The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “That’s right. I was looking for the switch when he hit me.”

  Irma clucked her tongue. “Poor little pet, he didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Beatrice sniffed. “Must you defend them? They’re nothing but nasty little thugs.”

  Charity accepted more coffee. “How did the police catch them?”

  “By following the smell. One of the bobbies recognized the…er…fragrance from his school days. They were canvassing the neighborhood, and when they came to the Taylors’ house, it was pretty obvious. Mrs. Taylor went to fetch the boys. Sylvester was hiding under his bed. Lindsay was in the bath.”

  Irma couldn’t stay still. “Then and there, Mrs. Taylor knew he’d done it. An eleven-year-old boy bathing without being forced to? She marched the boys over here and made them apologize. The constable let them go back to bed, and this morning the police took them down to the station.”

  “Surely they didn’t arrest them!”

  “No, of course not, but they will give them a good talking to.” Beatrice allowed herself a spiteful smile. “If they are wise, they’ll do the same to the parents.”

  Frederick stuck his head in. “Did you want me to cut down that vine now?”

  “Yes, please. And burn it.”

  He scratched his beard. “Don’t think that would be a good idea, ma’am.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s poison ivy. Burn it, the smoke gets into your lungs. Very painful.”

  Rancor inquired, his face bland, “Poison ivy, eh? And little Sylvester and what’s-his-name climbed it?”

  Irma gasped, and Beatrice grinned. “Justice is served.”

  Charity put down her cup. “I thought poison ivy was an indigenous American plant. What is it doing growing on a house in London?”

  “You didn’t know?” Beatrice patted her hand. “It was imported from America in the seventeenth century. Europeans were fascinated by the exotic plants in the New World. Some people planted it instead of English ivy because it turns such a lovely shade of red in the fall.”

  Rancor put down his cup. “Mad dogs and Englishmen, eh?”

  Beatrice raised her chin. “I beg your pardon?”

  He stood up and took Charity’s hand. “Well, at least we have one mystery solved. Mrs. Abernethy—Beatrice—I have so enjoyed making your acquaintance.”

  Charity added, “Please consider visiting me in Florida whenever you like.”

  They took their leave. When they reached the hotel, Rancor checked his watch. “We just have time to check out and catch the last plane to Paris.”

  Charity felt a rush of fatigue. “Can’t we just go home?”

  “Not just yet. First, I owe Monsieur le Brigadier Dumont a visit.”

  “Oh my God, I forgot all about your little problem with the gendarmes.”

  “Yes, indeedy. Fortunately, it so happens I only have to pay a small fine for disturbing the peace. La petite Isabella neglected to sign the papers charging me with assault before she took herself off to London, so I’m off the hook.”

  Charity brushed aside the thought that another night in a French dungeon might do him a world of good, and instead reiterated her request. “Then can we go home?”

  “What, and miss our last night in France?” He kissed her cheek. “Don’t you want one more swim—and perhaps a roll in Mistinguett’s bed with me?”

  “Well…a swim would be nice.”

  ****

  They reached the hotel just as the concierge was closing up. “Welcome back, monsieur, mademoiselle. Monsieur Bass, I have a message for you.”

  “Oh?” Rancor took the slip of paper and read it. “It’s from Atalanta L’Amour. She says Isabella turned up on her doorstep—which is pretty remarkable considering she lives on the thirtieth floor of a Park Avenue high-rise.”

  “What did Isabella want?”

  “According to Atalanta, she pretended I’m stalking her—”

  “Just like she did with the Paris police.”

  “Yes. But now she’s elaborating on her story. She claims that—rather than stealing our books, she’s been on the trail of the real pirate. Atalanta says I’d better come home.”

  “To New York?”

  “No, to Florida. Isabella went to Sarasota looking for me.”

  ****

  It was with a sinking feeling that Charity trod the jet bridge the next day and found her seat on the plane. Since they’d made their reservations at the last minute, they couldn’t get seats together. It meant that, instead of being distracted by Rancor’s clever discourse, she could stew for five hours over the ravishing Isabella invading her turf.

  And that’s how it went. The liquor helped. Rancor waited for her at the baggage claim. “You’re wobbling.”

