Standish snorted. “Who came up with the ludicrous idea that the bones are Native American? They’re clearly Caucasian.”
George and Charity both gazed innocently at the man, while Rancor barely stifled a snigger.
Luckily, the police chief could honestly say that he had no idea where the rumor originated. “What’s important is that we secure the site and hopefully determine the origin of the bones as soon as possible. Now, what can you tell us?”
The professor looked warily from one face to another. It was obvious to all that he wanted more than anything to keep his findings to himself. “If I give you my report, will you promise to keep it sealed until such time as I can publish?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“At least keep it from the press?”
George stared at him. “I think it’s a little late for that.”
Standish sighed and extracted a file from his briefcase. He skimmed several pages. “All right. Bone fragments came from two separate skeletons. The first—which includes only the tibia, the talus bone, and a section of the fibula—belong to a small child.”
Charity quietly flipped the switch on the tape recorder in her pocket. “Pardon me,” she asked meekly. “Could you perhaps put that in layman’s terms for us?”
A martyred sigh came from the great scientist. “Leg and ankle bones. The fibula was severed below the knee cap, and partially crushed, leading me to surmise a heavy object dropped on the child’s leg.”
Rancor’s eyes flickered. Charity knew what he was thinking. Biddlesworth. Oh God, he’s going to prance around for days like some cheeky rooster. Sigh. “Could you date the bones?”
“Not without proper equipment, which I have in my laboratory.” In the face of his listeners’ continued silence, he grudgingly admitted, “If you’re asking how long since the child died, I would say less than a hundred years.”
“That old?”
“I said less than a hundred. Late 1920s to early 1930s, I’d guess. But old, yes. The discoloration and the state of degeneration indicates—”
Rancor twitched impatiently. “Yes, yes. We can read all that in your report. What about the other skeleton?”
“Ah, that one is nearly complete.”
Kelly rubbed his jaw. “Could they have died at the same time?”
“Unlikely. The disposition of the bones, as well as their condition, suggest he died several years after the first. A full-grown man, Caucasian as I said, probably of Anglo-Saxon ancestry, no scoliosis—”
“Indicating a middle- or upper-class background,” interjected Edwards helpfully.
Standish glared at the doctor. “May I continue? Some breakage near the pelvis, almost as though he had been folded in half and shoved into the pit.”
“So he may have been unconscious—”
“Or even dead—”
“Before he fell into the hole?”
“Oh, he was dead all right.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’d been stabbed to death.”
“What?”
“There is evidence of multiple wounds inflicted by a sharp object—several ribs are chipped and the sternum pierced. A crack in the hyoid bone may also be due to a severe blow.”
“Hyoid?”
Standish patted his neck. “A bone in the throat.”
Kelly sat down heavily on the corner of the desk. “Murder?”
Standish said drily, “It would seem so.”
Rancor elbowed Charity. “Told you.”
She turned to Standish. “You say several cuts—could it have been a crime of passion?”
“Possibly. You’d have to have more information to determine motive.”
Rancor, his face showing only mild interest, asked, “Was there anything—the bit of flannel, say—that we could use to trace him?”
Standish took another sheet from the file. “The lab found the material to be very high-quality suit material—”
Edwards squeaked excitedly. “Again, evidence that the deceased belonged to the upper middle class or higher.”
Standish took a minute to fix his colleague with a vitriolic gaze. Once the latter had been reduced to a more compliant smoking pile of rubble, he pointed at Kelly. “Interpretation of the evidence is the job of the police.”
His tone projecting expert knowledge Charity knew he didn’t have, Rancor asked, “Can’t you match his teeth to dental records?”
“Ah, that would be difficult. He had no teeth.”
“No teeth?”
“It appears from the empty sockets that they were knocked out deliberately.”
Edwards said breathlessly, “In preparation for dentures?”
Standish looked down his aquiline nose at his colleague. “If a professional had extracted all the teeth, he wouldn’t have left any root tips behind. He’d remove all traces of tooth and root. In this case, the roots were partially resorbed, a process that likely shut down at a certain point after death.”
“You’re right, of course.” The medical examiner blushed. “So…the murderer must have done it.”
George looked at him curiously. “What makes you think that?”
Standish waved Edwards off before he could answer. “The murderer was clearly aware that dental records can in fact be used to identify a body—probably from reading too many police thrillers.” His disparaging glance had no effect on Rancor. “He didn’t, however, know how to do it properly.” The others had the distinct impression that Standish would not have been so inept.
He handed the folder to Kelly. “And therefore the killer didn’t expect the victim to be found for a long time.”
“What do you mean?”
“He assumed the soft tissue would have dissolved by the time it was discovered, making the teeth the only method of identification.”
Charity had a thought. “What about the bits of root you said were left? Would it be possible to identify him by whatever is left in the jaw?”
Standish picked up his briefcase. “Not by me. You need a forensic dentist.” He headed to the door. “My car is waiting. I expect to receive the materials as soon as you’re finished with them.” He leveled an eloquent look at Kelly. “I know Quentin—my cousin—will agree.” He strode out.
