The phone rang. Charity picked it up. “Yes?” She put a hand over the receiver. “Captain Kelly wants to know if we can come over.” George picked up his keys. “We’ll be right there.”
They piled into the publisher’s Volvo and drove the half mile to the station. The police chief was in his office checking boxes on a form. He looked up. “There you are. We’ve identified the child.”
George said, “I told them.”
Charity asked, “What happened to him?”
“His father worked as a foreman on the Ritz-Carlton job site. One day, the boy’s mother dropped him off with her husband while she went to a doctor’s appointment. When she returned, Theodore was nowhere to be found.”
Rancor feigned shock. “The father hadn’t kept him on a leash?”
“That’s frowned upon here in Florida. Anyway, they searched for five days. They’d about given up, assuming he’d tumbled into the water and drowned, when a carpenter reported a smell.”
A cry of delight issued from Rancor’s throat. “Putrefaction! A body exposed to the elements will begin to decompose after twelve to twenty-four hours, but it can take five or six days if the corpse is in a protected location. After four weeks, the tissue becomes a fluid—it actually melts—but to be entirely skeletonized can sometimes take several years. At that point—”
“My, you did learn a lot from Patricia Cornwell, didn’t you?”
George turned away and coughed into his handkerchief. “I’m taking that picture to my grave.”
Rancor, undeterred, persisted. “So, where did they find little Tommy?”
Kelly took a rattling breath. “At the bottom of an elevator shaft. Crushed under a wooden beam.”
Charity’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God!”
“He probably died from the fall.”
Rancor touched her elbow. “Instantly, I’m sure.”
“At any rate, they didn’t have the equipment to lift the beam off him, so they cut off his leg at the knee and hauled the rest of the body up. He’s buried in Manasota Memorial Park in Bradenton.”
“Wait a minute. So they left his leg in the pit?”
“Yup.”
“Don’t tell me they planned to actually put an elevator in!”
“No, no. They boarded up the hole and posted a sign warning people about the pit. Construction on the hotel ceased soon after.”
“When was that?”
“Theodore Dobbin was pronounced dead on September 15, 1926.” Kelly paused, his eyes distant. “It must have been so hard to bury a child.”
“Yes. It must be equally hard not to ever know what happened to your husband.”
Everyone looked at Rancor. “Or…er…brother. Or whoever the adult was. Did you find any record of the man?”
Kelly deftly countered the move. “Well, I wouldn’t find anything in the death notices, since he wasn’t discovered until last week, now, would I?”
“Good point.”
George wandered to the window. “You say the boy died only a couple of months before the site closed. Since Ringling expected to resume construction someday, they probably left the shaft alone for years.”
Charity and Rancor exchanged glances. “So the murderer must have believed his victim wouldn’t be discovered any time soon.”
“Ah.”
Rancor made a great show of rising. “So, that’s it, huh? Charity, are you coming?”
Charity didn’t want to come. She wanted to ask more questions. Right now, she didn’t have enough new details to warrant a full article, and the journalist in her was frustrated. “Rancor, I—”
“Come now, Charity.” He beetled his eyebrows at her.
“All right.” She followed him out. “What is it? Why are you in such a hurry?”
He walked rapidly up the sidewalk. “I have to go home and make some phone calls. We now know who the boy is. We have to narrow down the possibilities for the man. I haven’t done the University of Maine yet.”
“What about Biddlesworth and the other one?”
“Bartlesby. You take them, and I’ll concentrate on Maine.”
She dragged him to a halt. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not? We’re so close!”
“Because I have to write the next installment for the Planet.”
“Doesn’t it come out on Wednesday?”
“Yeesss. But I want to draft a column for next week. I missed this week, what with all this…”
“Sex?”
“That too.” She smiled at him. He leaned toward her. Their mouths opened and closed, an inch too far apart.
“Am I boring you?”
“No. Why?”
“You seem to be yawning.”
