A Crossworder's Gift (2 page)

The bird stopped in front of Rosco and ripped the corner from the napkin under his beer. Opting to keep a safe distance, Rosco slid his bar stool back while the parrot went into his now familiar patter: “Bottoms up, maties.”

Conner swatted at the parrot with a bar towel and said, “Put a lid on it, Jimmy. We're conducting business here.”

“Cheerio, dumbbell,” was the bird's swift reply. Then he waddled a little farther down the bar, hopped onto Belle's shoulder, and began to nibble affectionately at her earlobe.

“Ahhh, now you're lookin' like the Pirate Queen of Saint
Loosha
,” Conner cackled. “I gather by your reaction to my psychic powers of observation I was in error with my cop and math geek analysis?”

“Believe it or not,” Rosco said, “I was once in the police force …
Once
. Now I'm a private investigator. Belle, my wife, is the crossword puzzle editor at the
Evening Crier
. It's a newspaper in Massachusetts.”

Conner stiffened slightly but, after a second, rejoined with a boisterous: “Well, well, well! I think you'll find there are more than a few crossword fiends, addicts, and inveterate word game veterans gathered around these turquoise depths … Yes-in-dee-dee …” He looked around the room, pointing as he spoke. “Aussies: Gerda and Mike Menzies off the catamaran
Roo Two
; Brits: Carlotta and Noel; that's their ketch
In Sou Sea Ant
with the black hull; Brian Joseffson—aka ‘the Brain'—of the
Leopard Sun
… and you've already met Elaine and Joe …” Conner turned back to Belle. “In defense of my initial reading of the napkins, you must admit that your vocation deals in numbers and symmetry—i.e., you're a numbers person.” Conner smiled broadly, and again raised his voice. “So, the Great Roger Conner-ronnor-bonnor-ella is vindicated! Once again he stupefies the nonbelievers!”

“Cheerio, dumbbell,” Jimmy Bungs announced again, then followed it with a series of squawks that duplicated mocking laughter.

Conner frowned. “Creatures like our Mr. Bungs are either drawn to menfolk.” He directed the comment to Rosco rather than Belle. “Or they're drawn to womenfolk; but I've never met an Amazon Green who liked 'em both. As you can see, Jimmy is most definitely a ladies man.”

“Well, he is kind of cute,” Belle said, peering at the bird out of the corner of her eye, then tilting her head playfully, forcing the parrot to chase after her dangling earring with short, gentle pecks from his beak. “And a bit of a flirt.”

“He appears to have a limited vocabulary,” Rosco added in an unsuccessful attempt to outdo the bird.

Conner laughed. “You're right about that, my friend. For an old-timer, Jimmy hasn't picked up more than those two phrases … besides a small selection
of sailors' prayers
, if you know what I mean. He can be downright raunchy when he starts in on his favorite oaths, though he seems to keep that chatter under wraps when in the company of the fairer sex.”

“How old is he?” Belle asked as she fed Jimmy the orange slice from her drink.

“No telling, really, but definitely over fifty. I inherited our Mr. Bungs from an erstwhile fishing compatriot. A hunter after sunken treasure who called this harbor his true abode …”

It was Carlotta and Noel who continued the story, tag teaming as they supplied the facts. “A tough go, it was, when the old man died … Digger Bonnet was his name. Came from Antigua, originally, by way of Martinique, but he was a Marigot fixture long before we first arrived … And he gave up the ghost right here where we're sitting … Fell face first onto the bar …” They looked to Conner, who continued the story:

“And Jimmy there just squawked, gave Digger a nasty look, and strolled to the other end of the bar, where he began eating peanuts out of a dish … He's been with me ever since.”

“Does that happen often around here?” Rosco asked. “People dropping dead at beachside bars?”

“I've owned the place for over thirty years,” Conner said. “And I heard plenty of stories from the previous owners. But in answer: Nope, that's the only time it's happened to me.”

“It's an occurrence you wouldn't easily forget.”

“Truer words …”

“And Bonnet was a real treasure hunter?” Belle asked.

