The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  He returned with two glasses. Handing one to her, he observed, “The last of the Glenlivet. You might want to pop into the liquor store tomorrow.”

  Mind-boggling. “Your childhood?”

  “Yes, well, Father was not amused by the arrival of said infant. He claimed it was Clara’s revenge for his negative attitude. Or was it for the fireworks he set off when Clara told him Rory would be the last?” His upper lip twisted. “According to Mother, he picked me up by the scruff of my neck, shook me, and declared me to be the spawn of her rancor. Hence the name. I am eternally grateful he didn’t name me ‘Spite.’ ”

  Charity found herself at a loss for words. Rancor interpreted her silence as an invitation to take her in his arms, spilling both their drinks. “Rancor!”

  “Damn. Now you’ll have to go out immediately for more whiskey. Do you want me to accompany you?”

  “No.” The man is utterly oblivious.

  “All right. I’ll wait for you here.” He poured what was left of the whiskey into one of the glasses and knocked it off. When she made no move toward the door, he sighed. “I guess it can wait.” An unproductive pause later, he sighed again. “But enough about me. What about you? Did you finish the article?”

  “I have a single column drafted on the discovery, with more to follow. I sure hope we hear from Captain Kelly tonight.”

  He checked his watch. “It’s almost eight o’clock. Don’t expect anything today. Also, tomorrow is Sunday, and somehow I doubt the good professor works on the Sabbath.”

  She said uncharitably, “Well, it’s a sure bet he doesn’t go to church.”

  “However, I do. I noticed the Longboat Chapel has a service at ten. Care to join me?”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “I’ll consider that a yes.” He stretched. “I’m going to take a shower.” His fingers grazed her breast. “Early to bed, you know.”

  After a suitable interval, she followed him. The rest of the night went pretty much like the night before had. Only upside down and backward.

  Chapter Four

  The Graduates

  “Wake up, sleepyhead, we’ve only got twenty minutes.”

  “Wha’?” Charity rubbed her eyes. She sat up, only to realize she was naked.

  Rancor stood at the foot of the bed, his admiring glance focused on her chest. He was fully dressed and carried a mug of coffee. “Up and at it.”

  Even in a crisp oxford shirt and chinos, he was a sight for hungry eyes. “Why do we only have twenty minutes?” She held out her arms.

  “No way, you animal. You used me up like an old dish towel last night. I’m not sure I’ll be able to stay awake through the whole service.”

  She had to smile. “You’d better make it through the confession at least.”

  He tossed her a dress that matched the silvery streaks in her eyes. “Thought this would be appropriate.”

  I can’t believe it. My favorite dress. How did he know? “I guess it’ll do. Is that my coffee?”

  He held up the mug. “This? No, it’s mine. Did you want some?”

  “Yes. And you have time to make it while I shower.” She ran into the bathroom before he could demur.

  ****

  To reward themselves for remaining upright and attentive through a very long sermon by a very old man who wheezed more than he spoke, they went to the Island Crêperie on Bridge Street for brunch.

  “I’ll have a croque-monsieur. The lady will have a croque-madame.” He peered at the waitress’s name tag. “Or should it be the other way around? I don’t want to be kinky, Amber.”

  Charity raised her voice. “I’ll have the buckwheat breakfast special, thank you. And coffee.” She glared at Rancor. “Since you refused to make me any this morning.”

  “We didn’t have time. You were in the shower for at least an hour. We barely made it to church. Didn’t you see all those biddies staring at us—shock etched into their wrinkles—as we edged into the back pew?”

  Charity thought it more likely that the arrival of a ravishing man in a ponytail caused the stir among the mostly female congregation. She said mildly, “We weren’t that late.”

  “Hmmph.” Rancor accepted a Stella from Amber.

  Charity watched him take a long swallow and gazed doubtfully at her coffee. “You know, I think I’ll have one of those.” When the waitress brought their meals, she ordered a beer. “So, tell me more about your family.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Why the sudden interest in the Basses?”

