Bermuda Schwartz (8 page)

“Brothers of the Cross?”

“One of those secret orders of Christians, like the Knights Templar, that started up around the time of the Crusades. From Portugal originally. They're said to have come into possession of the remains of the True Cross and commissioned the reliquary to hold it.”

“So how did it wind up in Bermuda?”

“Long story,” Janeen says. “Longer than you've got time to hear tonight.”

She looks past me to the house. J.J. hurries out the front door, a blue blazer over an arm, a freshly pressed white shirt on a hanger.

“But Peach and Boyd … they thought the reliquary was somewhere out there? On a wreck or something?”

Janeen nods.

“They thought they'd located it and were closing in on it.”

“And that's what got them killed?”

“Apparently,” Janeen says, flicking her cigarette to the ground, crunching
it out with the toe of a shoe. “But then, what do I know? I'm crazy.”

Janeen offers me her hand.

“A pleasure chatting with you, Mr. Chasteen. I need to get back to the
Gazette
office. I've got a story to file.” She reaches into her purse, produces a business card. “If anything else comes up that you think would be helpful, then I'd appreciate it if you gave me a call.”

 

It's just past sunset when J.J. delivers me to the Mid Ocean Club. Aunt Trula scrutinizes me as I arrive at the table. She is swathed in something shiny and blue, mere backdrop for a white gold pendant with a whopper of a diamond brooch that rests just above her decolletage. A bit more decolletage than I would prefer to see, thank you very much, but hey, it's her show.

I'm expecting something catty from the old girl, especially since I'm so late. But she surprises me.

“You look quite nice,” she says.

“Thanks. The jacket's a loaner. From J.J.”

“The driver?”

“Yep. Shops were closed and he let me borrow something from his closet.”

Aunt Trula forces a smile.

“Well, it shows off your shoulders nicely.”

She's trying, I guess.

“And that's some necklace you're wearing,” I say.

“Why, thank you.” She puts a hand to a cheek, demure, as if she's ready to blush. “It was a gift.”

I swoop in and give Barbara a peck on the cheek. She's wearing a simple black dress and the black pearl necklace I gave her for Christmas.
I have yet to check out all the other women in the room, but I know she's the best looking one in it. She always is.

Boggy sits next to her. I'm pleased that Aunt Trula has seen fit to invite him, but more than a little startled by his outfit—a starched white shirt under a blue blazer with brass buttons and a gold crest on the jacket's pocket. It's no loaner. And no way it was wrapped up in his blanket-cum-suitcase.

Barbara reads my mind.

“We found something of Uncle Taylor's,” she says. “It was a perfect fit.”

Boggy gives no sign whether he's enjoying himself or just enduring his circumstances, like a cat being given a bath. He studies me, eyes furrowed.

He says, “Your afternoon, Zachary, did it go well?”

“Yeah, just dandy.”

He can tell I'm lying. Barbara can, too. But no need to get into it here.

There's a fifth chair at our table, next to Aunt Trula, with a drink sitting in front of it. And now its occupant returns from visiting a group of people near the bar. He's an older gentleman—short, barrel-chested, with close-cropped white hair, a ruddy weatherworn face, and eyes of the palest blue.

He sticks out a hand. His grip is firm, his grin congenial.

“Teddy,” he says. “Teddy Schwartz.”

“Sir Teddy is an old, old friend,” says Aunt Trula. “You've heard of him, no doubt.”

The moment she adds the title, it clicks with me who he is.

“Of course,” I say. “What a pleasure.”

“Sit,” says Teddy. “What are you drinking?”

“Gosling's, neat,” I tell the waiter at my elbow.

“Same here,” Teddy says. Then to me: “So you favor our local rum, do you?”

“I favor all rum,” I say.

“Ah, that's a lad,” says Teddy, giving me a slap on the back.

Strictly speaking, Gosling's isn't from Bermuda. It's a blend of rums imported from several different Caribbean islands, with a few secret ingredients added to give it a flavor all its own. It goes down good, so why mince details over its pedigree with the likes of Teddy Schwartz?