She drew back. “I keep forgetting what a romantic you are.”
He turned away. “Wish I could.”
“What did you say?”
“Um…it’s all good?”
“Go away and come back later.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pried her purse from her fingers and took her keys. “I’ll pick you up.” As he unlocked her car door, he said casually, “By the way, I’m off to Brazil tonight.”
“What? Why?”
“To catch a thief.”
Chapter Six
Tommy T’s Ticked Off
“Are you ready to go?”
Charity jumped. “Rancor! I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You were concentrating on your column. I didn’t want to disturb you, so I waited until you’d hit a snag.”
“How did you know I had?”
“You were shaking your foot.” Rancor raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I must say I had hoped you weren’t one of those foot jigglers—the ones who make the table wobble when they’re nervous or thinking deep thoughts. So disappointing.”
“Yes. Okay. Now, why are you going to Brazil?”
“I’ll get to that. Here’s your purse. We’re going to the Chart House.”
“To eat?”
“What else?”
She peered at him. “You have something up your sleeve. Are you going to plant the ring back at the crime scene?”
“Not on your life. I told you, it may be a family heirloom. If I give it to the police, I’ll never get it back. No, I want to visit the little boys’ room.”
Charity waved toward the hall. “There’s one here.”
“Does this one have a ghost?”
“Possibly. Past reporters who didn’t make their deadlines.”
“George doesn’t seem the homicidal type.”
“No, but his predecessor and father, the notorious Eli Fletcher, was highly intolerant of goldbrickers. Stories abound of him kicking dilatory reporters down the stairs or shooting a revolver in the air over their heads.”
“Longboat Key has a more colorful history than I imagined.”
“Don’t forget it had a ghost hotel.”
“Not to mention superannuated babes in bikinis even their granddaughters wouldn’t be caught dead in.”
“You were on the beach.”
He grinned. “Yes. Come on.”
Once on the road, Charity asked, “Did you get any more research done?”
“Nah. Too busy ogling the flesh.” He was silent a minute. “Actually, I had my training session at Publix. I’m sorry to say I had to postpone the first-day celebrations. Thankfully, Mr. Twittle—he’s the manager—was most understanding.”
“Brazil?”
“Brazil.”
I’m going to wait until we get to the restaurant, then ply him with liquor.
Nathan greeted Rancor as an old friend and found them seats at the bar. “Martini?”
“Just one, thanks. And the lady will have a glass of wine.”
“Hey! I worked hard today. I deserve a nice, relaxing drink.”
“Sorry. Have to be at the airport by nine. I’m flying out tonight, and I want you awake enough to drive.”
“Tonight!” She hoped he didn’t hear the dismay in her vo
ice.
“Why, little fawn, you’ll miss me. How delightful.” His lips showed a smirk, but his eyes glistened. “Here’s where you ask me in a faltering tone how long I’ll be gone.”
Charity was determined not to give him that pleasure. “I don’t care. If you don’t want to hold up your end of the investigation, I’ll carry on by myself.”
He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “I don’t really know how long it will take.”
“To catch the thief…Oh! It’s your editor, isn’t it?”
“Shh.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “I heard from one of the other authors. Isabella may be publishing our manuscripts under a different name.”
“What? How can she get away with it?”
“They were only submissions—we had no signed contracts yet. I have no proof that the work is mine.”
“But it’s your property. By law it’s automatically copyrighted.”
“Hence the moniker ‘thief.’ Unfortunately, without a contract, or a copyright registration, there’s not much I can do to prove it’s mine.”
“You must have drafts.”
He contrived to look affronted. “Me? Write more than one draft? I’m much too good a writer to have to do that.”
“Baloney. Of course you do. Everyone does.”
He nodded. “Yes, I admit it. And when I bring the scoundrels to court I’ll use them. It’s worth a try.” He stood. “Now I have to visit the john and, with any luck, Tommy T.”
“You mean, Theodore Dobbin.”
“Whatever.”
