Charity felt sorry for him. “What kind of business?”
“Publishing. Established a little publishing firm right here on Cherry Street. Didn’t do badly. Had some big-name authors. All gone now.” He stared into his cup.
Oh my God. It’s him. “Was it HHR Press by any chance?”
He turned surprised eyes on her. “How did you know?”
“I…uh…passed it on the way here.”
He gave her a keen glance. “It doesn’t say HHR Press anymore.”
“The handyman was changing name plates when I passed, and the old one was still there. What happened?”
He signaled for more cocoa. “A while ago, I discovered a substantial chunk of funds missing from the firm’s accounts. I suspected the accountant I’d brought in to do our taxes but had no real evidence.” He put three lumps of sugar in his cup and stirred. “Anyway, I could have survived that, but then something much worse happened.”
“What could be worse than losing all that money?”
“For a publisher? Piracy. You know it’s rampant nowadays? Chinese, Indonesians, Indians—all stealing books. Lost five major manuscripts. Even if the authors don’t sue me, they were my biggest moneymakers. Had no choice but to go out of business. Thank God for Isabella.”
I’d better pretend I know nothing about this. “Isabella? Is she your wife?”
“No, Isabella Voleuse is my editor.”
“What did she do?”
“Bought me out. Don’t know where she got the money. We closed on it two weeks ago.”
“Oh.” Wait a minute…IV…Isabella Voleuse. Ha. Charity sipped her drink. “What will you do now?”
“Dunno. All I know is publishing. When I get her check, I’ll figure something out.”
“Her check?”
“The settlement check. She was supposed to mail it the day after closing, but it hasn’t arrived yet.”
Something tells me he shouldn’t wait up for it. “So you have no idea who stole your manuscripts?”
“Uh uh. Could be anyone.” His eyes turned shifty. “Say, you’re asking a lot of questions. You’re not a reporter, are you?”
Charity had a moment of panic. Is it painted on my face? “No, no.”
He relaxed a bit. “I don’t know why I told you all that. It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“Why?”
“Because of the will.”
She waited. When he didn’t go on, she prompted, “The will?”
“My grandfather’s will. The Finneys are not supposed to ever change the name of the company—even if we sell it. My father put it in his will as well. If the family finds out, I stand to lose my trust fund.”
“But why not make that a condition of the sale?”
“I did. We had the whole thing written up, but when we went to closing, that language had been deleted. Isabella said it was an oversight, and she would have it corrected on the final papers.”
Let me guess. “She forgot?”
He nodded miserably. “If the family lawyer discovers it’s now IV Enterprises, I’m in deep kimchee.”
“Kimchee? What does that mean?”
“Oh, it’s an expression my father always used—he picked it up when he was in the Navy in Vietnam. Kimchee is this fiery hot kind of sauerkraut. He used it instead of ‘shit’ for the sake of my mother.”
Charity nursed her drink. “I’m Charity, by the way. Charity Snow.”
“Michael Finney.”
I know. “What did your lawyer have to say about the omission?”
“Oh, I didn’t have a lawyer. Isabella said the buyer needed one but not the seller.”
I’m not sure which is worse—a shyster like Isabella or a patsy like Michael. “I see. Well…” She rose and put a bill on the bar. “Good luck. If you want to keep the trust fund, I suggest you get yourself a lawyer.”
“I suppose I’ll have to. If only I didn’t have to wait ’til I’m forty to access the money. Then I’d be in great shape.” He finished his drink.
Charity’s curiosity got the better of her. “Is it a lot?”
“Oh, yes. When Grandfather left Florida, his benefactor gave him fifty thousand dollars to set himself up. He established the press, but he also invested well. It’s worth several million now.”
“Whew.” Wait a minute. Maybe he can shed some light on at least one question. “Your grandfather—why did he leave Florida?”
