Free Spirits of the Pirate House by Paul Ferrante

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