Charity nursed her drink. She didn’t have to wait long. An agitated Rancor, his face as white as cotton wool, tottered to the table. “What is it?”
“Oh my God. I saw him! I saw Tommy, Charity!”
He slumped down on the chair, then leaned forward and snatched her wine from her hand, downing it in one swallow. “He was…he was sitting there, calm as you please. When he saw me—” He gulped for air.
“What do you mean, he saw you? Don’t ghosts just have eye sockets?”
“Not this one. He had coal black eyes and…and they flashed. He was angry, Charity. Angry at me.”
“Did he talk?”
“Of course not. He’s a ghost. Honestly, haven’t you read anything about ghosts?”
Charity took a deep breath. “Okay, tell me what happened.”
“Well, he saw me and pulled himself up. He wore torn overalls and a cotton shirt.”
“The scrap of denim.”
Rancor nodded. “He opened his mouth as though he were yelling, but no sound came out. He took a step toward me and fell over. That’s when I saw he only had one leg.”
“That’s right—they had to cut it off to get him out of the pit.”
“Yes. He lay there, his hand outstretched toward me, his mouth gaping like a dying mackerel. Charity, he wanted something from me.”
“His toy. The ring.”
“Wow. How did he know I have it?”
Charity gave him a disgusted look. “Hello?”
“Oh.” Rancor held up two fingers. The bartender nodded and began to mix another martini. “Do you suppose Tommy took the ring from the dead man?”
“He must have.” Charity mused. “But the other body arrived later, after Tommy—I mean Theodore—after they took his body away.”
“But his ghost still haunted the pit.”
“And when Biddlesworth decided to sublet, he came out.”
“Spotted the restaurant and decided the men’s room would be preferable to being buried alive.”
“A ghost can’t be buried alive.”
“True.” Rancor scratched his chin. “So, first order of business is to find out when the other one died.”
“What did Standish say? Early thirties. It had to have been after 1931 because of the ring inscription. How long ago was that?”
“Math’s not your strong point I see. Eighty-five years.”
“When did the Chart House open?”
“Not sure.” He accepted the martini from the assistant manager. “Nathan, any idea when this place was built?”
“Before my time. I’ll go ask Walter.” He returned a minute later. “Walter says 1988. He knows ’cause he was one of the first people they hired. Started as a dishwasher, and now”—his face suffused with pride—“he’s the executive manager.”
Charity sipped her water. “So the man was killed sometime between 1931 and 1988.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous. What did you get on your SATs? Twelve? Professor Standish said the skeleton was around eighty years old. So he must have died at the latest in the 1940s.”
She giggled.
“What’s so funny?”
“I wonder why he doesn’t haunt the men’s room as well?”
“Apparition rules. The nether world is just as over-regulated as this one. Only one ghost per hundred square feet. He probably haunted the parking lot.”
“Wait. If Tommy T left the pit in the thirties, what did he do before the restaurant was built?”
“How the hell would I know?” He checked his watch and tossed off his drink. “We’ve got to go.”
“What? No food?”
“No time.”
Charity’s heart flip-flopped. “How…long will you be gone?”
He paused, then touched her cheek lightly. “I don’t know, but I’ll call you. Every night.”
It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
An hour later, she waved him off at the terminal and slogged home. As she fell on the couch, the phone rang.
“Hey.”
“Hey you.”
“I…uh…just wanted to check in. Flight’s about to take off. Thought I’d better tell you I’m not going to Brazil. I’m going to Paris.”
“Paris?”
“Er…yes.”
“Why the lie?”
“Oh, I figured you’d be jealous if you knew I was going to such a romantic spot.”
“Why should I be?”
“Because I’m going to see a beautiful woman.”
****
Charity wasn’t sure how she made it through the night. Rancor, true to form, would give her no details, preferring, apparently, to make her suffer—unnecessarily? Or not? He merely said he’d call when he arrived.
