Spirits of the Pirate House (8 page)

“Is there a place near the dive shop where we
can eat something Bermudian?”

“Well, that’s encouraging,” said Chappy.
“Most Yanks just want to know where they can find a good
cheeseburger.”

“Bortnicker’s like Joe Gourmet,” explained
T.J. “So let’s start off with something local.”

“As they say in the States, ‘I like how you
guys roll’. Hop in and let’s go.”

T.J. grabbed the front seat while Bortnicker
stretched out in the back.

“Is there any particular music you gents like
to listen to?” asked Chappy as he cautiously pulled out of the
hotel’s entrance.

“Bortnicker’s really into the Beatles right
now,” said T.J. “I’ll listen to just about anything except
hip-hop.”

“The Beatles, eh?” said Chappy, turning right
on South Road toward Somerset. “I have most of their CDs at home.
Got interested in them after I drove John Lennon around.”

“What
?” blurted Bortnicker, nearly
springing out of the back seat.

“Oh, yes indeed. Mr. Lennon came here a
couple times in 1980, before his untimely death. Sailed over the
first time, actually. Had his young son with him. I was assigned to
him quite by chance that first time, and we more or less hit it
off. When he came back for a more secretive, solitary weekend, he
actually requested me. Alas, a few weeks after that second trip he
was killed.”

“That’s incredible!” gushed Bortnicker. “What
did you talk about? Was he a nice guy?”

“Well, he was quite pleasant to
me
.
But old John was always quick with a quip or a remark. We discussed
music, mostly, with the both of us being musicians and all.”

“You’re a musician?” said T.J.

“Well, it’s my second career, though it’s my
first love. Helped me put my son through school. He’s entering his
junior year at Georgetown University in the States, majoring in
finance. Hopes to come back here and find a position with the Bank
of Bermuda.”

“Wow, so you’re a rocker, Chappy?” asked
Bortnicker.

“No, no,” he chuckled. “I’m actually a member
of a well-known group over here. We call ourselves the
Beachcombers, and our specialties are Caribbean and Reggae. I play
a fairly good steel drum, I’m told.”

“And here we have the famous Nigel Chapford,
driver by day and musical artist by night,” said Bortnicker,
channeling his inner Beatle.

“That’s quite good,” laughed Chappy. “You
actually sounded a bit like him.”

“Chappy,” said T.J., “don’t encourage him,
unless you want to hear it all the time.”

“I’ll take your advice, T.J.” Chappy replied.
“Keep practicing, Mr. B, you’ll get it eventually.” He smiled,
flashing a thumbs-up in the rearview mirror.

Undeterred, Bortnicker nodded with
satisfaction. “Can we come see you perform sometime?”

“Well, if your schedule allows, our band has
a standing gig at the Elbow Beach Resort on Thursday nights. They
stage a rather extravagant seafood buffet on their patio, and we
provide the ambience.”

“We’re there!” exclaimed Bortnicker. “I’m
sure Mike’ll give us a couple nights off. Wait’ll I tell LouAnne
that you knew John Lennon!”

“That would be the final member of your party
whom we’re fetching from the airport tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yeah,” said T.J. “She’s my cousin. You’ll
like her.”

“I’m sure I will,” Chappy answered
graciously.

“Which reminds me,” said T.J., “we’re taking
part in the 5k Teen Run a week from tomorrow, and I’m trying to
figure out the best place for us to run in the morning so we can
prepare.”

Chappy pursed his lips and tapped on the
steering wheel, thinking hard. “Well, if you want the scenic route,
you need do nothing more than take a right out of your hotel onto
South Road. If you run with the traffic, meaning on the left, of
course, you will at times be able to look down on the shoreline and
the ocean. Wonderful vistas and all that. However, in the mornings
you’ll be sharing the road with what constitutes our rush hour
traffic. Throw in some crazy tourists on scooters, and you have a
potentially dangerous situation. I recommend instead the Bermuda
Railway Trail—”

“You have your own
railroad
?” said
Bortnicker eagerly.

T.J. frowned. “You’ve got to excuse
Bortnicker, Chappy,” he said. “He’s like a model train fanatic.
Anytime he hears ‘railroad’ he goes wild. But still, I would think
Bermuda’s too small to have trains.”