Rancor ambled to the window and watched the long black limousine leave the parking lot. “That went well.”
George and Charity gave each other a high five. George chortled, “The power of the press!”
The police chief scratched his head. “What are you all talking about?”
Charity gulped. “Er…nothing. Aren’t you glad you didn’t have to let the skeletons go, Captain?”
“I’m not so sure. Now I have two accidental deaths…or two murders…to solve. I don’t have the resources for this.”
“Can we help?”
“Sorry. Like the man said, this is police work.” He stopped. “Wait…‘Power of the press’…Hmm. Maybe you can help. We’re looking for missing persons reports for, say, between fifty and a hundred years ago. Children and white male adults. Can you do that for me?”
Rancor kept a straight face. “Absolutely.”
“Okay.” He picked up the file and headed to the door. “I’m going back to the station to read the report—see if there are any other details that we can use.”
He left.
Rancor grabbed Charity’s hand. “I want lunch.”
When she began to protest he gave her a tug. “Lunch. Now.”
“I…oh. Okay.” She turned to the publisher. “I’ll be back later.”
George didn’t look up. “Sure…sure. I have to get going on this editorial.”
Rancor didn’t speak until Charity turned left into the Centre Shops. “The Blue Dolphin’s too crowded. We can’t talk in there. Let’s go up to Olaf’s deli and get take out.”
They ordered bánh mih sandwiches, picked out a cold bottle of wine, and drove back up the island. Charity retrieved two folding chairs from her storage
locker, and they took their food out to the beach.
Before she could take a bite, Rancor grabbed her wrist. “I can’t believe Kelly played right into our hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we have carte blanche to search the police records. Standish’s conclusion—grudgingly provided though it was—that the adult died a few years after Tommy T places him in the 1930s. Therefore, I can probably dispense with 1926 through 1930 of the university classes. Once I finish 1932, we can cross-check the missing persons’ files before I start on the outlying years.”
Charity shook off his hand and picked up her sandwich. “When are you going to turn over the ring?”
“Not until I’ve wrung every ounce of information from it. Besides”—he took a gulp of wine—“it might be a family heirloom.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would. You should know by now what I’m capable of.” He blew her a kiss. “And not just in the bedroom.”
She decided to leave that remark unaddressed and ate her lunch. The noon sun beat down on their heads, but a breeze off the gulf cooled them. Low whitecaps trimmed the blue water, and far out two dolphins breached. A flock of pelicans soared past them in a perfect vee formation. One flew up high, folded his wings, and dove head first into the water. When he rose to the surface, he pointed his bill to the sky. A big lump made its way from the bill into the pouch, and he swallowed noisily.
“Not a bad spot. I might stay here longer than I planned.”
Rancor’s words gave her an unpleasant jolt. “And how long was that?”
“Oh, only until I finished the research on the ghost book. I was going to write it up at home.”
“You mean in Maine?”
He nodded absently, gazing out at the clouds blowing bubbles in the azure sky.
So much for his proposal. Oh right, he was joking. She checked out his profile. I say good riddance. She poured more wine into her Dixie cup and drained it.
“You finished?” He took her paper plate and cup and shoveled them into a plastic bag. “Then to work, minion.”
Charity left Rancor at a computer in the Planet office and drove to the police station. Captain Kelly set her up with the missing persons reports from 1920 on. “Good thing we hired young Crocker to digitize all our records last year. Otherwise, you’d be going through dusty ledgers wearing plastic gloves.”
By dinnertime, she had had it. “I’m done here, Captain.”
“How far did you get?”
“Up to 1950. I found ten reports of either a twenty-something-year-old white male and forty of a child under ten. None of them seemed to fit.” She wished she could tell him about the ring and how that might narrow the dates down. “I think that’s late enough—Standish said the bones were likely nearly a hundred years old, after all. Besides, we may already know who the child is.”
“You mean the little boy you mentioned? The ghost?”
“You may laugh, but Rancor and I—Mr. Bass—have been collecting local ghost stories. The little boy known as Tommy T was killed at the Ghost Hotel.”
Kelly sobered. “You did mention him. Do you have a last name?”
“No. I don’t even know if his real name was Tommy. That’s what the Chart House staff calls him.”
“And why do they call him anything?”
“Because he haunts the men’s room.”
“I…uh…see.” He stood. “I’ll check out the death records. If it really happened, it’ll be there.”
“I’m going home.”
“See you tomorrow?”
“I’ll try to check in.”
Rancor still sat before the monitor when she arrived at the office. He looked up. “Anything?”
“Nothing. I’m taking a break until tomorrow.”
“Wuss.”
“Guilty as charged.” She touched a finger to the back of his neck. “And you?”
“A light frisson. A rise in certain nether regions. Other than that, nothing.”
“I meant with the schools.”
“I know. I’ve been perusing the mug shots of the female students.”
She cuffed him. “What have you accomplished?”
“I’ve slogged through most of 1932. As far as I’m concerned, way too many unqualified Americans went to college despite a crippling shortage of carpenters and plumbers. Hence the glut of poets and professors living off the backs of hardworking taxpayers. Not to mention a shocking lack of advancement in plumbing technology.”
