Bermuda Schwartz (11 page)

“I was.”

“Then I need to take a look at your vest.”

“And I need to know who you are.”

The bearded man looks briefly startled, but he recovers with a smile.

“Oh, my apologies,” he says, sticking out a hand. “Dr. Michael Frazer, with the Ministry of Environment. I'm curator of wrecks.”

“Curse of the wrecks is more like it,” says Teddy. “A goddamn plague on us all.”

Frazer ignores him, shaking his head as if to say he's grown accustomed to being cussed and it doesn't really bother him.

“Curator of wrecks?” I say. “Interesting title.”

Frazer shrugs.

“And an interesting job to go with it,” he says. “But you know that old Scottish curse.”

“May you live in interesting times?”

“That's it.” Frazer smiles. “And well applied to what I do.”

He points to my BCV.

“May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

He goes through all the pockets.

“Thank you,” he says when he's done.

He steps toward the bench where Teddy's vest sits.

“May I, Sir Teddy?”

“What is this, some bloody child's game? Mother, may I?” Teddy says it with a sneer. “Just finish up with it, will you?”

Frazer goes through Teddy's vest, finds nothing. Sitting next to it on the bench is Teddy's dive bag.

“That your dive bag?” asks Frazer.

“You saw me climb out of the water with it, didn't you? And you saw me put it down. Yes, it's my dive bag.”

“Then I'd like to have a look in it, too.”

“You've arse-ended everything else on my boat,” says Teddy. “Might as well stick your hands in there, too.”

Frazer picks up the dive bag. He unzips it, removes the ice pick and the Ping-Pong paddle. He casts a suspicious look at Teddy.

“What?” says Teddy. “There a law saying I can't carry the tools of my trade?”

“You know the law, Sir Teddy. No disturbance of an archaeological site without proper permit.”

“Only disturbance here is you.”

Frazer lets it roll. He turns the dive bag inside out. There's nothing else in it. He puts it back on the bench.

“Satisfied?” says Teddy.

“Yes, thank you,” says Frazer. “We'll be on our way.”

“Damn right you will,” says Teddy.

Frazer hops aboard his boat and casts off the lines. The young man takes the wheel and fires the engine.

The boat moves slowly away. When it's at a distance where its wake won't rock us, the boat throttles up with a loud
va-room
and hits its planing speed.

Teddy watches the boat until it becomes just a speck on the water.

“Let's haul anchor,” he says. “We're heading in.”

 

By the time we return to shore and load into his car for the drive back to Cutfoot Estate, Teddy Schwartz seems to have shaken his sour mood.

I ride shotgun. Boggy takes the backseat. And as we bump along, the conversation soon turns to Michael Frazer's surprise inspection of
Miss
Peg.

“Ah, the bastard's just doing his job, I suppose,” says Teddy. “Still, I don't see why the government has to interfere with tradition.”

“The salvaging tradition, you mean?”

“That exactly,” says Teddy. “Generations of Bermudians have been going out in these waters to find what they can find. There's hardly an old-time family here on the Rock doesn't have a little trinket of some sort that was plucked from the sea.”

“It's like having your own personal treasure chest out there, huh?”

“Ha!” snorts Teddy. “That's what the world would like to believe, anyway. That we treasure salvors just went out for a nice swim and came back rich men.”

“Didn't work like that, huh?”

“No, the way it worked, you invested lots of time, lots of money, risked your life, and often for naught,” says Teddy.

“You've done pretty well by it though.”

“Ah, technology lent me a hand. I was lucky enough to be a young
man with his eye on salvaging when scuba first came along. Doesn't mean I was any brighter than the rest.”

“Come on,” I say. “Something tells me that even if scuba hadn't come along you would have still found a way to do what you were obviously meant to do.”

Teddy smiles.