  Charity scrabbled around in her brain for a reason less hazardous than admitting she wanted to know everything about the man who made her heart go pitty pat. “Journalistic curiosity?”

  He hesitated, then, a suspicious light in his eye, said, “It isn’t anything to write home about. Or even a best-selling autobiography. My father worked in the family business—”

  “Furs or hotels?”

  “You remembered.” He bestowed a proud smile upon her. “We do still retain a few pelts for the distaff side, but they’re only allowed to wear them to the grocery store. No, we’re strictly hotels now—high-end jewels of the hospitality trade though they are. My grandfather Robert had just joined our company as a salesman when he disappeared. So my great-grandfather looked to my father. He started him in the mail room at sixteen, and Dad worked his way up to president and chairman of the board by the time he was forty-five. At which time he had me.” He stopped and the woeful look came back into his eyes. “Only in his final years did he learn to dote on me. The others were settled in their own careers, and he wanted me to take over the Camden operation. Mother says he spoiled me rotten.”

  “She was right.”

  He gazed out the window. “I’ll never forget the day I announced I was moving to Boston and wanted to write novels. Broke his heart.”

  “He forgave you when you became famous, didn’t he?”

  Rancor shook his head. “I fear not. Went to his grave muttering curses under his breath.” He laid his napkin down. “You going to finish your beer?”

  Charity handed him the bottle and took a last bite of pancake. Better change the subject before he orders another. “Want to take a walk down to the pier? It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Nah. Aunt Gertrude said she’d call when she had something. We’d better go home.”

  “Home? You mean my home?”

  “Er…yes. Mine only temporarily of course. As we agreed.”

  “She’s going to call my house?”

  “You don’t mind? I—I’m also…uh, temporarily between phones.”

  Charity gave him a speculative look. “I’ve been thinking, Rancor. They’re always hiring at Publix. Let’s stop there, and you can apply for a job.”

  To her surprise, he nodded. “Is that the local grocery store? Good idea. It’ll have to be part-time though. We have a case to solve.”

  And a book to write, my easily distractible friend.

  Application submitted, Charity dropped Rancor at the Planet office. “There are nine U of M schools. You need to check out the classes of 1931 at all of them to see if there was an RB.”

  “Assuming the schools existed then.”

  “Yes.”

  As he started up the steps, he whirled around. “Wait a minute! Tell me again why I am spending precious drinking time on this?”

  “How easily you forget, dear boy. You said—and I quote—it could give us a clue as to what happened to Tommy T.”

  “I said that? How clever of me.”

  “Plus, it’s the only evidence there is except the scraps of cloth. And”—she couldn’t help but gloat—“we’re the only ones who have it.”

  He came back down to the car and leaned in the window. “You and your scoops.”

  Charity tapped a finger on the dashboard. “I’d start with Miami University.”

  “Why?”

  “Stands to reason. It’s in Florida.”

  “Oh, right. How astute. My genius must be rubbing off on you like chea
p lipstick. Me, I was going to start with Montana. Just to get it out of the way.”

  “I’ve learned not to waste a lot of time on unsure things.”

  He shot her a look. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, how much likelihood is there that a man who comes from Montana would be near an elevator shaft on Longboat Key in the 1930s?”

  “An engineer?”

  “Engineer?”

  “Yes. Remember, the hotel was under construction.”

  “I think they’d quit work on it by then.”

  “Yes, in 1926. Nevertheless, Ringling always maintained he would complete it. He died in 1936, but his nephew continued to insist it would eventually open. They’d have employed engineers, if not construction crews.”

  She patted his cheek. “You have done some research, haven’t you? Okay, start with Montana if you like. Don’t come home until you have something.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She left him to it and went off to spend the rest of the day at the beach.

  Rancor didn’t show up for dinner. Charity watched the eleven o’clock news, then went to bed.

  A light scratching woke her. She went to the front door. “Rancor?”

  The only answer was a low sniffle. She opened to find her roommate leaning precariously on the railing. She took his arm and helped him over the threshold.