Charity wasn’t in the mood to defend the New Deal, even were she so inclined. “Have you had a chance to cross-check the RBs in the class of 1932 with marriage registrations?”
“I’ve done all but Maine. As before, no RBs in Montana, Missouri, or Mississippi. U Mass and Miami were already eliminated. Maryland—home to the absent Biddlesworth—”
“The one who disappeared in Florida in 1933?”
“The very one. In what is becoming a pattern at that border state university, yet three more men took themselves off to Florida after graduating. Roscoe Barnard, Randall Bartlesby, and a Rex Burnham, all graduated with honors and disappeared into the Florida swamps. The Florida land boom had collapsed by then if I recall correctly.”
“Yes, by the end of the twenties. It started around 1920, but what with two hurricanes, the Great Depression, and the unmasking of thousands of flim-flam artists, it fizzled in less than a decade.”
“At any rate, before our boys headed south. So tell me, if not filthy lucre, what would make them want to come to sunny Florida?”
She shrugged. “Work? Wives?”
“Come on, Charity, think. This is Sarasota, after all. Winter quarters for Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey circus—”
“Actually, I believe they’re in Venice.”
“Will you stop interrupting? That’s neither here nor there, but if you insist on being pedantic, I must inform you that the circus didn’t move to Venice until the 1950s.” Before she could respond, he barked, “The point is, the Clown College is here.”
“Ah.”
“Which is why Barnard aimed his pointy head south. According to the Ringling Brothers website, he lived a long, fulfilling life as a circus clown.”
“How about Burnham—was he a clown as well?”
“No. The hapless Burnham was last seen running like a dog through the Everglades.” When she didn’t laugh, he continued. “Apparently, he didn’t know that flim-flam artists no longer constituted the majority of the population, and he stood out like a sore thumb.”
Charity was beginning to feel restless. “And the third one?”
“Bartlesby was married to a Gretchen. And he did go missing.”
“When?”
“In 1935.”
“Might work. Put him on the list. What about any of the other schools?”
“I thought I’d hit another jackpot there. Two more young gallants with the initials RB graduated in 1932 from the University of Missouri and, as young men do, went west.”
“I hope you mean west Florida.”
“Well, duh. You just can’t let me be cute, can you?”
She patted his shoulder. “Go on.”
“They both married. One—a Russ Benson—married Georgia Hamilton in 1934.”
“1934! That’s too late.”
“Not necessarily. They could have been engaged in college, and she inscribed the ring then.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Doesn’t have to. Young love and all that.”
Charity feared the discussion was meandering off toward pulp fiction and decided to take a firm hand. “What about the other one?”
“Reuben Brooke married Buffy Smith—daughter of a local businessman.”
“Okay. And the University of Maine?”
“I haven’t gotten to that yet, but we know of at least one graduate there who fits the profile perfectly.”
“Robert Bass III.”
“Yes. However, as with
all my work, I intend to be extremely thorough. I have to be sure Biddlesworth and Bartlesby aren’t our man—wait a minute, that’s not right. Is it ‘our man’? ‘Our men’? Hmm.”
“Whatever. Come on. I need sustenance.”
“You ate that entire sandwich and half of mine just a few hours ago.”
She held her watch to his face. “That would be six hours ago.”
He clicked the computer off. “If I weren’t quite so chivalrous, I wouldn’t let you take me away from all this and buy me dinner.”
“Speaking of buying, when do you start at Publix?”
He drew back, a look of horror on his face. “Why do you ask?”
“You are going to work there, aren’t you?”
“Of course, but first they have to schedule my training session. It’s purported to be quite rigorous. There’s bagging, and cart retrieval, and stacking…customer relations—oh, ever so many things I must learn before they release me into the wilds of the service sector.”
“You’ve got one week. That’s it. Then you start buying meals. And maybe find your own place.”
“Or pay rent?”
Her heart bounced twice. She couldn’t look at him. If he saw the joy in her face, he’d know what his suggestion did to her. Remember what he said—he’s going home soon. To Maine. “You couldn’t afford it.”
“Don’t I get a discount for good behavior?” He patted her bottom.
Let’s nip this in the bud. “Why don’t we eat on it?”
“Great, I’m starved.”
****
George ushered them into his office. “So have you finished checking the missing persons file?”
“Yes—I stopped at 1950. Followed up on some fifty leads. No winners. But Rancor has information on at least three men who disappeared in the thirties.”
“Oh?” George turned to Rancor, who quickly put his coffee cup to his lips. “Are you helping Charity?”
Too late, she remembered that George didn’t know about the ring, and therefore didn’t know that Rancor was searching the universities. “He…uh…he is, yes. Aren’t you, Rancor? But,” she added hurriedly, “I still have to confirm his findings. Captain Kelly is going to look at death records from the period.”
“Oh, right, I forgot to tell you. He found a match. Tommy T was in fact Theodore Dobbin, seven years old at the time of his death in 1926.”
The Pit and the Passion Page 8