The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did he give her money?”

  “You’ve seen her. Everyone wants to give her money. Among other things. Guttersnipe is, after all, a man.”

  “But she must have given him a reason.”

  “I told you, she’s broke. She promised him she could get Bernie’s manuscript back from Finney, but she needed airfare. And several hundred dollars for the hotel and meals.”

  “And maybe a Michael Kors bag to match her Lamborghini.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “I’m beginning to be.”

  “You’re sure it’s not simply the ugly pustule of jealousy erupting?”

  Charity closed her eyes in a fruitless attempt to obliterate the image. “What would I have to be jealous about?”

  He touched her chin softly, then, when she opened her eyes, ran his hands up and down his sides. “I mean, look at this magnificent body. You’d have to be an idiot not to want this all to yourself.”

  She rose. “Mother must have raised a dummy then. I’m going to work.”

  He rose too. “Can you drop me off?”

  “I was going to walk.”

  “Oh great, then I can borrow the car.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to talk to the police.”

  “About the skeleton? I’m sure they’ve been waiting on pins and needles for you to spell it out for them.”

  “Charity, if you’re ever to aspire to being a good writer, you must learn to avoid banal expressions such as ‘pins and needles.’ ”

  “I’ll work on it. What are you going to tell the poor ignorant police?”

  “That they shouldn’t drop the case. I think there’s more to it.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to prolong it just so you have more fodder for your ghost book?”

  He hesitated. “Well, that would make a good excuse for goosing them. Yes, I may use that. They’ll want to help Rancor Bass put together the definitive ghost studbook—especially if they get to be in it.”

  “I’m not sure they’ll want to be in it. Especially if you make them look like jerks.”

  “I would never do that. The police are our friends. As are fire fighters and first responders and…uh…scout masters.”

  “I recall in Shades of Yellow you made the entire Cincinnati police force out to be morons.”

  “One book.”

  “And in Murder Cuts Both Ways, the chief of police was the murderer, his crime covered up by a corrupt department.”

  “Two.”

  “Or there’s—”

  “All right, all right. So we’ve established that you’ve read all my books. It’s no wonder you want to sleep with me.”

  “What?”

  “I said—”

  “Never mind. Take the car. Don’t speed. And don’t diss Captain Kelly. He has no sense of humor.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He picked up the car keys and went out whistling. Charity filled a travel mug with coffee and set out on foot.

  She had finished the write-up on the Presbyterian church’s annual bridge tournament when George stuck his head out. “Is it ready?”

  “How’s this?”

  “Florence Kingsley won for the fifth straight year, prompting the usual accusations of folding mirrors and marked cards from Hermione Bladder of Neptune Avenue. Reverend Sitter calmed the waters but kept rather a close eye on Mrs. Kingsley throughout the evening.”

  George skimmed the article. “Did they come to blows this time?”

  “No. The tournament committee made sure they were at separate tables.”

  “Those two have been feuding for years.”

  Charity’s head popped up. “But aren’t they sisters?”

  “Yes, and their husbands are best friends. It’s been very entertaining.”

  “Unless you happen to be Reverend Sitter.”

  “True. Okay, don’t forget to do the write-up on the Our Lady Queen of the Sea ball. I only need a paragraph, since Kevin got some good pictures of the attendees.” He shook his head. “I sure wish Melanie Springsteen’s husband had the guts to tell her not to wear sequins.”

  “Never gonna happen.” Charity’s phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her pocket. She didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Charity? It’s me.”

  Heart sinking, she said, “What is it, Rancor?”

  “I was…uh…wondering if you could bail me out.”

  She looked at George, who raised his eyebrows. She spoke resignedly. “Don’t tell me. You’ve been arrested again?”

  ****

  “In my defense, I was only doing what you told me to.”

  Charity handed the check to Frank. “Me! You can’t blame this on me.”

  “You said I should give back the ring.”

  “I told you not to take it in the first place.”