  “You never gave me a key.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “So I don’t have to disturb you when I’m coming home from a date.”

  For some reason, the quip did not make her laugh. “What took you so long?”

  “Aww, you missed me. I’ve been working. Mostly. I took a mere three hours off for a well-deserved break at a local watering hole—”

  “You found a pigeon?”

  He drew back. “A pigeon? No, but there were a lot of peacocks around. Boy, do they make a racket. I—”

  Charity put a gentle hand over his mouth. “A pigeon is a person you touch to pay for your drinks. Don’t you know any idioms?”

  “Mmph.”

  “What?”

  He pushed her hand aside. “I don’t do idioms. Great writers eschew hackneyed phrases and common metaphors.”

  “Oh.”

  “However, I shall file away the term ‘pigeon’ for future insertion, possibly in some gangland repartee. Now, do you want to know what I discovered?”

  Charity checked the mantel clock. “It’s midnight. Can’t it wait until morning?”

  His eyes lit up. “Why, do you have a suggestion for alternate recreation?”

  She started to unbutton his shirt. “Possibly…”

  ****

  “A cheese omelet, I think, Tilda. With hash browns and sausage. No—bacon.”

  “Rye, whole wheat, or white?”

  Rancor patted his stomach. “Whole wheat. I need to lose a few pounds.”

  Charity rolled her eyes. “Fat chance with a breakfast like that.”

  Rancor leaned across the table and kissed her. “Fortunately, I am in a position to beef up my exercise routine to offset the bacon.”

  Ignoring the butterfly fluttering near her heart, she snapped, “All right, out with it. What did you learn about the schools…or were you too blotto to read?”

  “That came later.” He pulled his notebook out. “George was kind enough to let me stay in the office after hours.” He opened at a dog-eared page. “Okay, there were nine universities beginning with M—Montana, Missouri, Mississippi, Miami, Maryland, Michigan, Minnesota, Massachusetts, and Maine. I’ve checked them all except Maine.”

  “Why not Maine?”

  “I don’t need to. I’m counting on Aunt Gertrude to come through. Her research abilities far outshine Google.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. She called while you were out.”

  “Aunt Gertrude? Great. What did she say?”

  “I don’t know. I was down on the beach and missed it. She left a message that she would try again this morning. And something about making it collect.” Her questioning gaze did not elicit a response.

  The waitress brought two plates piled high with eggs and toast. Rancor dug in. After a few bites, he resumed. “Okay, University of Montana. Established 1893, just four years after Montana became a state. Class of 1931 had 201 graduates, none of whom bore the initials RB.”

  “One down.”

  “Shh. University of Missouri—known affectionately as Mizzou—”

  “Muzzooo?”

  “Yes. Perhaps the first students struggled with three-syllable words.”

  “Sure, start off by insulting the great state of Missouri, home to many friends of mine, including one who moved there from the Galapagos.”

  He dropped his fork. “On purpose?”

  “Yes. Now go on.”

  “Okay, Mizzou was founded in 1839.” He read, “ ‘It was the first public institution of higher education west of the Mississippi River and the first state university in Thomas Jefferson’s Louisiana Purchase territory.’ Graduates of the class of 1931: five hundred and thirty-two. Nary a one with an RB monogram.”

  “Five hundred thirty-two people and no one with the initials RB? Rather a dismal showing for the Show Me state.”

  “It will eventually get better, but not yet. University of Mississippi, same deal. University of Minnesota, one member of the class fit the description, but, as luck would have it, her name was Rachel Bliven.” He took a sip of orange juice. “Had a little more luck with the University of Michigan. There were four potential candidates, Raphael Buck, Rochester Bonnet, Roland Blaufontaine—”

  “Bit of a mouthful.”

  “I’m guessing foreign exchange student. And Raymond Burton. Buck died in 1968, Blaufontaine lives in a nursing home outside of Paris, Raymond Burton became a woman in 1959, and Bonnet retired in 1975 from his happy duties as gadfly to the Ann Arbor city council.”