  “That’s what five little bottles of bourbon will do to a gal.”

  “Well, we can’t have you seen on a public bus then. Too mortifying for me. Come on, let’s find a taxi.”

  “I don’t think I have that much cash.”

  “I’m sure he’ll take your credit card.”

  Charity made a mental note to ask George if this expense account of Arlo Mickenbacker’s covered her as well. The taxi dropped Charity off at her house, but Rancor made no move to get out. She leaned in the window. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “No. I have some things to do.” He bent his head so she couldn’t see his eyes. “I’m…um…staying with George.” He tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Eighty-five Pine Street on Anna Maria, please.”

  Charity happened to know that George lived in Buttonwood Harbor, so she was left to stew yet another few hours over where he was going. Of course I know where he’s going. Nothing I can do about it. She resolved to get some work done after she caught up on her sleep.

  The telephone woke her. “Charity? Where have you been?”

  “Oh, Jane, hi. I forgot to let you know. I went to Paris.”

  “Of course, you did. Now, where did you really go? Atlantic City?”

  “No. I went to Paris. Rancor needed me.”

  “Shouldn’t you play a little harder to get?”

  “Perhaps, but I figured his incarceration was serious enough to forgo games.”

  “Hmm. Methinks you have much to impart, little grasshopper. Meet me at Milton’s for a drink?”

  She checked the clock. “Oh, is it that late? Sure, I’ll be there in ten.”

  She slid onto the stool next to Jane as the clock struck six.

  Wilma plunked a coaster down in front of her. “Hey, Charity. The usual?”

  “Not today. I think a vodka gimlet would hit the spot.” The bartender poured vodka and a teaspoon of Rose’s lime juice into a cocktail shaker with ice, capped it, and shook with a practiced hand. “No lime garnish, right?”

  “Right. Thanks.” She picked up the martini glass and clinked Jane’s.

  “Okay, cough up.”

  Charity told her about the Paris hotel, their lightning trip to London, and all about Beatrice and the boys. Jane whistled. “There are so many mysteries popping up like whack-a-moles, it’s nice to discover a simple, mundane answer to one. Speaking of, the police may be zeroing in on who the Chart House skeleton belonged to.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “It was on the radio. Remember, he had no teeth, and they speculated that the murderer had knocked them out to delay identification.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, turns out if you only smash the teeth in, the roots are still embedded in the jaw.”

  “Yes, Dr. Standish mentioned that.”

  “So Edwards dug up this oral surgeon who says it’s possible to tell if the victim had any teeth missing before he died.”

  “How?”

  Jane shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly. Something about how there wouldn’t be any root in that case?”

  “Because the dentist would remove it. Makes sense.” Charity had a thought. “But what good would knowing he’d lost teeth before his death do?”
<
br />   Her friend didn’t miss a beat. “Say he had no front tooth. They could check dental records for white males of that age in the area without that particular tooth, then compare them to the missing persons file. And voilà.”

  Charity downed her drink. “Voilà? Since when do you speak French?”

  “Since I lived in France when I was a little girl. You didn’t know?”

  Charity, wondering if she’d ever be lucky enough to go back, sighed. “No. What about the records?”

  “Well, I was right all along—Biddlesworth’s your man. The victim’s wisdom teeth had been removed prior to death, and Biddlesworth’s teeth were taken out in 1929. And he disappeared in 1933. Ta da.”

  “Do the police agree?”

  “Police?” She hesitated. “They’re working on it. Apparently, lots of people have their wisdom teeth extracted, so it’s not as definitive as a front tooth.”

  The news that the victim was likely not Rancor’s grandfather left Charity with a vague feeling of disappointment. “I guess I’d better get to the office first thing tomorrow and finish my column.”

  Jane tossed a bill on the bar. “Oh, shoot, I forgot. I’m having a half-off sale, and I haven’t changed any of the price tags. I’d better run over to the shop.”

  “A sale? Oh goody. I want that glass platter—the one with the little ceramic turtle on it.”

  “I’ll set it aside.”

  Although she wouldn’t admit it to herself, Charity was a bit relieved not to hear from Rancor that night. She slept soundly and only thought of him the next morning as she made breakfast. Eighty-five Pine Street. Hmm.

