Free Spirits of the Pirate House by Paul Ferrante Page A

of it and again faced the boys.
“That man that spoke to you—Willie B.—he’s not completely right in
the head. Pay him no mind.” Dora went back into her kitchen area,
where the boys could hear the whap-whap-whap of her chopping
vegetables.
    The pair chewed robotically; though the food
was savory and exotic, its taste barely registered. They finished,
paid their tab, which included a generous tip, thanked Dora, and
walked out. If they were expecting a “hope to see you again,” it
wasn’t forthcoming.
    “What was that all about?” said
Bortnicker, squinting in the sunlight.
    “Don’t know,” said T.J. “It’s like if we
mention Tarver, everyone goes zombie. We gotta mention this to
Mike.”
    “So, on to the dive shop?”
    “Yeah, it’s gotta be friendlier than Dora’s
Corners.”
     

Chapter Ten
     
    The Blue Lagoon Dive
Shop was a low-slung, pale blue stucco building near a canal
spanned by a charming mini drawbridge. Behind it lay a cove where
pleasure boats bobbed at their shallow moorings. A dock out back
provided slips for the business’s two charter boats, Reef Seeker
I and II . From the tiny bridge the boys could see that
one of the boats was absent.
    They entered the shop and were immediately
struck by the differences between this place and Capt. Kenny’s back
home. The decorations were decidedly more upscale; there was no
musty sea smell, either. The prices on the equipment were
definitely more geared to tourists with a lot of disposable income.
Blue Lagoon also sported a few display cases, but unlike Capt.
Kenny’s they were filled with wondrous shells and pieces of coral.
No historical artifacts whatsoever. Soothing Caribbean music
drifted down from ceiling speakers. T.J. wondered if this was the
right place to hire out a boat for a wreck dive; then he remembered
that its owner was the man who had discovered their wreck in the
first place. “Hello?” he called out in the deserted showroom.
“Anyone here?”
    The boys heard a rustling behind the front
counter and made their way over. “Mr. Goodwin?” said Bortnicker,
unable to ascertain the source of the sounds.
    “Not here,” was the muffled reply.
    “We were told to ask for Ronnie if Mr.
Goodwin was out,” he said impatiently.
    “You found her,” said the girl as she rose
up, a dust cloth in her hand. She stood at around the boys’ height
of 5’6”, with shoulder length hair that projected in tight
corkscrews and framed her face. But what gave Ronnie Goodwin her
stunning good looks was the way her milk chocolate-colored skin was
set off by turquoise eyes that mirrored the Bermudian waters
surrounding the island.
    T.J. was taken aback, mostly because he’d
been expecting a guy to be working in the dive shop, but Bortnicker
was positively mesmerized. T.J. had seen that look before, and it
was always a cause for concern. If his friend ever came face to
face with a pretty female he tended to gawk and invariably say
something stupid. Just this past year a girl named Giulia DeCarlo
had, on a dare from her mean-girl cronies, asked Bortnicker to
dance at their school’s Valentine’s Day social. Now, Giulia was
fairly attractive (though the three pounds of makeup she applied
daily went a long way into producing the final effect), but
Bortnicker was completely unprepared to deal with a girl who was
quite clearly out of his league, so he had mumbled some kind of
excuse and escaped to the safety of the boys’ restroom as DeCarlo’s
gang howled. And of course, he’d acted like an idiot with LouAnne,
with whom he’d decided a courtly kiss of the hand was appropriate
when he’d first met her in Gettysburg, vexing T.J. to no end.
    But this ... this was scary.
    “Well, my full name’s Veronique,” she said
with that soft Bermudian lilt, “but to everyone else I’m just
Ronnie.” She extended her hand, and T.J. cut his eyes sideways to
see if Bortnicker would take it. When he froze, T.J. stepped in and
shook with her.
    “I’m