The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  Charity pulled him down. “What happened to Tommy then?”

  “The luckless RB landed on top of him, thus evicting the little feller and sending him off to seek shelter in the Chart House loo.”

  “Talk about your crackpot ideas. That’s the most outlandish scenario I’ve ever heard.”

  “Do you have a better explanation?”

  “Not ’til after my nap.”

  “Ha. So my theory stands, at least for now. Tommy’s remains are resting comfortably, bothering no one, when a large object decides to use him to break its fall.”

  “Biddlesworth.”

  “The one, the only.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps I’ve been hasty. There’s something in what you say.”

  “There’s always something in what I say. They’re called words. However, it had to be fairly soon after construction halted—otherwise, well, otherwise…”

  Charity snapped her fingers. “Otherwise, they would have found it when they paved the parking lot. So the shaft must have been covered or filled in or something early on.”

  “Covered. Just as Douglas—or was it Ken?—surmised. And that had to have been done after 1926 and before 1931.”

  “Why after 1926?”

  “They started construction on the hotel in 1926. They wouldn’t have dug an elevator shaft before that.”

  “Okay…”

  Tilda filled their mugs but with a less generous hand than before. She glanced meaningfully at the crowd waiting hungrily for an empty table.

  “So why would it have to have been covered before 1931?”

  “Because the murderer wouldn’t have thrown the body down an open pit—it would have been discovered too soon.” Rancor puffed out his chest. “I am good at this, aren’t I?”

  Charity rummaged in her purse for a safety pin. She held it up. “I can prick that ego balloon if you like.”

  “No need. If Professor Standish can establish the date of the skeleton, we’ll know when he died.” He cupped his chin. “I wish I knew more about forensics.”

  “You didn’t do any research for Murder Cuts Both Ways?”

  “Oh, yeah. I read every Patricia Cornwell novel I could lay my hands on.”

  Charity stared at him. “And all this time I thought you were an expert!”

  “So you did read my books. You lied.”

  “I skimmed a few. Most of them. Be that as it may, where are we now? We haven’t finished with the schools.”

  “Now we come to your favorite, University of Miami, which does exist now.”

  “Did it in 1931?”

  “No. Wait.” He held a hand up to thwart the blow. “It was chartered in 1925 as a private institution, but the next year the Florida land boom collapsed and a hurricane hit. The school continued to meet but filed for bankruptcy in 1932.”

  “So, even if they existed they would hardly have the resources to provide class rings.”

  “Precisely.” He closed the notebook and finished his coffee. “That’s it for now. I think the lovely Tilda wants us to leave. Will you hurry it up?”

  Charity refused to budge. “So all we have is Biddlesworth and whatever we find at the University of Maine.”

  “Let’s hope Auntie comes through.” He signaled to Tilda and pointed at Charity.

  As she signed her name to the check, she inquired, without much hope, “So, have you heard from Publix yet?” When no answer came, she looked up to see the front door swinging closed behind a really sexy pair of jeans.

  As they unlocked the door to Charity’s apartment, the telephone began to ring. Rancor answered it. Charity could hear a high, scratchy voice shouting. Gertrude must be one of those old ladies who think they have to yell to be heard through a telephone line. She didn’t mind—it meant she would have no trouble eavesdropping. Just in case, though, she picked up the extension.

  “Is that you, my boy? Where are you? I can’t hear you.”

  “I’m here in Florida, Auntie.”

  “Florida? I don’t want you staying in that godforsaken place, Rancor. That’s where your grandfather met that hussy and abandoned his wife and family. Come back here to Camden where you belong. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Auntie. I will soon, Auntie. Now, were you able to answer my question?”

  “Question? Oh, yes. Now where did I put that note…” A loud clunk sounded, then a lot of rattling. “Hello? Hello? Rancor? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, Auntie. I asked you if any men with the initials RB went to the University of Maine.”

  “Yes, yes. You don’t have to ask me twice. I’m not deaf. Or feeble-minded.”