  She spent the day getting updates on the investigation. George forgave her for nipping off to Paris once she told him about Mistinguett and the ghosts. “It could go in Bass’s book, I suppose. Or the sequel. He did sign a contract for three…” He wandered off to his office.

  Captain Kelly was not as sure as Jane that the dead man was Biddlesworth. “It’s mainly circumstantial evidence so far. If we could get hold of any surviving relatives, it would help. We have a subpoena for Calvin Hagen’s papers, but they’ve somehow been incorporated in Ringling’s estate so we have to jump through a lot of hoops. Did you find any other likely prospects in your research?”

  “There’s Randall Bartlesby.”

  “Bartlesby? Who’s he?”

  Oh shit. The ring. He doesn’t know about the ring. “Um, he was in the missing persons database. I…uh…forgot to tell you. Disappeared in 1935.”

  “I see. What else do you know?”

  She related the news article about Bartlesby’s wife and her claim. “I was going to check with the Costa Rican authorities.”

  Kelly shrugged. “A little far-fetched but worth pursuing.” He called Frank into his office and filled him in. “See what you can dig up and get back to me quick. I want this thing wrapped up.”

  Charity hesitated to mention Robert Bass. I probably shouldn’t roil the waters until Rancor’s ready.

  Column finished, she drove to the Centre Shops. Jane’s sale was in full swing. “You saved me the platter, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. By the way, did I mention it wasn’t on sale?”

  “Oh no! I can’t afford it at full price.”

  Jane grinned. “Just yanking your chain. It’s wrapped and ready.” She waved an expansive hand. “Anything else catch your fancy?”

  Charity kept her eyes on the counter. “I’m not even looking.”

  She drove home with her prize. The sun had dipped halfway to the sea when she went down to the shore. She hadn’t walked the beach in days and felt the need to reacquaint herself.

  “Charity!”

  She turned. Rancor waved to her from the pool. Beside him stood a statuesque, willowy blonde. Even from that distance, Charity could tell she had perfect legs, pert breasts, and a figure a supermodel would envy. Upon closer inspection, she noted with real alarm the face of a goddess—deep blue eyes, Aphrodite’s nose, and a neck like a gazelle’s. She wore a gauzy, flowing shift that matched her eyes. Rhinestone-covered gladiator sandals sparkled in the fading light. Charity’s steps slowed as she neared them, finally coming to a halt just out of arm’s reach. “Rancor.”

  He stepped forward as if to kiss her, but she stuck her hand out to the woman, effectively shunting him aside. “How do you do?”

  “Hello. I’m Isabella Voleuse. I think Rancor’s mentioned me?”

  She hoped the hostility didn’t show too much. “Oh, yes, he did.”

  “Good. He thought you’d want to meet me. I’d love to take you to dinner if you’re free. We can talk about this whole fiasco.”

  Now, Charity knew the last thing she would ever in her life want was to have dinner with a gorgeous creature like Isabella. That is, unless she looked forward to an evening spent wiping drool off Rancor’s lips. Before she could say anything, however, Rancor jumped in. “Charity—it turns out this whole thing was a misunderstanding. Isabella’s on our side. Please come, and let us explain.” He took her hand.

  She let herself be led back to her apartment. As he opened the door for her, he said a touch too loudly, “You’ll want to get out of those dowdy clothes and maybe put on a little makeup. We’ll meet you at Olaf’s.”

  She toyed with the idea first of tripping him and standing on his head, and then, after they’d gone, of staying home, but her curiosity kept eating at her. All right, I’ll go for a drink and that’s it. Leave Rancor alone with his latest conquest.

  She walked to Olaf’s. Olaf himself, his giant frame encased in a white chef’s coat, took her to the table. He whispered, “You know who that is? That’s Rancor Bass, the famous author. And I think she’s that top fashion model—what’s her name? Erin something. Are you going to interview them?”

  “No, Olaf. Rancor’s with me. She isn’t anybody you’ve heard of.” Take that, Isabella.