“Yeah, you're right about that,” he says. “Five years old, I was going out in a rowboat with a bucket, the bottom cut out and a piece of glass stuck in it so I could see what lay down there. By the time I was twelve I'd rigged up this little gasoline motor to pump air down a garden hose. Didn't occur to me that I needed to figure a way to filter out the carbon monoxide when I did it. Almost killed myself the first time I tried it, had to work out the kinks. I was seventeen when I first strapped on a scuba tank. Seldom been far from one since.”

“And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Yeah, I had a good run at it. But that was in the so-called good ol' days, before the new salvage law took effect.”

“Changed things, did it?”

“In a big and everlasting way. The Historic Wrecks Act, they called it. Said all shipwrecks within three hundred miles of shore are historical sites that belong to the nation of Bermuda. Created a fancy-ass position, curator of the wrecks—that would be our man Frazer—and said anyone who discovers a site of potential salvage must register for a permit with his office. Some joke that is.”

“How's that?”

“Care to guess how many people have registered for permits since the new laws went into effect?”

“Don't have clue.”

Teddy holds up a hand, touches index finger to thumb.

“Exactly zero,” he says. “Nary a one.”

“The permits cost a lot of money?”

“No, man, they're free. Don't cost a damn thing.”

“So, I don't get it. People have just stopped salvaging?”

Teddy cuts me a look.

“What kind of fool ya be? Of course they haven't stopped. Salvaging goes on like it always did. Only these days when folks go out there to look for something they just don't find it. You know what I mean?”

“They salvage on the sly.”

Teddy nods.

“Who's to blame them? The law says the government retains ownership to anything they find.”

“And doesn't have to pay them for it?”

“Oh, the law provides for just compensation,” says Teddy. “But it's the government that gets to decide the compensation. And believe me, it's nowhere near just. That's why, people who salvage nowadays, when they find something of value, they sell it on the black market to some rich collector who secrets it away for his enjoyment and his alone. The public doesn't hear about it. And worse, the public doesn't get to share in the history of what was found. All the Historic Wrecks Act did was make sure people would never get a chance to see historic marine finds again.”

“It was different when you found Schwartz's Scepter, right?”

“Oh yeah, it was altogether different. It was years before the wrecks act when I found Betty's bat.” He looks at me, winks. “That's what I called the scepter. I never much liked the idea of naming it after me. Better to give a nod to Queen Elizabeth I. A beauty it was.”

“Something to behold, huh?”

“Oh yeah, man, like you've never seen. Three dozen emeralds, the biggest, fattest ones you can imagine, and better than a hundred diamonds. All set in the finest gold. Weighed nearly a hundred pounds it did. I was the proudest man on the face of this earth when I came ashore in
Miss Peg
holding Betty's bat.” He takes a moment to relish the memory. “And after I found her what did I do? I put her on display for all to see, that's what. More than half a million people walked through that little museum of mine over the years. They got to see history close up. At a dollar a head.”

“Not a bad turn of coin.”

Teddy laughs.

“No, not at all. Made even more selling T-shirts and replicas and whatnot. And I was due it, too. A return on my investment,” he says. “But that's what got in the government's craw, seeing me make a little money and them not. Got to where it was costing me more in lawyers than I was taking in, so I just gave in to them, agreed to sell the scepter to the British Museum.”

“And then it got stolen,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Then that.”

We ride for a while, neither of us speaking. Teddy looks at me.

“I know what you're wondering,” he says. “What's that?”

“Same thing as everyone else wonders. What really happened to the scepter? Did ol Teddy pull a switcheroo? That what you're wondering?” “Well, now that you mention it.” He grins, gives me a wink. “You just keep wondering about that,” he says.

 

It's only midmorning by the time Teddy drops us off at Cutfoot Estate. Boggy and I check on the hole-digging crew in the backyard. They're making minor progress against the bedrock. The first Bismarck is ready to set. Finally.

I do the math. If we average a little better than a hole a day, then we just might have all the palms planted in time for the big party. I leave Boggy to oversee everything, then head inside.