  He turned to the policeman, his face pleading. “At least now you’ll reopen the case, right, Sergeant Ingersoll?”

  The big man shrugged. “That’s up to the Sarasota County sheriff. As you have laid out so eloquently, the ring could belong to any number of folks.”

  “Well, not really.” They all looked at Charity. “I mean, we did the research. Of the nine schools with initials U and M, only three had alumni who fit the description. You eliminated one of them, Frank.”

  “Randall Bartlesby? Yeah. Too bad his wife didn’t catch up with him. What a bum.”

  Captain Kelly walked in. “It doesn’t matter what information you’ve been keeping from the police…illegally. Rodney Biddlesworth is our man, no question. He had a wife named Gwen, and he disappeared after a rather shady character reneged on a rather shady deal.”

  “And the skeleton appeared to have been immersed in water. Yes. But Biddlesworth graduated in 1931.”

  “So?”

  “He was married in 1933, just a short while before he went missing. So why would Gwen give him a ring in 1931, when they weren’t married until two years later?”

  Frank rubbed his chin. “It’s not a wedding ring.”

  “No, but he didn’t have a wedding ring. You would have found it.”

  Kelly snorted. “I would have found this one if you hadn’t stolen it. Besides, 1931 could refer to his class year.”

  Rancor took a breath. “Yes, it could. But my point is, there’s another person who fits the criteria. Robert Bass III.”

  “Bass? A relative?”

  “My grandfather. He graduated from the University of Maine in 1932. However, unlike said Biddlesworth, he was married in 1931. To Gertrude.” He gave the last word a triumphant flourish. No one paid him any attention.

  The captain turned to Charity and said morosely, “I suppose you’re going to tell me he disappeared in Florida.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. In 1933.”

  “Same year as Biddlesworth? In Sarasota?”

  Rancor nodded.

  Frank jumped in. “What about his wisdom teeth, eh?”

  “They were removed in 1930.”

  “Hmmph.”

  Kelly heaved a sigh. “All right, we’ll look into it. Meanwhile, please restrict your larcenous habits to late night forays to the refrigerator. Where are you staying?”

  Rancor’s face went blank, and Charity flushed an unbecoming mauve. The policeman looked from one to the other. “I…see. Charity, he’s in your hands. Don’t let him leave town.”

  “Um…yes, sir.”

  The two walked swiftly out of the station, keeping a good two feet of space between them. He tossed her the car keys. “By the way, how did you get here?”

  “George dropped me off.” They were on Gulf of Mexico Drive before Charity spoke again. “So, when’s your court date?”

  “Oh, geez, I forgot to ask.” He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “I hope I’m in town for it.”

  She veered to the curb and stopped. “Rancor Bass, you heard the captain. Don’t you dare disobey him.
”

  “Well, someone has to go to Seattle.”

  She started up again. “Why?”

  “For Finney. Duh.”

  “What about him?”

  “Honest to God, your memory’s a virtual sieve. Remember? He’s in Seattle. And Isabella went after him.”

  “Well, what’s it to you?”

  “I want my manuscript. And I told Atalanta I’d try to retrieve hers.” He leaned over and kissed her. “I want to read it anyway—she says it’s the juiciest one yet. Zombies with two penises. Or is it peni?”

  “You can’t.”

  “Can’t what? Read her book? Look, I’ve read lots of porn. Hers are spicy, but it’s more the freakish characters that draw me in. In fact, her last—”

  “I won’t let you go.”

  “Okay. You go.”

  “Me!”

  “Look, it might work better with you. He’s a sucker for a pretty face. Just ask Atalanta. Or Isabella.”

  “What about Jemimah?”

  “God, woman, have you ever seen her?”

  “The photo on the back of her books is very appealing.”

  “That’s because it’s of her granddaughter. Jemimah Heartsleeve is eighty-two. And even at twenty-five, she was a dog.”