I'm in a state of minor awe just sitting next to him.

In my former life, after I stopped playing football and before I got railroaded into jail then got out and started raising palm trees full-time, I used to have a modest charter boat operation. Fishing was always the biggest part of it, but I would run the occasional scuba trip if there were paying clients.

So I am on fairly solid ground when it comes to diving, enough to know that if you were to make a list of the top ten pioneers of underwater exploration, then Teddy Schwartz's name would surely be on it, right up there with Jacques Cousteau, Zale Parry, and that crew. In the late 1940s, with scuba diving in its infancy and Teddy barely in his teens, he had been one of the first to strap on a tank and go nosing around in the waters of Bermuda.

Over the years, he had discovered and subsequently salvaged dozens of shipwrecks. And although he had no formal training in the field, he was considered one of the fathers of marine archaeology, an innovator in technique and technology.

He was also considered something of a rogue and a scoundrel, at least in the eyes of the Bermudian government. Beginning in the 1960s, it had enacted a series of increasingly strict laws that sought to license treasure salvors and lay claim to anything they found. Teddy had long railed against such laws, and although he had donated many of the artifacts he'd found, not only to the government but to different historical societies and maritime research institutes, there was little doubt that he had probably sold off an even greater portion to various international collectors.

The most notorious instance was the ongoing mystery of Schwartz's Scepter. Discovered by Teddy in the early 1960s on the wreckage of a seventeenth-century British ship, the scepter was thought to have been a gift from Queen Elizabeth I to the ship's captain, both as a good-luck talisman and the seal of royal approval. With its long gold staff and emerald-encrusted head, the scepter was the single most dazzling bit of treasure ever plucked from Bermuda's waters. The tale of its discovery had even warranted a cover story in
National Geographic,
and led to Teddy Schwartz's eventual knighthood.

After nearly twenty years of wrangling with Bermudian authorities over who was its rightful owner, during which time Teddy kept the scepter on public display at a small museum he once operated in downtown Hamilton, a truce was finally reached. Teddy would sell the scepter
to the British Museum for a token amount, just a few thousand dollars, and split the proceeds with the Bermudian government.

But when curators arrived from London to prepare the scepter for transport, they discovered that the piece on display was just a replica, albeit a very good one. The official explanation: Thieves had broken into the museum at some unknown point and switched out the pieces. The unspoken subtext: Teddy had sold the scepter on the international market and substituted the fake. In any event, the original had never been recovered.

As much as I would like to spend the evening chatting with Teddy Schwartz, it doesn't happen. Between Aunt Trula monopolizing the conversation and a steady stream of people stopping by the table to pay their regards to Sir Teddy, dinner is soon over. The only real moment we have is when the plates are being cleared and Barbara and Aunt Trula step to the ladies' room.

“So tell me,” Teddy says in a low voice. “What I'm hearing about the body on Cutfoot Beach, is it true?”

“Depends on what you're hearing,” I say, knowing full well what he's talking about and wondering if there's such a thing as a secret in Bermuda.

“The eyes.”

“Yeah, I'm afraid that's true.”

Teddy doesn't say anything, but it's clear that he's unsettled by my confirmation of the rumor.

“I heard something similar happened several years ago,” I say.

Teddy nods, but offers nothing by way of further explanation. He seems consumed with his own thoughts. We sit in silence until Aunt Trula and Barbara return.

“Time for us to go, Teddy,” announces Aunt Trula.

Boggy springs to his feet. He's more than ready to call it a night, too. Teddy gets up and offers Aunt Trula his arm.

I stand, but Aunt Trula waves me back down.

“No, you and Barbara stay, enjoy yourselves,” she says. “The night is young, the band will start playing soon, and the two of you need some time together. I'll make sure that J.J. is here to take you home.”

I catch a look from Barbara: Your call.

“That'd be nice,” I say. “We'll stick around a bit longer.”

I need some one-on-one time with Barbara.

And, considering the day it's been, I wouldn't mind another rum.