  Isabella sat a little too close to Rancor in the booth. She gave a flirty toss to her golden hair, cut in a deliberately tousled, gamine style—reminding Charity that she’d forgotten to redo her braid—and smiled graciously. “Won’t you sit down?” She indicated the bench opposite. Rancor, his nose buried in the menu, appeared not to notice the proprietary way in which Isabella took over. “Rancor tells me you’re a reporter. Would you like to do an article on us?” She gave the words just the right touch of archness.

  “No.”

  This caught Rancor’s attention. “No need to be rude, Charity. Isabella, will you have a drink?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you. I’ll have a cosmopolitan.”

  Why am I not surprised?

  “Charity?”

  “Bud Light.”

  Rancor signaled the waitress. He read her name tag and winked at her. “Elsa, is it? How are you today?”

  The woman—a hulking Amazon who probably weighed in at two hundred pounds and wore her fifty years badly—simpered, “I’m great, Mr. Bass. What can I get for you?”

  “Lessee…I’ve been dying for bourbon. It’s so hard to find in Europe—”

  “Europe!” Elsa’s eyes grew wide with the thrill of it all. “Were you doing research for one of your books?”

  Rancor rose to the occasion. He gave her a shot of his best profile, opened his mouth in a blinding smile, flashing row upon row of opalescent teeth, and replied, “Why yes, I was. Do you know my work?”

  It took all of the woman’s strength to stay upright. “I’ve read all your books, Mr. Bass.”

  “Well, if you’ve got one handy, I’ll be glad to sign it. And when you come back, bring me a double Jack Daniels on the rocks. There’s a dear girl.” Elsa skipped toward the bar, leaving Charity to wonder if she’d ever see her Bud Light.

  Isabella apparently sensed there would only be a small window of opportunity for real dialogue before the entire staff came out of the kitchen to kiss the great man’s feet and spoke quickly. “Charity, what Rancor says is true—I am on your side. I’ve been chasing Michael Finney, our publisher,
all over Europe. He’s the one who stole the manuscripts. He published them under a pseudonym to cover his tracks.”

  Charity asked the question second to uppermost in her mind, since the first would definitely be considered rude. “So why did you have the French police arrest Rancor?”

  The beautiful woman’s eyes flickered, but only for a moment. “I was so close to catching Michael, and then dear Rancor got in the way. I had to neutralize him.” She rubbed Rancor’s arm, sending a prickle of disgust up Charity’s spine. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. Even so, I lost Michael in London.” She threw a playful look his way. “My silly willy actually believed I was capable of stealing his work. Now he knows better, don’t you?”

  Charity wished she could tell whether this had the desired effect on Rancor or not. His face remained impassive. He accepted the brimming glass from Elsa. “And the other drinks?”

  Hand to mouth, the waitress scuttled back to the bar, returning in a flash with Charity’s beer and Isabella’s cosmo. As she set them down, she bellowed, “Mr. Bass, my mother is on her way from Sarasota with my copy of Murder Cuts Both Ways. The bus is still on the off-season schedule, so it may be a while. I can take your orders if you like.”

  Rancor went first. “The shrimp-cargot sounds good. Lots of garlic, I hope?”

  Elsa nodded mutely.

  “And the veal Française.”

  Charity—improbably hungry—opted for the shrimp martini. “Is it doused in gin?” she asked with a perky grin. Elsa, eyes riveted on Rancor, nodded absently. “Er…and the steak.”

  Isabella smiled serenely, but Charity noted a slight hint of malice in her eyes. “I rarely eat dinner. I think, yes, a small dish of the warm edamame with sesame oil will suffice.”

  “That’s it?” Charity couldn’t tell if Rancor were irritated or amused.

  “Oh, well…to keep you company, perhaps…um…” She pretended to peruse the menu. “The red lentil hummus. I presume the pita chips are gluten-free?” She gazed up at Elsa with liquid eyes.

  “I’ll check.” She backed away.

  Isabella called after her. “If not, I’ll have a simple green salad, no dressing.”

  Charity, wallowing in a sea of animosity, said nothing.

  Isabella leaned forward. “Where was I? Oh, yes. I had tracked Michael to Paris. We had a date at Willi’s Wine Bar, but he never showed. I found out why when I heard you had arrived”—she blew a kiss at Rancor—“and were asking questions. Our quarry bolted.”