  Mulling over this revelation, Charity pulled back into the lane and nearly hit an old man as he tried to cross. She swerved, coming within an inch of ramming an oncoming Cadillac. She swerved again, brakes squealing, only to barely miss the old man a second time. Rancor grabbed the wheel and straightened the car out, leaving several people staring after them. Somewhere, a dog barked madly. “On second thought, maybe I should strap you into a comfy armchair and hand-feed you. It may be the only way to keep you safe.”

  “Stop it, Rancor.”

  “I will if you promise to go to Seattle for me.”

  Charity refused the bait. “What am I supposed to do there?”

  “I’ll tell you over dinner. What are you cooking?”

  “I’m not. I don’t.”

  “You don’t cook?”

  “No. Other than the occasional rewarming of take-out and the odd boiled egg, I hate cooking.”

  He smiled wickedly. “All right, let’s go to Publix.”

  “Can’t we just stop at Olaf’s deli and get sandwiches?”

  “No.” He gently lowered her raised fist. “I’ll cook.”

  They spent an hour in the grocery store, Rancor popping all kinds of expensive items into Charity’s cart. When they reached home, he disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he called, “Don’t you have any cookware?”

  She pulled a box out of the closet and brought it to him. “There may be some pots and pans and stuff in here.”

  He rummaged through it. “How about bowls? Skewers? Chopping board?”

  Having no response she could reasonably expect him to accept, she said nothing.

  He glared at her. “Okay, you’d better go up to Walmart.” He tore the back off a cereal box and handed it to her with a pencil. “Take this down.” He listed nearly every kitchen gadget Rachel Ray had ever recommended. “Hurry. I’ll get things prepped while you’re gone.”

  When Charity returned with her packages, she walked into a kitchen that smelled delightfully fragrant. “Smells like mint.”

  “That’s for the çaçık.”

  “The what?”

  “Ja-juk. It’s a yogurt cucumber dip. Goes nicely with the kebabs. Hand me the skewers.” He checked out the portable, single-use grill she’d bought. “Disgusting. Take it out to the balcony.” He turned away from her and started chopping rapidly. She watched for a minute on the off chance he’d start juggling his knives like a Japanese teppanyaki chef. When it occurred to her that this could put her in harm’s way, she beat a retreat to the living room.

  She had her feet up and was nursing a gin and tonic when he announced dinner was served.

  The small table in her dining nook was set and covered with dishes. He brought out two plates mounded with white rice topped by grilled chunks of meat. “Shish kebab over basmati rice.”

  She picked up what looked like a toasted Rice Krispies treat. “What’s this?”

  “That’s the tah-dig. The traditional way to cook rice in Iran is to let it simmer until all the moisture has gone, then a little more until the bottom of the rice is browned and crisp. Dip it in the çaçik.”

  Charity took a spoonful from every dish. “Wherever did you learn to cook like this?”

  “Oh, here and there. I do lots of research for my books—sometimes field research.”

  “Research on everything except criminal procedure, huh?” She chewed a piece of lamb redolent of cumin and garlic. “Have you been to Iran?”

  “Yes, as well as other parts of the Middle East. I think Turkish food is the best, rivaled only by Lebanese. All very fresh and simple. Try the çoban salata.”

  “Which one’s that?”

  He passed her a wooden bowl. “Turkish for ‘shepherd’s salad.’ A little something a shepherd whips up for lunch when he’s moving his flock.”

  She tasted the mix of juicy tomatoes, crunchy cucumbers, and thinly sliced red onion, flavored with lemon and Italian parsley and topped with crumbled feta. “Yum. Pass the wine.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “Acknowledgement of my culinary skills. A genuflection—if not too abject—would be acceptable.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Is there any more rice?”

  Later that evening, they cuddled on the couch and stared through the glass doors at the darkening sky. “I love the way the sky gets this rich navy color, so the black shapes of the palms stand out like silhouette portraits.”

  “Mmm.” He began to nuzzle her neck.

  “Oh look, there’s Polaris. Or is it Venus?”