“Well, it is,” said Chappy, “but that didn’t
stop the government from giving it a try in the 1920s. Caused a lot
of controversy, but by the 30s it ran pretty much the length of the
island. Until the end of World War II, it was the island’s primary
source of transportation. But, given the amount of use, especially
during the War, and the climate and salt causing corrosion on the
bridges and trestles, it was deemed impractical to maintain. Then,
in 1946 we introduced buses here, and by the following year, the
rail system was shut down and the trains sold off to the British
colony in Guyana. By the time Bermuda allowed private motor
vehicles to be imported in ’48, nobody even cared the trains were
gone.

“But the Railway Trail where the tracks were
formerly was left for hikers, bikers—but no mopeds—and runners,
like yourself. There are some interruptions, but it follows most of
the former track, and you’ll be treated to ever-changing scenery as
you run. Farms, fields, some thick jungle, even some glimpses of
the ocean—it’s all there.”

“Cool,” said T.J. “How do I get there from
the hotel?”

“You’re in luck,” he said. “Take a left out
onto South Road, and your first left on the Tribal Road about 100
feet away. You’ll climb up a hill and, shortly, see the entrance
for the Railway Trail. If you take a left onto the trail and go
west, it will take you all the way across Southampton Parish and
beyond. It’s quiet, and you’ll catch shady areas here and there.
Joggers also like it because it provides a softer surface than the
pavement of South Road.”

“Are there any snakes in there?” asked T.J.,
remembering vaguely how his cousin had once expressed a fear of the
creatures.

“Bermuda has no snakes, T.J.,” he said.
“Lizards, yes; snakes, no.”

“Looks like you’ve got a training course,”
said Bortnicker.

“Seems like it. I’m gonna try it tomorrow
morning so I can tell LouAnne about it when we pick her up.”

“You’ll enjoy the road race, T.J.,” said
Chappy. “It begins on the western tip near the Royal Naval Dockyard
and ends in Hamilton. So, in the end, you will get to run on South
Road, except that the police will ensure your safety. Perhaps your
father and Mike will want to follow you on their scooters? It’s a
pleasant ride. They are renting extra helmets and double-seater
bikes, by the way.

“Which reminds me,” he said, snapping his
fingers, “I have a note for you from Mike.” He fished around in his
pants pocket and pulled out a piece of stationery from the
hotel.

T.J. read it aloud:

Dudes,

When you get to the Blue Lagoon Dive Shop,
make sure our reservation for Tuesday’s dive is squared away. Rent
all the equipment you still need. The Adventure Channel has been
handling this so far, and the guy who’s taking us there, Jasper
Goodwin, is the one who discovered the wreck you’ll be diving on,
which we hope is Tarver’s. If he’s out on a charter you’re to ask
for Ronnie Goodwin. Any problems, call me on my cell.

See you later,

Mike

“Sounds good,” said Bortnicker. “But we’re
eating first, right?”

“No sooner said than done,” answered Chappy,
as he turned into a crushed shell parking lot near a pink building
that could barely be classified as a shack. There was a small deck
on the side with tiny umbrellaed tables and a couple men, who
looked to be locals, taking a break from the sun to enjoy a beer.
“I give you Dora’s Corners, your first real Bermudian dining
experience. All I can tell you is, it’s where the natives eat.”

They went inside, the screen door slapping
shut behind them. “Well, well,” said a huge black woman mopping her
brow as she wiped a counter that had seen better days. “To what do
we owe the honor of a visit by Nigel Chapford himself?”

“Ah, Dora, pleasant as always,” cooed Chappy,
leaning across the counter to plant a kiss on the proprietor’s
sweaty cheek. “Allow me to introduce my two friends, T.J. and
Bortnicker. They’re here from the States to film a TV show.”

“You don’t say,” she remarked, quickly wiping
grease off her hand before shaking with the teens. “We’re honored.
Not too many visitors from the U.S. find their way here.”

“Well,” said T.J., ever the diplomat, “we
asked Chappy—uh, Mr. Chapford—where we could get the most authentic
Bermuda food in Somerset, and he brought us to you.”

“Did he now? What a righteous gentleman.”

T.J. was starting to pick up a kind of accent
from the natives. It was hard to put your finger on, kind of a
switching of V’s and W’s, and a J sound when you had a vowel
following a D. So “Bermudian” came out “Bermewjan”.

“Let’s see,” said Dora, opening the
refrigerator behind her to pull out a couple bottles of fruit
juice. “How does Hoppin’ John and my Smokin’ Bean Soup sound?”

The boys looked to Chappy, who nodded.

“Great,” said T.J.

“All right, then,” said Dora, “it will take a
few minutes, as you can’t rush perfection. Have a seat here at the
counter and enjoy your drink. Mr. Chapford, a cold Red Stripe for
your efforts?”