Finney’s eyes grew shifty again. “Not…not sure. We think it had something to do with a woman. He had a good job in Sarasota. You know the Ringling Brothers circus? Well, John Ringling not only ran the circus but also owned a lot of real estate in Sarasota. He built a fabulous mansion and art gallery and established a significant library collection devoted to works on art and history. Edgar Finney was his librarian.”
“Were they close? Ringling and your grandfather?”
“Oh, very close. Grandpa always said Ringling was one of his best friends.”
“So it was perhaps John Ringling who gave him the money to get started.”
“No, no. Something…something happened. Grandpa left very precipitously—I never found out why. But he definitely got the money from Ringling’s wife.”
“Mable?”
“No. Hedda. His second wife.”
Chapter Fifteen
Cards and Letters
“What do you think?”
“I think,” said Rancor, spinning the wheel to zip around a pickup truck, “I’d like to find out why Finney’s grandfather ran off to Seattle with Hedda’s money.”
“Why?”
“Why not? I love mysteries.” He honked his horn at a bicyclist, who teetered dangerously close to the lane. The rider reeled, and the bike fell over. Charity watched him shake his fist at Rancor as they zoomed away.
“But what does it have to do with the problem at hand?”
“You mean, who actually stole the manuscripts?”
Charity thought about pointing out that her quest involved the identity of the skeleton, not Rancor’s thief, but after her encounters with Isabella, she had a stake in the mission too. If only to nail her.
He mused, “Hedda…Finney. Tommy…Ringling. Hmm. Look, Charity, I know you’re focused on the skeleton for your story, but I can’t help but think there’s some kind of connection among all these loose threads. Wait!” He slammed on the brakes.
“Rancor!”
“What? Oh.” He looked up to see a tractor trailer behind him, frantically swerving to avoid hitting the Mini Cooper. He gave the driver a cheery wave and pulled off the road into Olaf’s parking lot. He turned to Charity, taking her hand and gazing deeply into her eyes.
She had begun to pucker for the kiss when he put the car in gear and pulled out into traffic again. “That should give that trucker time to get farther down the road.” He cut in front of a Lincoln. The nonagenarian driver gawked at him and screeched to a halt. As they sped up, they heard the tinkle of breaking glass behind them. “I’ve been thinking. Standish said the adult skeleton died in the 1930s. Did he say how old little Tommy was?”
“Wasn’t he seven?”
“No. I mean, how old was his skeleton?”
“Captain Kelly confirmed his death date as 1926. Why?”
“Perhaps they were closer in time than we thought. Perhaps the two deaths are related.”
She frowned. “Rancor, you missed the turn.”
“Sorry.” He made a quick U-turn, setting up yet another round of near-crashes. “Well?”
“I don’t know. Right now, all I want to do is get out of these travel clothes and into a hot shower.”
He sniffed with exaggerated distaste. “I was going to suggest that very thing.” He followed her inside. “I’ll wait for you in the bedroom.”
“No, you won’t. I need some rest. Don’t you have anywhere else to stay?”
Rancor sulked. “I suppose I could crash with George, but then we’d have to tell him about my little predicament.”
/> “He already knows.”
“Really?”
“Why do you think he let me go to Seattle?”
“Oh, right.” He picked up her car keys. “I’ll see you later.” And before she could grab the keys back, he skipped out the door.
Charity had had a long shower, a small sandwich, and a big glass of beer before Rancor showed up again. “George say no?”
He shrugged. “I think he was about to agree when he saw his wife leering at me. Being godlike has its drawbacks.”
“You wouldn’t know.”
“I did manage to confirm that little Tommy died in 1926.”
“We knew that.”
“Yes, but what we don’t know for sure is when the other victim died.”
“It had to be at least five years later.”
Rancor shook his head. “Not if the ring didn’t belong to the man in the pit.”
“Interesting idea.” Charity embarked on this new train of thought. “It could have been dropped—”
“Or fallen—”
“Down the shaft separately—”
“By a broken-hearted lover.”