  “I know that, Auntie.”

  “Well, all right then,” she huffed. “I checked with the chancellor, who is an old friend of the family’s, although considering the circumstances, I don’t know how we remained on cordial terms.”

  Charity squinted at Rancor.

  “Excuse me?”

  Gertrude went on with her monologue as though there’d been no interruption. “He was most gracious and looked up the student rolls from the 1930s. He found Basses, which doesn’t come as a surprise to me. I mean—”

  “So Basses went to the University of Maine?”

  “Of course. In fact, your great-great-grandfather Robert graduated in the very first class of the Maine College of Agriculture and the Mechanic Arts in 1873. He was a handsome man. I have a picture of him here—he’s standing next to his sister, and—”

  “Auntie? Any others?”

  “Of course. Basses were among the most celebrated graduates of the university—possibly because we donated masses of money to the endowment fund. Until your grandfather, that is…”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, Robert’s son, Robert Junior, finished in 1903 and his son, Robert the Third, three decades later. They both managed to avoid serving in the Great War, which was a real comfort to the women of the family, I can tell you. The Bass men have been singularly lucky—why, the last Bass to carry a gun was Robert T. back in the French and Indian War. Of course, he shot himself in the foot. Come to think of it, most of the Basses were not accepted into the armed forces for one reason or another. Gerald Bass—my cousin—had flat feet, and Elmer…well, let’s just say he was rather a dim bulb. Then there was—”

  “Aunt Gertrude? What happened to my grandfather?”

  “Robert the Third? You know what happened to him. He ran off with that tramp. It’s not something we’re proud of, but I don’t hold with keeping secrets in a family, so I made sure you children all heard the story, if only as a cautionary tale. At the time, my grandfather, Robert Junior, blamed it on the intemperate social life at the university, and he cut the school out of his will. That’s why Rupert didn’t go.”

  “So the last Bass to attend the University of Maine was my grandfather Robert?”

  “Yes. Now, I’ve got a list here of Bass women—we all proudly attended Vassar of course…that is, until that awful man forced us to go co-ed. I can’t tell you—”

  “Oh, but you have, Aunt Gertrude. Many times.” Rancor paused. “Do you know the year of Robert Three’s graduation? Would it be 1931?” He looked through the door at Charity.

  “Mmm, let me see…1931? No, it was 1932.”

  His eyes widened, and so did Charity’s. “Thank you very much, Aunt Gertrude. You’re a doll. Give my love to Uncle Orville.” He hung up over her loud protests. “Well.”

  “Well.” Charity considered. “There go all our hopes. If he graduated in 1932, then he couldn’t be the victim.”

  “ ‘Hopes’? How ghoulish of you. No. So we’re left with…what was the guy’s name? Biddlesworth?”

  “I think so.”

  “Damn!” He slapped his forehead.

  She gave him an amused kiss. “It’s not going to knock any humility into your head, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “No, thank God. I forgot to ask about G.”

  “Call her back.”

  He checked his
watch. “Her canasta game starts in ten minutes. She’ll kill me if I interrupt her. I’ll have to call tomorrow.”

  She sat down next to him on the couch. “So what do we do now?”

  He checked the balcony. Black clouds roiled the horizon. “Storm coming. I say we snuggle.”

  “I say we do more than that.”

  ****

  “Auntie? Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Little Rancor? Is that you again?” The blaring voice filled the living room.

  “Yes, Auntie. How was your canasta match?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Thank you for asking.” A noise like an irritated muskrat came through the receiver. “You remember Lucinda Alcott, of course. She…I can hardly say it…she did it again.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Held her cards instead of laying them down. We’d all stopped the play, and there she was at the show, this Cheshire cat smile on her face, laying cards down right and left. And then…and then…”

  “What?”

  “She shouted Muggins, even though you’re supposed to announce it at the beginning of play, but did she care? No. She pegged all my points before I had a chance to claim them. Dirty mmph.”

  “What was that, Auntie?”