  “Mmm.” He turned her to him and kissed her throat. When his lips began to move down toward her breasts, she stood up and straddled him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking over.”

  “I’m willing.”

  ****

  “So how soon can you get to Seattle?”

  “I don’t recall acceding to your request.”

  “You ate my food. You owe me.”

  “You ate me.” She giggled. “You owe me.”

  Rancor leapt out of bed. “I promise to cook another memorable meal for you when you return. Do you like Thai?”

  “I don’t know—I’ve never had it.”

  “My God, woman, where were you raised—under a rock?”

  “That would be physically impossible.”

  “Then in a cave.” He hauled her up. “Go make the reservation. Bernie is counting on you. Not to mention Atalanta.”

  “Can’t you people do anything yourselves?”

  “Not really. The idea of dealing with the real world frightens us. We’re like baby birds.”

  “No, you’re just cheap.”

  “Ha ha. Now scoot.”

  Charity found that she had accepted the inevitable without much struggle, even though she had an awful feeling this was only the beginning. She made the reservations and informed George of her mission. The latter, though inclined to bluster, slowly came to agree that this whole affair might prove to be a real scoop for the paper. “I can see the headline: ‘Planet Reporter Tracks Down Fugitive Publisher’…or should it be ‘Property Thief?’ We could be instrumental in bringing him to justice.”

  “And you could receive a token of her gratitude from Atalanta L’Amour herself.”

  “Or from Jemimah Heartsleeve.” He almost sighed. Charity didn’t have the heart to tell him that he wouldn’t exactly swoon at an embrace from the elderly romance writer.

  Rancor drove her to the airport. “Okay, here’s his last known address. I’m not sure if he’s in hiding. I reserved a room for you at my family’s hotel. Call Isabella when you get there.” He kissed her and watched her go in through the automatic doors.

  ****<
br />
  As she pulled her suitcase off the baggage carousel, she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Hello, Charity.”

  She spun around. “Isabella! How did you know I was coming?”

  “Rancor called me. He said you’re going to help me find Finney.” She looked down her flawlessly chiseled nose. “Not that I need your help.” Closing those huge cerulean eyes to half slits, she studied Charity. “Rancor didn’t say why he couldn’t come himself. I’m guessing you’re here as a reporter. Am I right?”

  Perfect. “You’ve found me out. Yes, George—my publisher—asked me to come. He sees a juicy story in it for the Planet.” Her innocent look was almost genuine. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Isabella seemed about to reply but instead turned on her heel. She said over her shoulder, “Can I drop you at your hotel?”

  “Thanks, but I have a rental car.”

  “Oh?”

  Charity could almost see the little cells clicking over. She wants to keep tabs on me.

  “Well, let’s meet for dinner once you’re settled. I’ll give you a ring at…?”

  Charity saw no reason not to give her phone number, although she didn’t trust the sly look in Isabella’s eyes. She signed for the car and followed the agency’s directions to the hotel. A discreet brass plaque next to the door said simply “Bass ~ Seattle.” The unpretentious entrance belied the luxury within. The lobby—sleek and modern—put Charity off momentarily. That is, until the concierge ran around from behind the desk and shook her hand vigorously. “Miss Snow? I am Mr. Waters, the manager. Mr. Bass called to say you were coming. May I say what a privilege it is to welcome you to one of Seattle’s finest boutique hotels. I do hope we can make your stay an agreeable one.”

  He rang a little silver bell. “Joseph will take you to your room.” Joseph, a very tall, thin young man in a black and blue uniform, materialized and picked up her bag. As they headed toward the elevator, Mr. Waters called, “Please don’t hesitate to ask for anything, anything at all. Any friend of Mr. Bass is a friend of ours.” Charity reflected that, while brother Rothschild might hold Rancor in low regard, that opinion didn’t extend to the staff.

  Joseph opened the room door, and Charity stifled a gasp. Large picture windows filled two walls, affording a glorious view of the harbor. “That is Elliott Bay, miss. And beyond it, Puget Sound.”