This time it was Gerda who answered. “He certainly talked an impressive game, didn't he, Mike? Absolutely insisted the tale of sunken galleons was true, and that he'd found a cache of Spanish doubloons—”

Roger interrupted. “How else to explain how the man put food on the table? He never worked a day in his life, unless you call scuba diving work.” He grinned although Belle could see the jovial expression was forced. Discussing his friend's death was obviously not easy. “You know, you and Digger shared something in common—besides Jimmy's questionable affection … Bonnet was a real crossword junkie, he was. A man who liked riddles,
double entendres
, puns, spoonerisms, anagrams …”

“That he did,” Brian agreed.

“So, Mr. Bonnet died a wealthy man?” Rosco mused after a moment.

“Like they say,” Conner said, “ya can't take it with you.”

“Was the cause of death natural?” Rosco asked, unable to suppress his inquisitive nature—even on vacation. “Or was someone after the loot?”

“Foul play? Is that what you're inferring?” Conner asked. “Digger was nearly ninety when he passed away. The only foul play is spelled F-O-W-L, and Jimmy has a market on that.”

“So, that must make Jimmy the richest personality on Saint Lucia,” Belle said.

Conner shook his head. “There wasn't money enough in Digger's pockets to pay for the rum in front of him when he keeled over. And to this day, there hasn't been a trace of anything else of value. Not a savings account. Not a bank box. Nothing.”

Gerda and Mike Menzies joined in. “Some of us think old Bonnet grew odd toward the end and scuttled his purported bounty by dumping it outside the bay … Others are convinced he buried it on the island somewhere—”

“And then there's the third camp,” added Elaine with a laugh, “who don't believe there was as much as one red cent to begin with.”

“And which camp are you in, Roger?” Rosco asked.

Conner shrugged. “I have to admit, old Digger talked a good game. Once in a blue moon, he'd turn up when I was locking up the doors here, and give me a quick glimpse of something he'd insist was a piece of eight—Spanish gold—or a stone he'd swear up and down was an uncut emerald taken from the mines of Brazil … But he'd make me promise to keep my mouth shut for fear the government would be askin' for too big of a slice of his briny pie … I'd say Digger must have had a nest egg somewhere. But then again …” Conner shrugged. “I'll tell you this, if there is such a thing as hidden treasure, there's only one person who knows where it might be, and he's not talkin' to nobody.”

“Who's that?”

“He's sitting right there on your sweetie's shoulder.”

“The bird?” Rosco said incredulously.

Jimmy Bungs flapped irate wings, stretched his neck, and snapped at Rosco, who jumped back just before the powerful beak came in contact with his ear.

Conner laughed. “Oh, and another thing, he doesn't like to be called ‘the bird.'”

“So I gathered.”

B
Y
the time the sun had begun to set, Belle and Rosco had returned to their rented bungalow, situated halfway up the verdant hillside, overlooking the sailboats and pleasure yachts that dotted Marigot Bay. The trade winds had cooled the evening to a comfortable seventy-five degrees, and lights were twinkling on in the houses and cottages on the opposite slope. The couple stood arm in arm on the veranda beholding the tranquil scene.

“I wish we had sailed into this harbor, as Roger had imagined,” Belle murmured, “rather then arriving by plane.”

“That's a long trip from Massachusetts. I'd be greener than Jimmy Bungs right now.”

“You know what I mean, Rosco. Wouldn't it be romantic to drift in by sea—under canvas at sunset. Watching the famous ‘green flash' in all its glory.”

Rosco gave her a light kiss, then put on a Jolly Roger Conner accent. “Aye, my little wench, you mean like the wooden-legged pirates of old sailing under the skull and crossbones, cutlasses clenched between our teeth and a bottle of rum to ward off the night chill.”

“It's amazing to think that we left all that ice and snow in Newcastle this morning; and a few hours later were ensconced in an island bungalow: coconut palms, banana trees, the Caribbean spreading all around … I guess there's something to be said for the efficiency of modern transportation—”

“As long as your idea of transportation comes with jet propulsion and wings and
not
a mainsail … Because, the only
cruising
I want is the kind where there's a steward in a starched white uniform with white gloves and a silver tray; serving me hors d'oeuvres on the fantail … None of this trimming the yardarms for me. I'll leave that to salty buccaneers like Jolly Roger.”

