"And she wants you to help her set up an interview with that dead fellow's sister."
"Hell, J.J., the poor woman just flew in this morning. You mean to tell me that Janeen already knows she's staying at Cutfoot Estate?"
"When it comes to knowing things, Janeen seldom comes up short."
"I'm getting that impression," I say. "Tell Janeen I'll do what I can, but I'm not making any promises, OK?"
At the hospital, a receptionist tells me Brewster Trimmingham has been released from intensive care and transferred to the third floor. When I enter the room, a nurse is adjusting Trimmingham's bed and tending to the various tubes attached to him.
Trimmingham's face looks worse than the day before. Both eyes are black and swollen shut. A wire brace encases his head.
"How's he doing?" I ask the nurse.
"Quite well, actually, all things considered," she says. "The doctors were a bit concerned about the swelling in one part of his brain. But it seems to have subsided. He suffered a nasty concussion, but he'll be all right."
"His jaw broken, too?"
The nurse nods.
"Yes, it's wired shut and will be for the next few weeks. Whatever happened to the poor man?"
"Cricket accident," I say.
The nurse looks at me funny.
"Are you a relative?"
"No," I say. "Business associate."
"Well, as you can see, he's not very responsive at this moment. Still heavily sedated. I would ask you not to stay too long."
"I just want to pay my respects," I say.
She steps out of the room. She leaves the door open. I go over and close it.
I step to the table beside Trimmingham's bed. I open a drawer. A plastic storage bag sits inside. It holds Trimmingham's wallet and two sets of keys.
I open the bag, take out the keys, and leave the wallet. I stick the bag back inside the drawer and close it.
I stand by the bed, looking at Trimmingham. One of those air mask things is stuck over his nose and mouth and he's making sucking sounds.
"Yo, Trimmingham," I say. "Can you hear me?"
Nothing.
"If you're faking being asleep, then I'm wise to you."
But apparently, he really is out for the count.
"You said you wanted me to help you, right?" More nothing.
"I'll do what I can," I tell him. "But it's going to cost you. It's going to cost you a lot."
26.
I tell J.J. to drop me off at Trimmingham's office and come back in a couple of hours.
The first key I try opens the door. I take this as a positive omen, endorsement that I'm doing the right thing, not embarking on yet another ill-conceived scheme in a career that has seen plenty of them.
Trimmingham's office is not the hellhole I'd imagined it might be. The furnishings are fairly luxurious-good leather chairs by a big mahogany desk, a good leather couch along a wall, expensive oriental rugs covering the crummy carpet that came with the office.
No photos of loved ones on the desk. I'm relieved by that. I'd just as soon not know if Trimmingham has a wife and kids and people who depend on him. It makes what I plan to do a little easier.
A computer sits in the middle of the desk, but I don't bother with that. I head for a bank of file cabinets that occupy the rear wall. I roll a desk chair with me. This could take a while.
Thirty minutes later, after going through files in two of the cabinets and moving on to the third, I've learned a lot about Brewster Trimmingham. Forty years old. Born in Hamilton. Divorced. His former wife, Alice, an American, now living in Charlottesville, Virginia, where Trimmingham sends a monthly check to cover a mortgage and expenses. No mention of children. He rents an apartment in Hamilton. His various credit cards carry a balance, per last month's statements, of just under $20,000. Member of the Somerset Sailing Club. And a founding officer of the Bermuda Chapter of the Morris Minor Owner's Club.
I eventually dig out the real meat: a big accordion folder marked "Governor's Pointe."
I roll the chair to the desk, put my feet up on it, and spend the next ten minutes studying the papers in the folder. There's a thick stack of them, with surveys, settlement sheets, and mortgage payoff schedules.
There are also a couple of slick full-color brochures. Photos of wellgroomed elegant couples toasting each other with flutes of champagne, lounging in lush living rooms, swimming in an infinity-edge pool.
"Governor's Pointe: Bermuda's Most Prestigious Address," reads the brochure copy. "Only a fortunate few, drawn from the world's elite, will be lucky enough to call Governor's Pointe home. Don't miss this groundfloor opportunity to be part of the luxury investment of a lifetime."
