Spirits of the Pirate House (14 page)

“Me, too.”

“Race you back!” she called out over her
shoulder, breaking into a sprint. T.J. took off behind her but
never closed to within ten yards the whole way back. This girl was
serious
!

* * * *

“I fixed you some cereal and O.J.,” said
Bortnicker, who emerged from the steamy bathroom with a towel
around his skinny waist. “How was your run?”

“She kicked my butt,” confessed T.J. “I think
she’s gonna be tough on Saturday.”

“I don’t know, I’ve got a feeling you’re
gonna surprise yourself.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Oh, by the way, Mike dropped off our
shirts. Very classy.” He held up one of the black golf shirts with
JGGC
embroidered on the left breast. The tee shirts, also
black, were a little more ornate, with the
Gonzo Ghost
Chasers
logo of a running Casper-like being on the back.

T.J. hopped in the shower and then dressed
while mixing in bites of his cereal. “No gourmet breakfasts on this
trip, I guess,” he lamented, remembering the feasts Bortnicker and
Aunt Terri had whipped up the previous summer in Gettysburg.

“No ingredients, no gourmet breakfasts,”
answered Bortnicker. “Hey, I’m glad your dad bought us as much food
as he did. Have you seen the prices on the cereal boxes and granola
bars? Mucho expensivo, Big Mon.”

They finished dressing and met LouAnne, who’d
chosen khaki capris to go with her golf shirt. “This is scary,” she
said. “I never pictured the three of us with identical
outfits.”

“That’s show biz!” thundered Mike, bursting
out of his room. “Is my team ready to start the investigation or
what?”

“Can’t wait!” said T.J.

“I’ve got the camcorder right here,” said
LouAnne, patting the camera.

“Great. How do I look?” he said, sporting a
larger-sized golf shirt and black slacks.

“Like an overgrown
Junior Gonzo
,” said
Bortnicker playfully.

“Perfect! Let’s get downstairs. I’m sure
Chappy’s waiting for us.”

And he was. “Beautiful day, folks!” he
beamed. “We’re off to the National Trust Museum in St. George’s,
correct?”

“That’s it,” said Mike, slipping into the
front seat. “My team here is ready to grill a Mrs. Tilbury. Ever
heard of her?”

“That would be Constance Tilbury,” said
Chappy, nodding. “Been with the National Trust forever. A rawther
proper one, is Mrs. Tilbury,” he added, rolling his r’s for effect.
“I’d mind my manners around her. She’s considered one of the
foremost authorities on Bermudian history pre-1900. Always being
interviewed on TV and all that. Make sure you’ve worked out your
questions ahead of time; I don’t think she’d suffer unprepared
interviewers gladly, even if they are young people.”

At that, Bortnicker whipped out a small
notebook he’d been preparing for the trip, and they all contributed
ideas for the list, Mike included. Before they knew it, they were
again in St. George’s. Chappy pulled up in front of an old stone
building.

“Here we are, my friends. The Bermuda
National Trust Museum, built around 1700 by Governor Samuel Day.
Good luck with Mrs. Tilbury. I’ll go for a cup of tea and meet you
back here.”

As they approached the museum’s entrance,
Mike stopped them and looked around. “Okay, guys, now I have to do
my part. For this show, I’m going to introduce each segment, since
I’m acting as the technical advisor. Then, you can expect to be
doing a lot of sound bites before, during, and after each part of
the investigation, explaining the use of different equipment, or
stuff you might have seen or heard.

“We’re going to end up with loads of footage.
Then I’ll send it off to the production people in LA, and they
splice it all together into an hour TV show. But I will have some
say into the final cut. So let’s film this first intro. LouAnne,
you want to handle it? Just give me a 3-2-1.”

“Sure thing,” she said, shouldering the
camcorder. She counted down, and Mike began his monologue:

“We begin our investigation of the strange
goings-on at Hibiscus House in Bermuda with a visit to the National
Trust Museum, where the team will be meeting with Mrs. Constance
Tilbury, chairman of the National Trust. Perhaps she will be able
to shed some light on the exploits of the pirate William Tarver and
why he has apparently decided to come back and terrorize the
visitors and staff at his former residence.”

“Got it,” said LouAnne, clicking off.

