“They could start by training the staff.”
Jane pointed an admonishing finger at Charity. “You’re the one who made him cry.”
At that moment, the waiter returned with another plate. This time he stood a full five feet away to light the cheese. He pushed it toward her and jumped back. All three people stared at the flames, Costas apparently mesmerized. Finally, Charity reached out and pinched him. He pitched forward and slammed the cover onto the plate, knocking a few chips off.
That did the trick, and the flames were out when he removed it. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Charity took a tentative bite. “After all that, it’s pretty good.”
“Here, try some taramasalata.” Jane spooned a dollop of thick, granular, pinkish paste onto Charity’s plate.
“What is it?”
“It’s fish roe. From the gray mullet, I believe. They whip it with mayonnaise and lemon. It’s wonderful.”
Charity agreed and polished off her share and most of Jane’s. As she mopped up the last of her salad with a chunk of bread, Jane fixed her friend with a gimlet eye. “So, our Lothario has traipsed off to France for a fling with his editor.”
“No, it’s not like that! He says she’s been stealing the submissions of several authors and publishing them under a pseudonym.”
“That’s piracy.”
“Duh.”
Jane swirled the wine in her glass, her eyes meditative. “Illegal enterprises that are lucrative tend to attract the wrong sort of people.”
“You mean criminals.”
“Uh huh. So…Rancor Bass went galloping off on his white horse to apprehend the wicked queen and bring her to justice.”
“Well, when you put it like that…Look, she’s usurped his reputation, not to mention future royalties.”
“Why doesn’t he just go to the police?”
“He is. He said he was meeting with the Paris police today.”
“Today? You’ve talked to him recently?” She peered at Charity. “Is this relationship by any chance serious?”
Charity took a big swig of wine. “Mmmph.”
Jane gave her a long, hard look but said merely, “Okay, tell me what’s going on with our skeletons.”
“You heard about that?”
Her tone was dry. “It was in the paper. A column penned by…wait a minute. By you.”
“I forgot. Yes, I’m working on a second installment.” She told Jane about Standish’s findings.
“Married, huh. It’s amazing what they can glean from a pile of bones. Did they find the ring? That might provide a clue.”
How does she get so disturbingly close so quickly? “Um…no…but…I did.”
Jane’s jaw dropped. “You found the ring? You went snooping around the crime scene and stole evidence?”
“Well…not exactly.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Rancor did.”
“Why?”
Charity signaled the waiter. “Another glass of wine, please.” She didn’t look at Jane. “Because…actually, I’m not sure. He just picked it up and pocketed it.”
“You did point out that in some circles such a stunt is considered a felony?”
“I did. He was—we were—caught up in the adventure, I guess.” She gulped. “He thinks the dead man may be his grandfather.”
“His grandfather?”
“Yes. See, the ring has an inscription, ‘To RB from G,’ and the year 1931. It’s a class ring.”
“How do you know?”
“It looks like one—you know? Heavy gold, stone in the middle. On the sides are the letters U and M.”
“So you think the dead man graduated in 1931 from a school with those letters, had a girlfriend whose name begins with G, and his initials are RB?”
“That pretty much sums it up. Except that he could have graduated in 1932.”
“1932? Why? No, wait.” She shook her head as though to clear it. “Let’s set that aside for now. Any luck finding such a needle?”
“As in, in a haystack? Yes, as a matter of fact. Rancor found nine schools, but we’ve narrowed it down to two. University of Maine and University of Maryland.”
“Not bad. Tell me about them.”
Charity told her about Bartlesby, Biddlesworth, and Hagen, and about Robert Bass III. “We haven’t done much research on the University of Maine yet, except for calls to Rancor’s Aunt Gertrude.”
Jane signaled for the check. “Gotta be Biddlesworth. Everything fits. Even to the watery grave.”
“But if the ring inscription doesn’t refer to the class year…”
“You’ll find it’s Biddlesworth—mark my words.” She took out her wallet. “Still, I’m a bit concerned about Light-Fingered Louie.”