  “Any of them spend any time in Florida?”

  “Not that I could find, although some of them must have gone to Disney World.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I thought it was mandatory for American citizens.”

  She tapped her lip. “No, we’re looking for someone here on business. Otherwise, why go to a closed construction site on a Florida key?”

  “True.” He took another bite of egg. “It can’t be someone who merely dropped in for the teacup ride.”

  “So, Michigan is a no go.”

  “Correct. Now”—he turned a page—“what have I got left?”

  “Maryland, Massachusetts, and Miami.”

  He signaled for more coffee. “Okay, you’d expect that U Mass would have an abundance of potential winners…or should I say losers? Except for one tiny inconvenient fact. It wasn’t the University of Massachusetts until 1947.”

  “Ack. I would have thought that had the best chance.”

  “You’da thought wrong. So I moved on to Maryland, which had its ups and downs too. The first students entered Maryland Agricultural College in 1859, but it closed during the Civil War.”

  “That would make it MAC anyway.”

  “Picky, picky. Anyway, it became the University of Maryland in 1920, well in time for our boy to attend and get his ring.”

  “And did he?”

  “Some twenty people with the initials RB graduated in 1931, but most of them were women or in the field of medicine. I doubt whether a veterinarian would be tootling around in an elevator shaft in Sarasota.”

  “Good point.” Charity let the waitress remove her plate. “Thanks, Tilda.” She leaned across the table and tapped the notebook. “Any more likely prospects?”

  “Two. Both went to Florida seeking their fortunes. Richard Bundy opened a short-order restaurant in Ybor City. It came to be known for its Cuban sandwiches, and cigar rollers flocked to his premises. By 1959, he had changed his name to Sanchez and his story to one of fleeing Cuba with nothing but the clothes on his back and a sheaf of dried tobacco leaves.”

 
“What happened to him?”

  “In an excess of irony, he was mistaken for an escaped political prisoner and kidnapped by Castro’s goons. Spent ten years in a prison in Havana. When the authorities discovered their mistake—”

  “They sure took their time, didn’t they?”

  “It can be dangerous to move too quickly in a socialist utopia. Anyway, he went back to Bundy and Maryland.”

  “I see. And the other one?”

  “The other one—Rodney Biddlesworth—sounds like Ruggles of Red Gap, doesn’t it?…Where was I?”

  “Biddlesworth.”

  “Ah yes.” He grabbed the last piece of toast before Tilda could take it. “Biddlesworth did in fact go missing under mysterious circumstances.”

  “Aha. When? Where? How?”

  “In 1933. He set out for a two-hour sail around Sarasota Bay and never came back.” He hummed a familiar tune. “I stand corrected. Not Ruggles—Gilligan.”

  “Funny.”

  “No, really. They found the boat drifting up near Cà d’Zan. Here, give me your phone.” She reluctantly handed it over, hoping it wouldn’t go the way of her whiskey. He turned it on and made a few swipes. “See, here’s the article.” He pointed to the screen.

  She read, “ ‘Investigators discovered the boat’s engine had been tampered with. Since Mr. Biddlesworth had recently had a falling out with his business partner, police suspect foul play, but the body has not surfaced, and it is presumed that prevailing currents will have taken him out to sea.’ ” She brightened. “He could be our man. Was he married to a G.?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Or more accurately, to an Edna Gwendolyn. But I figure with a first name like Edna she’d go with Gwen. They were married in 1933.”

  “Aha! We need to follow that one up.”

  “Agreed. However, we don’t know when the ring found its way into the shaft—it could be any time after 1931.”

  Charity frowned. “After construction of the hotel ceased?”

  “Yes. The murderer—”

  “Murderer?”

  “Remember? The article said the police suspected foul play…Say, I just had an idea. Our skeleton may not in fact be Tommy T, but Mr. Biddlesworth!” Rancor rose and did a little tap dance. “And his killer could have used the abandoned hotel as a convenient dumping ground.”