 

The band isn't awful, a three-man combo with a vocalist who has opted for a look somewhere between Mary Travers and Peggy Lee—a little too blond, a little too chunky, but not all that hard on the eyes. They play old white people's music, mellow sounds of the ‘60s with flabby takes on newer stuff. Still, it sets a nice enough mood, wallpaper for the evening.

Barbara and I order more drinks. I tell her about the scene at the bank and my run-in with Brewster Trimmingham. Which calls for even more drinks.

“So what next?” asks Barbara.

“I'm still trying to figure that out.”

“Did you call Freddie Arzghanian?”

“Why would I do that?”

“To ask him why he set you up with this thief Trimmingham, of course.”

I shake my head.

“I'll tell Freddie when the time is right,” I say. “The fewer dealings I have with him, the better.”

“I was just thinking that he might be able to apply some pressure on Trimmingham and get your money back, that's all.”

“I'm a big boy.”

“And big boys take care of themselves?”

I nod.

“Besides,” I say, “Brewster Trimmingham has all the pressure he can handle right now.”

“Is he going to be OK?”

“Yeah, I think so. The ambulance crew got him stabilized. A few days in the hospital maybe, but he should be all right.”

I sip some Gosling's. Maybe if I sip enough of it I'll figure out the secret ingredients. That way I'd accomplish something useful on this trip.

I sip some more. I'm thinking bitters and a touch of vanilla …

“The men who beat him up, who do you think they are?”

“No earthly idea.”

“Did you get the license plate number?”

I shake my head.

“Stuff like that, I think it only happens in the movies. I was too busy taking everything in. I didn't even think of it until they were long gone.”

We order more drinks. It's a good thing they don't let tourists drive in Bermuda because this one can't.

“Zack, may I ask you a question?”

“You may.”

“It's a bit touchy.”

“There's no one I'd rather get touchy with than you.”

Barbara smiles.

“OK, then,” she says. “Do you ever stop to think where your money came from?”

“Yes, believe me, I think about that all the time. It came from bad guys. Very bad guys.”

“And you don't have a basic moral issue with that?”

“No. Because I worked for that money. I worked hard. I obtained it honorably. And at great sacrifice.”

“And is that money any less bad because it came into your possession?”

“Yes, I think it is less bad because of that. I redeemed it, purified it.”

Barbara laughs.

“Oh, you did, did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You don't think it's just a massive rationalization on your part?”

“Oh, of course, it's a rationalization, but I don't think it's a massive one.
I think it's tiny and, all things considered, pretty benign. And I really do think that money was made good again by its association with me.”

“I do, too,” she says. “I believe everything is made good by its association with you.”

“I believe maybe you're getting a little carried away there,” I say. “Plus, we're both more than a little drunk.”

The band starts playing “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?” The blond woman is no Van Morrison, or Rod Stewart, but she isn't that bad.

“Let's dance,” Barbara says.

We're the only ones on the floor, but even when it's crowded that's the way it always feels with Barbara. She rests her chin on my shoulder. We move without even thinking. It feels right.

Barbara says, “Whisper sweet nothings in my ear.”

I nuzzle her hair, pull her even closer.

“Think Aunt Trula can recommend a good attorney?”

Barbara stops dancing. She looks up at me.

“You call that a sweet nothing?”

“Sorry,” I say. “I'm preoccupied.”

She puts her head back on my shoulder. We sway with the music.

“I'm sure Aunt Trula can recommend an attorney, Zack. But why? You aren't in some kind of trouble, are you?”

“No, not yet,” I say. “But I'm getting ready to stir the pot.”

 

I don't sleep worth a damn. Too much to drink, too much on my mind. It's still dark when I slip out of the bed in Barbara's room—to hell with Aunt Trula and her bunking arrangements—throw on clothes, and tiptoe down the hall toward the kitchen.

I'm just passing Aunt Trula's bedroom when I hear her door creak open behind me. Aw, hell. Having a hangover is punishment enough. I don't need Aunt Trula on my case.