Each of the six residences that Trimmingham bought at Governor's Pointe has its own deed, the mortgage held by the National Bank of Bermuda. I look the deeds over and when I'm done, I use Trimmingham's phone to call the office of Daniel Denton, the attorney recommended by Aunt Trula. After the necessary happy talk I explain what I have in mind.
Denton is not overly enthusiastic about helping out.
"This seems the sort of proposition that might have serious repercussions," he says.
"Yes, it might."
"I don't know that it is the sort of thing in which our firm should be involved."
"Gee, that's too bad," I say. "I'm sure Aunt Trula will be disappointed to learn that."
Denton coughs.
"Is Mrs. Ambister your aunt, Mr. Chasteen?"
"No, she's the aunt of my significant other," I say. "But she's even dearer than family to me."
Straight to hell, that's where I'm going.
Denton hems and haws.
"What does your firm typically charge for something like this?" I ask him.
"My firm does not typically do something of this nature."
"Well, let's pretend you're expanding your services. What would be a reasonable fee?"
He tells me.
"Double that," I say.
Denton doesn't require much time to consider it.
"Very well, Mr. Chasteen," he says. "I will be at my office for another hour or so. You may drop off the papers and I will review them."
You gotta love lawyers.
27.
By the time I finish in Trimmingham's office and take the stairs down to the parking garage, it's the end of the day and the place has emptied out.
A blue Morris Minor convertible sits in one of the spaces. It's a cartoon of a car, but it's not without a sort of friendly appeal.
I take the other set of keys from my pocket. One of them unlocks the door of the car. I slide behind the wheel.
Whatever sort of mess Brewster Trimmingham has made of his life, those screw-ups have not extended to his care for this car. It doesn't look perfectly new-they stopped making Morris Minors back in the 1960s-but it has aged well.
The leather seats are soft and supple. The dashboard is shiny and aligned in that peculiarly British way that might make sense to them but is counterintuitive to the American brain. It would be cool to put the top down, but one look at all the latches and cranks involved with the procedure and I know it will take a while to figure out exactly how to do it.
I start the car, put it in gear, and drive out onto the street. I pull alongside J.J.'s van. He rolls down his window.
"Has Mrs. Ambister paid you in advance for driving me around?"
"Yes, sir. Paid me for the whole two weeks. Except for any incidentals."
I take some money from my wallet and give it to him.
"I appreciate all your help," I say. "You plan to drive yourself now?" "I do."
"Police will raise hell if they catch you at it." "That's why they're the police." J.J. looks over the Morris Minor. "That car, it ought to be in some museum."
"Now, J.J., show a little respect. This is a vintage automobile, a classic. I think it fits me to a T." J.J. smiles.
"I don't want to know how you came by it, do I?" "No, J.J., you don't."
28.
Dinner that night at Cutfoot Estate proves to be a relatively sedate affair. Fiona McHugh, still sleeping off her journey, doesn't make it down to join us. The evening's fare is sirloin broiled beyond recognition and something that may or may not be potatoes. The conversation is all about Aunt Trula's birthday party.
"I've hired a string quartet to open the festivities," Aunt Trula says. "Then, after dinner, I thought you youngsters would appreciate a boogiewoogie band."
She pronounces it "boojie-woojie."
"Plus," Aunt Trula says, "I thought the stage would be useful for those who want to stand up and pay a few words of tribute, that sort of thing."
"Better get one of those take-a-number machines like they use at the Publix deli," I say. "There's sure to be a line."
"What's that?" Aunt Trula says.
"Oh, Zack's just trying to be clever," Barbara says, shooting me daggers. "How many people have you invited anyway, Titi?"
"The guest list is right at five hundred," Aunt Trula says. "And there have been very few regrets thus far, I'll have you know. I am quite renowned for my parties."
After we're done eating, Barbara heads back to her room to get some work done. Boggy begs off, too.
I'm not quite ready to call it a night. So I enlist a tumbler of Gosling's to keep me company on the terrace. It does a fine job. I've invited a second tumbler to sit down and join me when Aunt Trula steps out from the house.
"You look content," she says.
"Like a baby with bourbon in his belly."
"I've never heard that one before," Aunt Trula says. "But I rather like it."
"My grandfather use to say it. I think it referred to the old Southern tradition of giving crying babies a little toddy to help them relax for the night."
"Your grandfather raised you, isn't that right, Zachary?"
"Yes, he and my grandmother."