“You mean Rancor?”
“Yes. Why did he steal the ring? Was it the reflex action of a seasoned thief? Is he writing a new book? Or is there some as yet undiscovered motive…” She trailed off, chin in hand.
Charity’s cell phone went off. “Hello?”
“Charity, are you alone?”
“No, Rancor.” She stood up. Jane cocked her head.
“Well, get rid of whatever current suitor is mauling you and listen to me.”
She trotted out of the restaurant. “Okay. I’m—” All she heard was a click and a buzz. “Hello? Hello?”
Jane arrived on the sidewalk. “You didn’t have to run out on me. I told you lunch was on me. Sheesh.” She caught sight of Charity’s face. “What’s the matter? The great man hang up on you?”
“He did. I wonder why?”
“Hot date?”
“No. It sounded as though he had something important to tell me, but by the time I got out here, he’d hung up.” She turned to Jane with worried eyes. “I hope he’s all right.”
“He strikes me as the type who always floats to the surface alive.”
“Maybe.” She clicked the phone on, then off. “I forgot. I have no number for him.”
“Doesn’t it show on your phone?”
“No, he has one of those disposable phones.”
Jane whistled. “Oh, sister, he’s a sly one. I suggest you back off as quick as you can before you get burned.” She tittered. “Leave that to the professionals like our Costas.”
Charity was quiet on the return journey. Jane seemed to be thoughtful as well. They parted at Charity’s complex. “Keep me in the loop, will you?”
“Sure.” Charity went in and lay down to review the day but found herself focused solely on Rancor. Why did he call? Or rather, what was so important that he called in the middle of the day? How did he sound? Worried? Frightened? She sighed in frustration. The call had been so short—almost as though it were cut off. Is he in trouble? She rose and went to her desk.
Outside, dark clouds streamed over the gulf, bearing the usual late afternoon storms. A group of painfully white adults in crisp new surfer shorts sprayed sunscreen on each other while their pack of small children played at the water’s edge. They would break off now and then to point at the lightning that splintered the sky like shattered glass. Charity was on the verge of leaning out to advise them to get their crap and their butts inside, when she reconsidered. Now there’s a headline—Lightning Incinerates Iowa Family on Beach—Spooked Tourists Deserting Longboat. This could be a godsend.
She went through the disorderly pile of paper scraps on her night table, hoping to find Rancor’s note pad in case he’d scribbled the name of his hotel on it. No luck. I’m just going to have to wait to hear from him. She consoled herself that her imagination was running amok. Probably the champagne had arrived, that’s all.
Three hours later, she was back on the bed staring at the ceiling. A beam of red light shot through her window. Sunset already? She got up, fixed herself a drink, and took it to the balcony. She watched as the sun sank unwillingly—long, needle-like pincers of light stretching out as though they wanted to hook the horizon and hang on for dear life. Whatever was pulling from below won the battle and the sun dipped, l
eaving its signature green flash as a token of affection for the world.
Restless, Charity paced from the balcony to the living room. Why doesn’t he call? What did he want? Is he ill? Wait—he was going to meet with the police today. Did they believe his story? He’d said other authors were involved. Why hadn’t they gone in a body to confront the thief? Why did he go alone? A horrible thought intruded. Has he reconciled with Isabella? Does he want to break up with me?
The questions flew around getting in each other’s way until she felt dizzy. Maybe a walk on the beach. She took off her sandals and walked out to the water. The sanderlings and plovers ran back and forth at the low tide mark stuffing their bills with mole crabs. As the water rushed away from the shore, the tiny coquinas gasped in panic, rattling like castanets as they frantically dug into the sand. A puff of air cooled her face. She went north as far as a strip of beach bordered by several large mansions. Inhabited for only a month or so in high season, their darkened, hulking shapes loomed over the dunes. They look like zombies marching to the sea. She hunched her shoulders and turned around.