“R—cut to the quick by G.”
“Hmm.”
Rancor jumped up. “So the ring could still belong to my grandfather. Jilted by Trudy, he betook himself to Florida.”
“Why not go to Nebraska as ordered then? And Trudy was pregnant with his second child, so their relationship couldn’t have been all bad. Aunt Gertrude said her mother died of a broken heart. That wouldn’t have happened if she had given him the old heave-ho.”
“You’ve forgotten. Mother told me that in fact Trudy was on the verge of divorcing Robert but died before she could initiate proceedings.” He began to pace. “My aunt obviously feels a philandering father is preferable to a disloyal mother when it comes to the family honor.”
“Okay, then who the hell is the skeleton?”
“Biddlesworth!” Rancor did a little jig.
Charity began to giggle.
“What?”
“This sounds like the plot of one of your utterly implausible novels.”
“It could be, couldn’t it? I say, I’m going to write this down.”
Charity went into the kitchen and poured another beer. “I just thought of something else. Biddlesworth didn’t die in 1926.”
Rancor slumped. “I’d forgotten. He went missing in 1933, didn’t he? And we know he was alive until then because he had those dealings with Calvin Hagen. Damn.” After a bit, he took heart. “Still, the ring could be Robert’s.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch?”
He scratched his neck. “You are no fun at all.”
She smiled with satisfaction. “Good.”
“Because you see, while you with such easy indifference relegate Tommy T to a mundane accident and the benighted Biddlesworth to a watery grave, you haven’t answered the question of my grandfather’s disappearance.”
“Am I supposed to?”
He stopped. An uncertain look passed over his face, catching Charity off guard. “I…I thought we were in this together?”
A feeling she couldn’t name rushed through her, one that filled every pore with a heavy sort of heat. It weighed her down, made her sluggish. Time slowed. She watched with vague interest as her knees buckled, and the floor rushed toward her. Just before she smacked into it, two strong arms caught her, lifted her up, and held her in a crushing grip. “Charity? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes. Oh, Rancor.” After that she couldn’t talk because her lips were smashed against his and her chest against his and she couldn’t breathe at all but she didn’t really need to because he was breathing for the both of them.
A while later, they sat down on the couch. Rancor traced her cheek with his finger, his eyes wondering. Charity felt at peace. She had recognized the hot, heavy feeling and accepted it. Now to explain it to Rancor.
“Rancor? I—”
The phone rang. He picked it up. “Who? Is that you? Where are you?” He listened for a minute, then said, “Wait there,” and hung up.
With a sinking feeling, Charity asked, “Isabella?”
“No.” He stood. “Can I borrow your car?”
Charity was so struck by the fact that he’d actually asked her that she didn’t reply. As he opened the door, she finally yelped, “Who was it?”
“Michael Finney.”
****
Charity woke with a start. The television was muted, but all the lights were on in the apartment. The clock told her it was three, and the dark sky told her it was the middle of the night. Where is Rancor? The answering machine didn’t blink. The cell phone seemed to have become a permanent accessory to Rancor’s wardrobe. She rose from the couch and went to the window before she realized there was nothing to see. Sudden fear ripped through her. He’s hurt. A car accident. Finney murdered him. She started to dial 9-1-1 but thought better of it. What would I say? Rancor had left without telling her where he was going or why. Was Finney calling from Seattle? No, Rancor told him to wait “there.” He must be in Sarasota. But why didn’t he bring him home? She thought about the mousy little man. He didn’t seem the murderous type. He did seem the type to be fooled by a beautiful woman. Actually, probably by any woman. Or any man. It’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did in publishing. She’d have to look into who actually signed the authors—maybe his father had been the one with the initiative, and the firm had merely coasted under Michael.
She still stood by the window. The sky had begun to lighten, and streaks of pink light shot over her head from the east, spraying the western sky with bits of sunrise. At last she went into the bedroom and lay down. He’ll call when he can. And if he didn’t, she would go to the police.