  “Never you mind, young Rancor.” She paused, probably to pull herself together. “Is that why you called?”

  “Uh no. Actually, I forgot to ask you one question about my grandfather. I…uh…was going through some papers and found something about his wedding. Do you know if…if…I mean, was it a grand affair or what?”

  “Wedding? He didn’t have a wedding. He eloped.”

  “He did!”

  “Yes. The family should have seen the pattern. Always ducking his obligations…”

  “Auntie?”

  “Oh yes. He got married in his junior year at University of Maine. Of course, Mother was pregnant. So shocking for my grandparents. On the other hand, it was with my brother, so I guess it turned out all right, but still.”

  “Wait—you’re telling me my grandfather was married in 1931?”

  “Yes, and you can be certain there was a hullaballoo. It was all his parents could do to keep him in school one more year. Grandpapa promised him a job in the company sales department if he finished his degree. By the time he graduated, Rupert was a little over one, and I was on the way. Papa left us just before I was born.” She paused. “It must have been too much for him to handle—children, a new job, an ailing wife. You know she died soon after he disappeared. A broken heart, I imagine. Very common.”

  “My grandmother—what was her name?”

  “Name? Don’t you know your own grandmother’s name? My gosh, child. I can see Clara has certainly shirked her duties. I shall speak to her. I mean—”

  “Aunt Gertrude. Her name.”

  She continued to ruminate. “Considering…well…I suppose there’s no reason for him to know.”

  “Auntie?”

  “What? Oh. Gertrude, of course. Who did you think I was named after? Gertrude Quimby. Everyone called her Trudy. Good family. From Penhallow. Father was a shipbuilder. Oh, she was a pretty thing but flighty…and, by all accounts, not very bright. I know I shouldn’t say such things about my own mother, but after all, I didn’t know her very well.”

  Rancor thanked his aunt, promising to come home soon. Before he could return the phone to its cradle, Gertrude’s penetrating voice boomed. “By the way, did you get the check, Rancor? I have yet to receive a thank-you note and—”

  “Yes, yes, will do. Thanks, Auntie.” He hastily hung up.

  “Check?”

  Instead of answering, he rapped his knuckles loudly on the coffee table. “What a waste of time! I could have spent it drinking…”

  “Thanks a lot.” Charity stood and paced. “Wait a minute. The date is inscribed inside the ring, right?”

  He pulled it out. “Yes. It says ‘To my beloved RB from G 1931.’ ”

  “Robert married Gertrude in 1931.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Well, wouldn’t the class year be on the ring itself? Not in an engraving?”

  “Not necessarily…oh, I see. You’re postulating that the date does not refer to the graduation year?”

  “Yes. Looks like you’re going to have to check all the classes from 1926 to at least 1932. Maybe even beyond.”

  “How come?”

  “Cover all the bases. He could have graduated before or after the inscription was made. Oh, and cross-check those with marriage licenses between an RB and a G. dated 1931.” Charity stepped just out of reach of his fists. “Then match those to people who disappeared after 1931.”

  “Why don’t you just shoot me?”

  She rubbed her chin. “On second thought, maybe you should start later and work backward. Any earlier and the corpse would likely be found…or smelled…in an area where people would still be milling around.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “How about this? You’ve already done 1931. Go back to the nine schools, find all the RBs in the class of 1932, then see who got married in 1931, and who died or disappeared soon after. Easy peasy.”

  “It’ll take me days!”

  “Better get started then.”

  Rancor gave the clock a meaningful look. “Aren’t we supposed to be at the morgue?”

  Before she could answer, the phone rang. “Hello? Oh, hi, George…Okay, we’ll be right down.” She hung up. “Standish finished his autopsy. George wants us to come down to the Planet office.”

  “We can’t go to the morgue?”

  “Standish refused admittance to anyone, remember? George wants to reconnoiter—figure out how to squeeze the information out of Captain Kelly.”