The foursome walked through the front door
and gave their name at the desk. The receptionist pointed toward a
large mahogany door at the end of the hallway. “Through there,” she
said in a businesslike manner. “Mrs. Tilbury is expecting you.”

Mike gave the door a soft knock, and they
entered Constance Tilbury’s domain. The walls were lined with cedar
shelves filled with books, some of which appeared to go back
centuries. The wood floor was polished to a high sheen, and her
mahogany desk gleamed. T.J. noticed that it was probably the most
neatly ordered desk he’d ever seen.

“Come in, please,” said the petite woman with
snow white hair. She had been reading at her desk, and her granny
glasses were pushed far down on her nose. By the time she came
around the desk to shake their hands they had been removed.

“Please sit,” she offered, pointing to four
rather uncomfortable straight-backed chairs that had been arranged
facing her desk. She returned to her seat behind the imposing piece
of furniture and sat back, tenting her fingers in front of her pink
blouse.

“Quite a room,” said Mike, breaking the
ice.

“Yes, well, it was Governor Day’s library
originally. We use it as our office.”

“Fantastic. Mrs. Tilbury, I’m Michael
Weinstein, we spoke on the phone—”

“Yes, I remember. Pleased to meet you
finally.”

“And these are my colleagues for the project:
Mr. Jackson, Mr. Bortnicker, and Miss Darcy.”

“Charmed. And aren’t you the pretty one, Miss
Darcy.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” said LouAnne, blushing.
“Is it all right if I film our conversation? For the television
show?”

“By all means, my dear. Now, what do you want
to know?” she said primly as LouAnne hefted the camcorder and
pressed RECORD.

“To begin,” said T.J. nervously, “what
exactly is the Bermuda National Trust?”

“It’s a charity, actually, established in
1970 to preserve our natural, architectural, and historic
treasures, and to encourage the public’s appreciation of them. The
purpose of our programs and activities is to ensure that Bermuda’s
unique heritage remains protected for future generations.

“To that end, we oversee some 70 properties
throughout the country that include a number of different historic
houses, islands, gardens, cemeteries, nature reserves, and the
like.

“The Trust also runs three museums displaying
a collection of artifacts owned and made by Bermudians, as well as
an education program that focuses on the island’s history and what
it means to our future.”

“And Hibiscus House is one of those
properties?” asked Bortnicker.

“One of our finest,” she answered proudly.
“Sir William Tarver played a prominent role in Bermuda history of
the 1700s, and his home is a testament to his influence.”

“Except that nobody wants to work there,”
said Bortnicker pointedly.

“There have been ... issues,” Mrs. Tilbury
said, a bit of a squint in her eye.

“Do you think the house is haunted?” asked
T.J. gently.

“Good heavens, no,” she answered smartly.

Bortnicker and T.J. looked at each other with
concern. “Well,” ventured T.J., “then what are we doing here, Mrs.
Tilbury?”

The woman seemed taken aback by the question,
though it was a fair one. She gathered herself and leaned forward
on her desk. “Please don’t be offended,” she said tactfully, “but
this whole enterprise was most certainly
not
my idea. The
fact of the matter is that we have a committee that makes such
decisions. As you can see, I was outvoted.” She didn’t seem too
happy about it.

“But, wouldn’t you want someone to come in
here and hopefully determine that the site is fine?” asked
Weinstein.

Mrs. Tilbury turned to Mike and fixed him
with a disapproving look. “I have seen your television program, Mr.
Weinstein,” she began, her voice becoming edgy. “A lot of idiotic
raving and playacting, if you ask me. And that includes the
ridiculous contraptions you pass off as paranormal investigation
equipment. You will be allowed access to the house, but you will
not
turn the investigation of a National Trust site into a
circus. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, very,” answered Mike.

“May I ask you a question, Mrs. Tilbury?”
said T.J., attempting to change the tone of the interview. He gave
his most charming smile, and she actually attempted one in
return.

“Surely, Mr. Jackson.”

“Sir William Tarver, according to our
research, was a pirate—”

“A
privateer
, Mr. Jackson,” she
corrected. “You are aware of the difference?”

“A pirate was out for himself,” said
Bortnicker, “while a privateer was under contract, usually by a
government or a governor of some kind.”