The telephone rang insistently. Still groggy, she groped around the bedside table for her phone and only realized it still lay on the couch when it stopped ringing. A distant voice said, “Charity, are you there? It’s Rancor. Call me at your cell number when you get this message.”
She decided to wait until both the throbbing of her heart and the tremor in her legs had subsided. When she called, he picked up immediately. “Charity, I know you were worried about me, but I’m fine.”
Well, I guess you don’t need me to hold up an end of the conversation. “No, I wasn’t. Just curious.”
There was a pause. “Oh. Well, Finney and I had quite a night.”
“He didn’t strike me as the party animal type.”
“No, no—we were most civilized. In fact, we stayed at the airport bar all night talking, just the two of us. When I dropped him off at his hotel, he didn’t seem eager to put me up, so you are free to indulge in my company indefinitely.”
“Swell. Say, I’ve been wondering. How did Michael get my phone number?”
“Jemimah gave it to him. She’s the only one who answered his calls.”
“I see. Are you going to tell me what you two talked about?”
“I think that had better wait until he’s with us. Suffice it to say, you were right about Isabella.”
Aha. “That she’s a shrew?”
“No, that she’s the manuscript thief. Look, can I freshen up? We’re meeting Michael for lunch.”
She asked, with little hope, “His treat?”
“Charity, come on. He’s in as dire financial straits as I am. You’re currently the only one gainfully employed.”
“What happened with Publix?”
“They…uh…had to let me go. Something about being ‘untrainable.’ ”
“Rancor! We’re not talking about brain surgery. What did you do? Crash the grocery carts into cars?”
“How did you—? It was only two cars.” His tone was defensive. “Fortunately, Mr. Gibbons, who happens to be the former CEO of Publix, didn’t mind the small indentation—more of a dimple really—on his 1967 Corvette. Unfortunately, the Mercedes belonged to the mayor, and he was not quite so agreeable. They compromised by firing me.” There was a
pause. “Personally, I considered the mayor tearing my last paycheck into tiny pieces and blowing them in my face a trifle gratuitous.”
“Oh, Rancor.”
He began to wheedle. “Come on, Charity. It’ll be worth your while. What he’s got to say will make a helluva scoop.”
Damn the man. “All right—where are you?”
“Right outside.”
Sure enough, a rather disheveled Rancor stood at her door. Somewhere he’d picked up a tie, which was askew, and a black smudge, which stained his chinos. Also, his face was dirty. Charity surveyed the damage. “Take a header, did you?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Tripped over an utterly superfluous curb. I intend to write an indignant letter to the airport authority—they make no accommodations for the disabled. However, since my reflexes are superb, I managed to land on the verge rather than the pavement.”
“Face down I see. Good thing we had that rain last night.”
He wiped his brow, carving a white streak through the brown gunk. “I can always count on you for sympathy. May I use your bathroom?”
“Take off those muddy shoes before you move another inch.”
He did. When she stepped aside to let him past, he marched to the bathroom without looking back.
An hour later he emerged, drying his hair with a washcloth. “You’re out of towels.”
Charity trilled, “Oops, sorry.”
“I had to use several washcloths—one for my penis alone.”
“I’m not surprised. Are you hungry?”
“Starving. We’re to meet Michael at one. Could I have some toast? Maybe an omelet? And sausage if you have it.”
“I’m making toast.” She poured him a cup of coffee to take the sting out of her two-star hospitality and popped two slices of bread in the toaster. They ate silently. She put the dishes in the sink and got her purse.
“Where are you going?”
“Um, to work?”
He checked the calendar magnet on the refrigerator. “What day is it, anyway?”
“Tuesday.”
“Odd. I could have sworn it was only Monday.” He shook his head. “I must have lost a day somewhere. Ah well”—he pecked her cheek—“I’d better come with you. There’s work to be done on the ghost book!”
The Pit and the Passion Page 22