I find Barbara sitting in the front parlor with Aunt Trula. There's a third woman with them—blond, pretty, outdoorsy looking. Her yellow sundress shows off a nice tan. Nice legs, too. Not that I'd stare.

She's been crying. She wipes her cheeks with the back of a hand.

“You poor, poor dear,” Aunt Trula says, getting up and patting the woman on her back. “Rest assured that I shall help you however I can. And for starters, I want you staying here with us.”

The woman shakes her head.

“No, no. I couldn't possibly do that. It's a great imposition. And I didn't come here with that in mind,” she says, in an accent I'm pretty sure is Australian. “I just wanted to … to see, that's all.”

“I will not hear it,” says Aunt Trula. “You are staying, and that is that. For as long as you need to.”

The woman lets out a long sigh.

“Well, thank you,” she says. “It is very kind. And I am dead on my feet. Been traveling for the better part of the past two days.”

Barbara stands, gives me a hello hug.

“Zack,” she says, “this is Fiona McHugh. It's her brother whose body …”

She stops. She doesn't say anything else, doesn't need to.

“My condolences,” I say.

The woman nods, offers a grim smile.

“Fiona just arrived this morning from Australia,” says Aunt Trula, continuing to comfort her. “I'm sorry, dear, but I didn't catch exactly what part of the country you are from.”

“Perth,” says Fiona. “On the west coast.”

“The most isolated big city on earth,” I say. “Home to the Kings Park Botanic Gardens.”

Fiona brightens a bit.

“Why, yes. Do you know Perth?”

“No, but I've had some contact with the botanic gardens. Provided them with the seeds of some Malaysian palms after a weevil infestation wiped out their collection.”

Aunt Trula says, “Zack is one of the leading authorities in the world on palm trees.”

“Well, that's not exactly true,” I say. “In fact, it's not even anywhere near true.”

“Oh, shush. You're brilliant, absolutely brilliant. You should see what Zack is doing to my backyard, Fiona. Transforming it into a regular Nebuchadrezzar's garden,” says Aunt Trula. She takes Fiona's hand. “Come, dear, let me show you to your room.”

She leads Fiona from the parlor. When they're gone, I sit down on the couch beside Barbara.

“Wow,” I say.

“Wow?”

“Double-wow. As in, wow, when did I suddenly become ace-high with Aunt Trula? And wow, the dead guy's sister is here.”

“The dead guy's name was Ned,” says Barbara. “Ned McHugh.”

“No disrespect intended,” I say. “I'm just surprised to see her, that's all.”

“We were, too. She got here about an hour ago,” says Barbara. “Said she wanted to see where her brother's body washed ashore. So I took her
down to the beach, then left her there to have some time alone. We'd been sitting here for a few minutes when you arrived.”

“Pretty lady.”

“Yes, I saw you staring at her legs.”

“That wasn't staring. It was a professional appraisal.”

“And you approve?”

“Very much so.”

“She's a cop,” Barbara says.

“No way.”

“What? Pretty women with nice legs can't be cops?”

“I didn't say that. But the women cops I know? They don't look like that.”

“All I know is that she's not exactly thrilled by the way the Bermuda police are handling this. They aren't telling her much.”

“Could be because they don't know much.”

“That's what bothers her. She said she intends to do some looking into things herself.”

“How old was her brother?”

“Just twenty-six. He was spending a couple of years traveling. Wound up here, working at a dive shop. Full of life, the world was his oyster,” Barbara says. “It's just so unfair.”

I put an arm around Barbara. She rests her head against my chest. We're quiet for a moment. Then …

“Did you happen to ask Aunt Trula about an attorney?”

Barbara looks up at me, eyebrows angled in a way that tells me she's a little irked.

“Excuse me, but weren't we just cuddling?”

“We were,” I say. “It was nice.”

“So can't you turn it off for just a little while, Zack?”

“Sure, I can. Sorry.”

I kiss the top of her head. We settle back into the couch.

I wonder how Brewster Trimmingham is doing. I need to check on him before I do anything else. I need to check on a couple of other things, too.