Free Bermuda Schwartz by Bob Morris Page A

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.
    â€œSo tell me,” Teddy says in a low voice. “What I’m hearing about the body on Cutfoot Beach, is it true?”
    â€œDepends 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.
    â€œThe eyes.”
    â€œYeah, 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œTime 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.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œThat’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.

17
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    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.
    â€œSo what next?” asks Barbara.
    â€œI’m still trying to figure that out.”
    â€œDid you call Freddie Arzghanian?”
    â€œWhy would I do that?”
    â€œTo ask him why he set you up with this thief Trimmingham, of course.”
    I shake my head.
    â€œI’ll tell Freddie when the time is right,” I say. “The fewer dealings I have with him, the better.”
    â€œI was just thinking that he might be able to apply some pressure on Trimmingham and get your money back, that’s all.”
    â€œI’m a big boy.”
    â€œAnd big boys take care of themselves?”
    I nod.
    â€œBesides,” I say, “Brewster Trimmingham has all the pressure he can handle right now.”
    â€œIs he going to be OK?”
    â€œYeah, 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 …
    â€œThe men who beat him up, who do you think they are?”
    â€œNo earthly idea.”
    â€œDid you get the license plate number?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œStuff 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