She fired up the computer when she got to the office and attempted to work on the column, but questions kept intruding. What about the Maryland graduates? And the University of Maine? Rancor hadn’t gotten to Maine before he left. I’d better do it myself—he can’t be trusted to finish anything…Fingers hovering over the keyboard, she stopped. Where in hell did he get the money to go to France anyway? He hasn’t even started at Publix yet. Wait—Aunt Gertrude said something about a check. She pounded a fist on the desk. That little bastard had enough cash for a plane ticket but not enough to spring for my drink? She got up and paced, then sat back down. And then why did he leave so hurriedly? Was it something I did? Doesn’t he like me anymore? Will I ever see him again? As the questions receded further and further from the murder, she became more and more anxious.
The publisher came in. “What’s the matter? You’re bouncing up and down like a rock band groupie.”
“Uh…nothing. Nothing. Working on the next column.” She shielded the monitor screen, on which appeared a Google map of Paris.
“Good. I’m going to finish my editorial.” He went into his office and closed the door. Charity minimized the Paris site and typed in University of Maine, class of 1932. Up popped a list, and on the top was Roger P. Brewster. “Mmm…married Ginger Carpenter, class of 1933. We may be getting somewhere.” She read on. “He received a BA, no honors. What did our Ginger do?” She clicked on the name. “Graduated in Anthropology. Went on for a master’s degree…let’s see.” She typed in the name. “Ooh, goody. A Wikipedia article.” According to the article, Ginger went off to do her field work in the Aleutian Islands and never came back. Survivors included a husband—Roger Brewster�
�and a three-year-old child. Brewster was believed to have gone in pursuit of his wife. She clicked to turn the page, but that was the end of the article. No amount of searching would unearth any more references to Roger P. Brewster. Maybe he never got to Alaska. Maybe his trip ended unexpectedly in Sarasota. That idea lasted a full ten seconds. He’d hardly go through Florida to get to the northern Pacific.
Okay—Rancor’s grandfather. She plugged in Robert Bass III. The entry only repeated what Aunt Gertrude had told them. He graduated—barely—and went to work in his father’s business. She checked for alumni class notes, but they were only available online from 1972 on. He seems to have been pretty much of a cipher. She chuckled. I guess the gene for personality only emerges every third generation.
On to the University of Maryland. Bundy and Biddlesworth. Oh, no, they were 1931. Try 1932. Bartlesby, Barnard, and Burnham. Who was the fellow who disappeared in 1935? Bartlesby. She searched for five minutes before coming up with a short article in the Sarasota Examiner that mentioned him.
“ ‘Sarasota police ended their search today for Randall Bartlesby, Esq., of Baltimore. No trace has been found of the businessman, although his ex-wife, Gretchen Bartlesby, feels strongly that he skipped out to avoid alimony and claims she found a brochure for Costa Rica among his effects. With nothing further to go on, Police Chief Stewart has closed the books on the case.’ ”
A possibility. She sat, chin in hand, musing. On the other hand, 1931 could refer to the class year just as well as the marriage date. Just because Robert Three graduated in 1932 doesn’t mean the dead man did. “Let’s see, where’s that list?” She shuffled through her drawer and came up with the notebook Rancor had been using. “Ah, Biddlesworth, Rodney.” She set the pad down and keyed in the name. Nothing. “Wait, what about his wife? What was her name?” She checked the list again. “That’s right, Edna Gwendolyn…but her last name? Well, let’s try Edna Gwendolyn Biddlesworth…”
Aha. Edna Gwendolyn Biddlesworth had had her husband declared legally dead in 1940. At the end of the article was a short obituary, stating he was in Sarasota on business at the time of his disappearance. It gave the story Rancor had found—a dispute with his business partner led police to speculate that a crime had been committed, but without the body they couldn’t bring charges. The business partner—one Calvin Hagen—was believed to have left Sarasota once the police abandoned their investigation.
The Pit and the Passion Page 9