“No thanks, not at the moment,” he said as
Dora placed the sweating bottle of beer back in the refrigerator.
“I’m still on duty. But I could stop in later—”

“You’re on,” she smiled, throwing a dishtowel
over her shoulder as she waddled over to the stove. “I’ll count the
hours.”

“If you don’t mind, boys, I’d like to go put
petrol in the minivan. If you finish before I return, the dive shop
is only a couple hundred feet up the road. I’ll pick you up
there.”

“No problem,” said Bortnicker. “Take your
time.”

Chappy waved goodbye and was off.

“You boys must be living well,” said Dora
over her shoulder. “Hiring out one of the island’s best drivers for
the day?”

“It might be more like two weeks,” said T.J.,
sipping his mango juice, which was tangy and sweet at the same
time.

“Do tell,” said Dora. “And with petrol over
eight dollars a gallon. Are your producers footing the bill for
this?”

“Yeah,” said Bortnicker, draining his bottle.
“A pretty sweet deal. May I have another juice?”

“Yes, you may,” said Dora, mixing some
vegetables and meat in a skillet. “So what’s the show about? Travel
do’s and don’ts, that sort of thing?”

“No, not really,” T.J. began. “We’re—”

“We’re part of a ghost hunting expedition!”
said Bortnicker grandly, making T.J. wince.

Dora slid another juice across the counter to
Bortnicker. For the first time T.J. noticed two other people in the
room who were eating at a corner table. From their appearance, they
seemed to be laborers. And they were paying attention. “And whose
ghost would you be hunting, darlin’?” she asked dubiously.

“Sir William Tarver,” said T.J. “Ever heard
of him?” He watched as the formerly effervescent woman adopted the
same eerie veil of impassivity that had come over Chappy
earlier.

She turned back to the stove as if his
question had never occurred and busied herself with stirring a cast
iron pot of soup. T.J. and Bortnicker looked at each other with
raised eyebrows.

At that point, the two men at the corner
table got up to leave. One of them, a towering guy with dreadlocks
and a full black beard, placed a few dollars on the counter. Before
heading for the door, he turned to the boys. “I’d stay away from
Hibiscus House,” he whispered deeply, so it was almost a growl. “A
bad place. You don’t know what you be messin’ with.” He clomped
out.

Suddenly, Dora was before them, returned to
her earlier cheerful self, with two steaming plates of food. “All
right,” she said to T.J., “for you we have Hoppin’ John and paw paw
Montespan, which feature black-eyed peas and ground beef made with
tomatoes and paw paw, with some rice. And for your friend there’s
our tangy Portuguese red bean soup, with a hunk of my homemade
brown bread. Feel free to share with each other.” She started to
turn away, then thought better of it and again faced the boys.
“That man that spoke to you—Willie B.—he’s not completely right in
the head. Pay him no mind.” Dora went back into her kitchen area,
where the boys could hear the
whap-whap-whap
of her chopping
vegetables.

The pair chewed robotically; though the food
was savory and exotic, its taste barely registered. They finished,
paid their tab, which included a generous tip, thanked Dora, and
walked out. If they were expecting a “hope to see you again,” it
wasn’t forthcoming.

“What was
that
all about?” said
Bortnicker, squinting in the sunlight.

“Don’t know,” said T.J. “It’s like if we
mention Tarver, everyone goes zombie. We gotta mention this to
Mike.”

“So, on to the dive shop?”

“Yeah, it’s gotta be friendlier than Dora’s
Corners.”

Chapter Ten

The Blue Lagoon Dive
Shop was a low-slung, pale blue stucco building near a canal
spanned by a charming mini drawbridge. Behind it lay a cove where
pleasure boats bobbed at their shallow moorings. A dock out back
provided slips for the business’s two charter boats,
Reef Seeker
I
and
II
. From the tiny bridge the boys could see that
one of the boats was absent.

They entered the shop and were immediately
struck by the differences between this place and Capt. Kenny’s back
home. The decorations were decidedly more upscale; there was no
musty sea smell, either. The prices on the equipment were
definitely more geared to tourists with a lot of disposable income.
Blue Lagoon also sported a few display cases, but unlike Capt.
Kenny’s they were filled with wondrous shells and pieces of coral.
No historical artifacts whatsoever. Soothing Caribbean music
drifted down from ceiling speakers. T.J. wondered if this was the
right place to hire out a boat for a wreck dive; then he remembered
that its owner was the man who had discovered their wreck in the
first place. “Hello?” he called out in the deserted showroom.
“Anyone here?”