  ****

  The publisher rose from his desk, a mug of coffee in his hand. “There you are. Where’s your article?”

  “I filed it Sunday, George. Didn’t Violet tell you? It’s already laid out.”

  “Then how the hell have you been occupying yourself since then?”

  Charity and Rancor exchanged glances. Neither of their activities would be suitable to confess in mixed company, so Charity changed the subject. “Have you talked to the captain?”

  A commotion at the door drew their attention. The medical examiner pushed past an intern and slammed into George’s office. “Fletcher, you’ve got to help!” He plopped in a chair, holding a flabby white hand to his heart.

  George let him catch his breath before asking, “What’s up, Vernon?”

  “It’s…it’s…that martinet, that…that…officious ferret…that—”

  “Who?”

  “Standish. You know what he wants to do? He wants to take his findings and publish them.”

  “Well, that’s okay. Doesn’t he have the right—”

  “Before he lets the police see them?”

  “What!”

  “Yes. He’s packing his bags now. Hired a limo to take him back to Gainesville tomorrow. He’s all excited. Says he has to study the bones more before he’ll release them. It’s…it’s criminal!”

  “Can’t Kelly stop him?”

  “Kelly? That pantywaist? He has the gumption of a gerbil.”

  Rancor murmured, “Tch, tch. Another animal metaphor?”

  Edwards had begun to shout. “Standish bullied him into it—threatened to call his cousin, the state police commissioner.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stop them!”

  George poured himself more coffee and waited a minute before asking calmly, “How?”

  “The power of the press, man! Start a campaign—those bones could be Native American. Get the Seminoles involved. Don’t let those skeletons out of my jurisdiction.”

  Charity opened her mouth. “Skeletons? As in more than one?”

  “Yes, he found parts of two different bodies.”

  “Male? Female?”

  “I don’t know—he wouldn’t tell me.”
<
br />   Fletcher rubbed his hands together. “I don’t want to lose this scoop. Ted Garrish up in Ocala has been lording it over me since they cracked that serial murder case. Let’s see…We could spread it around that there are reports yet to be substantiated.”

  Rancor jumped in. “Edwards may have something. It could be a prehistoric cemetery. The pit has two skeletons. How do we know it doesn’t contain more? We don’t want to desecrate a sacred site, now do we?”

  Heads nodded enthusiastically.

  Charity spoke up. “How about I punch it over to the Patch papers? It will show up on every major neighborhood link in the Tampa Bay area.”

  “Go for it. And include the Sarasota to Fort Myers editions.” He turned to his desk. “I’ll put out an extra tonight.” He picked up the phone. “Violet? Get me Larry Miller over at KWAZ. He owes me a favor.” He tapped his foot. “Larry? George Fletcher here. Can I come on your five o’clock show? I’ve got something juicy for you.”

  He waved at the others, dismissing them. Charity sat down to tap out a paragraph for the online paper. Edwards paced while Rancor played with the television remote. After a minute, he put it down and, stepping into the other’s path, cried jovially, “Say, Edwards, why don’t you and I go hit a bar while we wait?”

  The medical examiner glowered at him but appeared to reconsider. “Yeah, I guess so. A beer wouldn’t hurt after the day I’ve had.”

  Rancor slapped him on the shoulder. “Great. I’ll be happy to join you. Your treat.”

  Charity watched them go, a smile on her lips, then bent to her task.

  Chapter Five

  Body Parts

  “This is outrageous, Kelly. I won’t stand for it.”

  “I’m sorry, Professor Standish, but the commissioner was adamant. The evidence stays here.” Charity knew the captain kept his snarky smile under wraps with great difficulty.

  The old man slammed his briefcase down on the desk. “I want to hear it from Quentin’s mouth.”

  “The commissioner said he would call you this evening. The commissioner feels that in light of the gossip swirling around the discovery of the skeletons, it behooves us to retain the evidence to ensure its safety while the investigation is ongoing. The potential entry of the Seminole Tribe into the debate is one we want to avoid.”