“Do you think that was true? All his talk about cannibals, and a pirate being the first European to settle on the island?”

“You mean old leg-of-wood
Jambe de Bois
, François Le Clerc? I'm sure it's true. You could see Pigeon Island, where Roger said Le Clerc set himself up, when we flew in. Seemed a logical spot for a buccaneer: easy to defend, with a nice high vantage point … What I found fishy, though, was the Digger Bonnet tale. If Roger truly believed his onetime buddy had buried treasure nearby, why would he spend his time mixing drinks? Why isn't he out looking for it?”

Belle thought. “Maybe he
has
found it, and isn't telling anyone.”

“I don't know, Belle … Given Conner's fondness for the dramatic, I'd say the entire fable is merely fodder for tourists.”

“The others seemed to believe it.”

“Gerda, Carlotta, and all?”

“Hmmm-hmmm …”

“I'm not so sure. I think the Pirate's Cove regulars like humoring Conner, like egging him on. Besides, remember what Elaine said? That some folks doubt the man had one red cent when he died?” Rosco stepped back from the railing, sat on a rattan love seat, and placed his feet on the matching ottoman. The first star was just beginning to show itself. Belle snuggled up next to him.

“Still …” she said, “I find the notion of treasure fascinating. Think of all that's been lost in the sea over the centuries … Spanish doubloons, emeralds from South America—”

“Exactly! That's exactly my point. All that's been lost—including many, many people. Another good reason why you'd never catch me out there on the briny, sailing around on some yawl or ketch or something. A hurricane comes along, next thing you know, you're fish food.”

“There are no hurricanes in December.”

A small black bird with a ruby-colored throat soared down out of the sky and landed on the veranda railing in front of them. He then marched back and forth on the painted wood, and chirped insistently at Belle and Rosco.

“I think he's trying to tell us something, Rosco.”

He laughed. “‘
Feed me,
' would be my guess.”

“You're right.” Belle stood and walked into the cottage. “There are some bananas in the fruit basket,” she called. “I'll bet he'd like that.” She returned with a half-peeled banana and placed it on the railing. None of her movements seemed to frighten the bird in the slightest; instead, he hopped onto the banana and began pecking away. Within a matter of seconds, he was joined by four other red-throated black birds.

“He must have been the advance scout,” Rosco observed. “Probably recognized us as easy marks when we deplaned, and has been following us all afternoon; just waiting to make his move.”

“So,” Belle said as she leaned against the railing only a foot from the feeding birds, “back to hidden treasure.”

“Hmmm, why doesn't it surprise me that you're so intrigued by all this malarkey?” he said. He knew full well that his wife couldn't resist the lure of solving a mystery.
Curiosity
might as well have been her middle name.

“Well, of course I'm intrigued,” she said. “I used to love to paw through the boxes stored in my grandmother's attic. There was always a chance of finding an old Indian head penny, or buffalo nickel tucked away in some ancient sewing kit. So how could I
not
be fascinated by Bonnet's treasure—”

“Purported treasure.” He stood and placed his arms around her. “This is vacation, remember? No sleuthing? Besides, it's kind of nice to be in a place where
finally
people haven't heard about the crimes you've solved, ‘Ms. Annabella Graham, Cryptic Queen and Criminologist' … I'm looking forward to reading a few books on the beach and forgetting ice, snow, slush, sleet, and W-O-R-K for the entire W-E-E-K.”

The birds decided they'd had enough banana, and flew off toward the harbor. Within a few minutes a small gray and brown lizard poked his head around the railing post and checked to see if the coast was clear. Like the birds, he saw no immediate danger in the large humans, and after a moment he crossed the railing to what was left of the fruit and started in on his dinner.

“I guess they would have all starved to death if we hadn't arrived,” Rosco said.

“Something tells me that the owners of this place leave food for the wildlife rather than the guests. I'll bet the people who rented this cottage last week never got near the bananas … Look.” Belle pointed. “Here comes another lizard. This should be good.”

“You're expecting a jousting match? Pistols at twenty paces? Épées, maybe?”

“Shhh. I just want to see what they do. I have the feeling this guy isn't in any mood to share.”