“Well done, Mr. Bortnicker. Sir William had
begun as a full-fledged pirate, capturing ships of any flag and
keeping the plunder for himself and his crew. But then, the
governor of Bermuda convinced him that he could still make
money—and save his neck, as they were hanging pirates in England—by
attacking Spanish merchant ships in the name of England by way of
Bermuda.”

“And he made enough money to finance that
huge house and plantation just from working for the governor?”

Mrs. Tilbury paused for just a second, which
T.J. thought was strange, before replying, “It would appear.” She
looked up at the mahogany encased grandfather clock in the corner,
a signal that their interview was nearly over. “Of course, he also
served as a military advisor to the governor, as many forts and
other defensive installations were being built at the time.”

“Are there any in particular he had a hand in
designing?”

“Yes. Fort St. Catherine here in St. George’s
Parish, and Fort Hamilton in Pembroke Parish.”

Bortnicker scribbled the names in his
notebook.

“You’ve been rather quiet through all this,
Miss Darcy,” said the woman.

“Busy filming, I guess,” said LouAnne. “But I
did have one question.”

“And what would that be?”

“Well, it’s customary on the show to speak to
employees or visitors of the site in question who have experienced
paranormal occurrences, or what they believed to be such. Will we
have that opportunity?”

Mrs. Tilbury took a measured breath, probably
berating herself internally for giving the girl an opening.

“Miss Darcy, it is against everything I
believe in to base an investigation on hearsay or the fanciful
claims of those who might desire their so-called fifteen minutes of
fame.”

“But,” pressed LouAnne, “the house has
remained closed to the public for going on six months because you
can’t find anyone to work there, isn’t that correct?” True to her
nature, she wasn’t backing down one inch. Tilbury glared at
her.

“Ladies and gentlemen, here is what’s going
to happen. You will conduct your investigation of Hibiscus House on
our agreed date, with the option for a second visit. I am
completely confident that your visit, or visits, will reveal that
this building is no more than an interesting historical site that
will forever entice visitors based on its sheer beauty ... and
nothing more.”

“But can we still have access to the
historical archives?” said Bortnicker.

“That is what was agreed upon,” she answered
through slightly clenched teeth.

T.J., who noticed a vein that had been
pulsing on the side of Mrs. Tilbury’s forehead, went into his
finest suave mode, rising to shake her hand. “Mrs. Tilbury,” he
said sincerely, “we thank you so much for your time and expertise,
and promise that we will produce a show that you will be proud of,
one that will help promote your beautiful island.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Jackson,” she said,
taking his hand while the others rose. “I’m sure that under
your
guidance, Hibiscus House will be accorded the respect
it deserves. Good day.”

They walked out of the office and through the
building. Once outside, Mike said, “So, what do you think,
dudes?”

“She’s lying,” said Bortnicker.

“No doubt,” agreed LouAnne. “If she could
snap her finger and make us disappear, we’d be history.”

“Sir William Tarver had a secret,” said T.J.
“And it’s gonna be up to us to find out what it is, which will
explain why he’s hanging around all of a sudden. And I think it all
starts tomorrow on our wreck dive.”

“Which reminds me,” said Bortnicker. “We’re
supposed to be going snorkeling at this Treasure Beach this
afternoon. Is it okay if we pick up Ronnie on the way?”

T.J. and his cousin looked at each other.
“Sure, why not,” said LouAnne casually. “The more the merrier.”

“Besides, she’ll know where to find the cool
stuff she mentioned,” added T.J.

“You dudes won’t mind taking the bus there?”
asked Mike as Chappy pulled up in front of the museum. “This really
isn’t on the itinerary for Chappy.”

“No big deal,” said T.J. “We’re just bringing
our dive bag with our masks and snorkels and stuff. Dad got us all
weekly bus passes, so we might as well use them.”

They got into the minivan. “How did it go, my
friends?” said Chappy nonchalantly.

“Not good,” said Bortnicker. “Mrs. Tilbury
was okay and all, but I don’t think she wants us poking around
Hibiscus House.”

“And she won’t let us talk to anyone who’s
quit working there,” said T.J. “I don’t know what that means
exactly.”“It means you have a mystery to solve,” said Chappy
matter-of-factly. He slid a