The telephone rang as she walked up the outside steps. She ran in and grabbed the receiver as it went to the dial tone. “Damn!” She sat by the phone waiting. A minute later, it rang again. “Hello! Hello!”
“Charity?”
She dropped onto the sofa. “Oh, Rancor, are you all right?”
His voice tentative, he mumbled, “Um, not really. Do you think you could round up five hundred dollars—in francs—to post bond? ASAP?”
“Bond! What for?”
“I’m…um…in jail.”
Chapter Eight
Paris Follies
Charity dropped the phone. After picking it up and waiting for the panicky breaths to slow, she said as calmly as she could, “Before I shell out any more money, you need to answer a few questions, mister.”
“Fire away. It’s funny—here in France I’m allowed not one but two phone calls.”
“I presume your first one was to the American embassy.”
“That’s next on my list. This may come as a surprise to you, but I so longed to hear your voice that I decided to check in with you first. Get the money ball rolling, as it were.”
“It’s always about money, isn’t it?”
“Well, in this case, it’s pretty crucial. The French police may be enlightened as to telephone communications, but not so much about accommodations. So what do you say?”
“I say, get on the horn to the embassy without ado.”
He was silent for a minute. Finally, he said gently, “Don’t you want to hear what happened?”
“Let me guess. You were caught in flagrante delicto with a beautiful fugitive from justice.”
“Not at all. My heart is true. I’ve been faithful to you even if you don’t deserve it.”
Charity decided to let that pass—and maybe revisit it later at her leisure. “Tell me then.”
“Well, said beautiful fugitive managed to turn the tables on me. I found her, but instead of consenting to come along quietly, she screamed bloody murder. In a performance worthy of Sarah Bernhardt—you know who she was, don’t you? The greatest actress of her age. The Divine Sarah. Why, her Tosca was emulated by thousands of would-be swans. I—”
“What did she claim?”
“Who? Oh, Isabella? That I—Rancor Bass, author of eleven wildly acclaimed books—had stolen her manuscript! The gall of the woman.” He subsided into incoherent rumblings.
“And?”
“And since this is France, the gendarmes refrained from asking any searing questions for fear of injuring the nymphette’s fragile sensibilities. They swallowed her line without so much as a tittle of qualm and arrested me. It’s appalling, really. These chaps are totally sexist. Chauvinist dinosaurs…”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Well, I’d love the money as soon as you can send it. How’s that done nowadays? They used to say ‘I’ll wire it,’ but I’m pretty sure technology has moved on. No matter, that was five hundred if you recall. I guess I can exchange it here—ooh, I just thought of something. It’s euros, isn’t it? Not francs. What a shame…this Eurozone crap has got to stop. It’s ruining all the color and spice of Europe. Did you know French farmers can’t sell cheese that isn’t pasteurized? Criminal.”
“Rancor? Have you by any chance not eaten in a while?”
“What? No, la bonne femme—that’s ‘wife’ to you Yankees—of Monsieur le Brigadier Dumont provided me with a cheese omelet and a Picardie glass of a refreshing Sancerre. Her name is Antoinette. A very warmhearted woman.”
I’ll bet she is. “All right, then why are you babbling?”
“I think it’s the cell walls—so close, so confining. They’re beginning to get to me. Did I ever mention I have claustrophobia? I’m trying to fend it off with logorrhea.”
“Logo…what?”
“Logorrhea. It’s like diarrhea except with words rather than…well, you know.”
Let’s just skip on ahead. “All right, I’ll see about the money. Who do I send it to?”
“My lawyer—a Monsieur Carotte. Hang on, let me find his email address…here it is. Carotte-at-AubergineCarotteAsperge-dot-com. That’s all one word. Do you want me to spell it?”
“No, I’ve got it. Wait—you have a lawyer? Why do you need me?”
“He was assigned by the judge. He doesn’t care about me the way you do, Charity. In fact, he actually hooted when I suggested he bail me out. Like a hyena, not like an owl. Most unsettling.”
“How do you know he won’t keep the money?”
