grill
a couple times. Some snacks, too. And some breakfast cereal.
And—”

“T.J.,” said Tom Sr. patiently, “I know how
to stock a refrigerator. And although all this is on The Adventure
Channel’s dime, I don’t want us to overdo it. And another thing...”
He closed the door to the apartment. “I want you to keep in mind
that although I’m sure Mike is a responsible adult, he is only in
his late 20s, and he, understandably, likes to have a good time.
Bermuda, especially Hamilton, has a pretty lively nightclub scene,
and as you can see, he enjoys his celebrity. So, while I’m sure
he’ll be all business when you guys are doing the show, don’t be
surprised if we lose him once in a while. I’m counting on you guys
to take care of yourselves and LouAnne when we’re not around. I
know you guys aren’t drinkers or anything—”

“Dad, I gotcha,” answered T.J. “We won’t do
anything dumb. I promise.”

“Okay,” said Tom Sr. He gave T.J. an
unexpected hug. “This is such a great opportunity for you guys, and
this place is wonderful, but it feels so weird—”

“Being here without Mom?”

“Yeah. Bermuda was our special place.” He
broke away gently and wiped his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Hey, Dad, no problem. Maybe you’ll meet
somebody here. You never know.”

“What? Like Wendy? No, thank you,” he said,
referring to the previous summer when he’d run off to Paris with a
much younger—albeit gorgeous—woman while T.J. stayed in Gettysburg.
The trip had ended in disaster, with the flirtatious Wendy leaving
him for a suave Parisian waiter.

“Well,” said T.J., “whatever you choose to
do, I want you to know I’m okay with it. I was a little selfish
last year, giving you a hard time about leaving me at Uncle Mike’s.
I mean, if you didn’t go, I never would’ve helped solve the ghost
mystery or got to know LouAnne. So, it all worked out, on my end
anyway.”

“You like her, don’t you?” his father said,
fixing him with a serious look.

“Well, of course, Dad, she’s my cousin—”

“You know what I mean, son. I realize she’s
only related to you by adoption—”

“Aw, jeez, Dad,” the boy said, feeling his
face redden.

“Just be very, very careful with people’s
feelings, T.J. You’ve always had a good heart, but sometimes your
heart gets ahead of your brain.”

Mercifully, there was a knock on the door,
and Mike Weinstein poked his head in. “Dude, Chappy’s waiting
downstairs with the car,” he said brightly. “Let’s get
motoring!”

“Right behind you,” called out Tom Sr. Father
and son walked out together into the noonday sun.

Chapter Nine

“
Can you believe
this?” said T.J. as the boys sat atop the majestic limestone cliffs
and watched foaming waves crash upon the beach below. The
refreshing spray of the ocean, filled with salt and seaweed,
reached all the way to their perch at the edge of Astwood Park.
Below them, birds called longtails peeked in and out of the
pockmarked headland. Clouds scudded across an azure sky, and the
water seemed to go on forever.

“Makes you forget why we’re actually here,”
said Bortnicker. “Hey, did you notice how Chappy clammed up when
Mike mentioned William Tarver?”

“Yeah,” said T.J., “like the subject was too
touchy.”

“Hmm. By the way, what were you and your dad
doing all that time in his room? Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, we were just talking.”

“About what?”

“Stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Nothing important. He just wants us to
behave ourselves over here, that’s all. Bermuda’s special to him,
and he doesn’t want us screwing up.”

“Oh. Does this have to do with your mom?”

“Yeah, I guess. He gets pretty emotional
about it sometimes, and then it makes me feel bad, too.”

“I know, Big Mon. But, hey, you’ve got me,
and by tomorrow afternoon, LouAnn’ll be joining the party!”

T.J. brightened. “Let’s go check out that
pink sand, man,” he said, pushing up from his seat. “These rocks
are killing my butt.”

They clambered down to a narrow path and
sprinted toward the water’s edge, where the foaming surf hissed as
the waves pulled back with a powerful undertow.

“Look!” cried Bortnicker, standing calf-deep
in the surging current. “There’s a school of fish swimming in the
waves!” Indeed, a swirling mass was apparent each time a wave
crested. “Too cool!”

They followed the shoreline to Jobson’s Cove,
climbing over the sheltering rocks that formed the lagoon. It was
no more than 50 feet across or a few feet deep, but it contained a
host of tropical fish that had squeezed through the boulders
looking for food or calmer waters. A few tourists lay on the small
beach while their children snorkeled in the crystal clear pool.
“It’s like seeing one picture postcard after another,” said
T.J.

“No question. Hey, shouldn’t we be getting
back to the hotel? I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry,
and Chappy’s supposed to know all the good spots.”

“Let’s do it.”

They found the personable driver stretched
out on a reclining chair near the pool. “Ah, there you are,” he
said, rising. “Michael and Tom Sr. have already dropped off your
provisions and are, as we speak, renting their scooters. What did
you have in mind for lunch?”