“Oh dear, I hadn’t thought of that. Just a minute.” From a distance, she heard a dialogue in rapid French. Rancor came back on the line. “The officer has kindly offered to take custody of the funds. Send it to Brigadier Raoul Dumont, in care of the Commissariat de Police, eighth arrondissement, one Avenue du General Eisenhower, Paris, 75008. Got it?”
“All right. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! Can’t you do it tonight? It’s not exactly Shangri-La here.”
“What time is it there?”
More French. “Dumont informs me it is three o’clock in the morning. So it’s tomorrow.”
“Well, it isn’t tomorrow here. You’ll get the money when you get it.” When he didn’t answer, she said sweetly, “Do call me when you get out.”
“Will do,” he whispered, his voice tight. “You’re a saint. I’ll be at l’Hôtel Paris, 13 rue des Beaux Arts, Paris 75006. Number is 33-1-44-41-99-55.”
“Hôtel Paris? Where’s that? By the train station?”
“No, dear. That’s Hôtel de la Gare. It’s always Hôtel de la Gare. L’Hôtel Paris is one of the most famous of all French hostelries. I’m shocked you don’t know this.”
“Rancor, I’ve never been to France. I’ve never even been to New York.”
“Why, you sad, pathetic creature. While I still have you on the line, I shall tell you more. All kinds of famous people have rested their weary heads on the silken sheets of l’Hôtel, the most eminent being Oscar Wilde. I believe he breathed his last bon mot there. So naturally, it’s the most suitable hotel for a wielder of clever phrases such as I, don’t you think? Plus, it’s a five-star and really rather special. Did you know its rooms are classified Mignon and Bijou? That tells you how precious it is.”
Not having any response to this little speech, she said goodbye and hung up.
An hour later, money having been sent and receipt confirmed, she went to bed, resolved to force the little reptile to confess just how he managed to bunk in a five-star hotel and yet still had to borrow bail money.
****
“Did I wake you?”
“No, Rancor. I’ve been waiting for your call. Are you free?”
“From the slammer? For the nonce. Um…thanks for the money. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“I’m not worried. I have Aunt Gertrude’s number.”
; “You wouldn’t.”
Aha, a palpable hit. “I would. Now tell me what happened?”
“I will. Soon. Right now, I want you to do something for me.”
“Something else? Rancor…”
“Hold on. I do need your help. If we can get this Isabella thing resolved, I’ll get my royalties back, and I’ll be flush. I shall take you to Michaels on East or Euphemia Haye. Or even Venice. Whatever you want. I’ll shower you with candy and flowers and a diamond tiara. I’ll—”
Charity cut through the torrent of promises. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Great. You won’t regret it. Besides, it’ll be fun.”
I have my doubts.
When she didn’t speak, he asked anxiously, “Charity? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I have come to accept the fact that I must have backup if I’m going to make a credible case. That means enlisting my fellow sufferers.”
“The other writers?”
“Yes. I told you that several have been treated as churlishly as I. I need them to come over here and testify. Or at least send depositions. Will you contact them for me?”
“Rancor, I do have a job, you know. And it’s not as your personal assistant.”
Dead silence reigned for a long minute. He finally said, “Okay,” in a very subdued tone. Naturally, it worked like a charm.
“All right, what are their names?”
“You’re a peach. First off is Atalanta L’Amour—she writes shapeshifter vampire erotica. You’ll like her. Number is 212-555-6438.” He waited for her to write it down. “Got that? Okay, next is Holdridge K. Wheelock, the essayist.”
“Wheelock. Didn’t he write that parody of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?”
“Yes and no. He didn’t mean it to be tongue-in-cheek, and when it was roundly criticized as not zany enough, he took offense. He’s at Dontugetsatireumoron-at-HoldridgeKWheelock-dot-com. I’d better spell that out.” He did.
“Is that it?”
“No, two more. I want to descend on the French judicial system like an Ottoman horde. Besides, you may only pry one or two of them from their nests.”
The Pit and the Passion Page 11