Charity didn’t think that required an answer.
Rancor sat at the spare laptop in the office playing solitaire until it was time to meet Finney. They drove to Pattigeorge’s. Lunch was in full swing, and they had to wait for a corner table. Finney arrived just as they were seated, looking much more chipper than Rancor did. In fact, his face shone pink with good humor, and he walked with a brisk step. “Hello, hello! I see you made it safely home, Bass.” He bowed to Charity. “We meet again.” The corners of his eyes creased in delight. “So you see, my instincts were right. You are a reporter.”
Charity smiled at him. “Yet it was an entirely fortuitous meeting.”
“Fortuitous, yes.” He held her hand. “Also quite cheering.”
There’s more to this man than meets the eye.
Rancor interrupted, his tone abrupt, “Sit down, Finney.” When Charity gave him a surprised look, he added, “I mean, won’t you have a seat, Michael?”
Do I detect a touch of the green-eyed monster? Ha.
The waitress appeared and spoke solely to Rancor. “I’m Portia. I’ll be your server today. Can I get you anything, sir?”
Rancor fixed the girl with a steady gaze and recited, “ ‘Sweet Portia,
If you did know to whom I gave the ring,
If you did know for whom I gave the ring
And would conceive for what I gave the ring
And how unwillingly I left the ring,
When nought would be accepted but the ring,
You would abate the strength of your displeasure.’ We’ll have iced tea.”
She backed away slowly, her eyes darting right and left.
Rancor, faced with an astounded silence, said, “What? When is The Merchant of Venice not appropriate?”
Charity replied, “In many ways, you remind me of Bassanio.”
“Ah, the hero. Dashing, suave, beauteous to behold?”
“Profligate. Mercurial. Empty-headed. So, are we going to order?”
They decided on pizza, arguing amiably about anchovies—Rancor won. “You can’t have pizza without anchovies. It’s un-American.”
Finney laughed. “But is it constitutional?”
Portia brought the tea and took their order, studiously avoiding Rancor’s side of the table. Rancor waited until the glass was at the publisher’s lips before trumpeting, “Michael had a talk with his mother.” Once the busboy had mopped the table and given everyone new napkins, he continued. “Do you want to tell it or shall I?”
The little man glanced furtively around the room.
“Your mother’s not here.”
“I know that. It’s just…have you…have you seen Isabella around? I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but I think she’s been following me.”
Charity turned to Rancor. “That reminds me. Did you ever find out if the police had a tail on Mr. Finney?”
Finney’s eyes bugged out. “A tail? What for?”
Rancor poured sugar into his tea. “I…uh…forgot to call. Anyway,” he added hastily, “It’s moot now. Isabella’s in Seattle, and Michael’s here.”
“Are you sure she’s in Seattle?”
“Uh, no. Michael?”
The little man threw his hands up. “I don’t know where she is. She keeps calling me—from London, Paris, Washington, DC. The last call came from Albuquerque.” He stared dolefully at his plate. “When I ask about the check, she says it’s in the mail.”
Charity patted his hand but couldn’t bring herself to fib. You’re never going to see a check, dear. Then something else he said caught her attention. “Wait. She called you from London and Paris? You were never there?”
“Me? The first time I’ve left Seattle in five years is to come here.”
Charity shot a triumphant look at Rancor, who said mildly, “We’ve established that you were right. No need to make a federal case out of it.”
She turned to Michael. “Why are you here anyway?”
He glanced at Rancor. “It’s a long story.”
Rancor said, “Maybe we should begin with your mother.”
“Okay.” He took a swig of iced tea.
Charity watched him. “I take it you told your mother about the sale?”
“I had to. She’s eighty-four, so she doesn’t get out much, but when she does, she always visits the office. She would have seen the new sign.”
“IV Enterprises?”
He nodded. “So I brought her some candy—she loves that horrible ribbon stuff you get at Christmas—and sat her down and told her I sold HHR Press.”
“What did she do?”
“Well, she reacted as I anticipated, railing about how I’d let the family down and it was lucky my father—not to mention my grandfather—wasn’t around to see this happen to his beloved company. She reminded me that Grandfather had founded it in 1933, and it represented the quintessential small, independent, publishing firm.”
Here’s my chance. “Mr. Finney—”
“Please, call me Michael.”
“Michael, who actually contracted with the authors in your…is it called a stable?”
Rancor made a rude noise.
Michael hesitated, then, with a tiny grin, replied, “Yes, I believe it’s called that. That was my father. You remember him, Rancor, don’t you?”
“I suppose you’re expecting me to whinny.”
“Rancor!”
“All right, all right. Indeed, Andrew was a remarkable man. I had four books under my belt at Harper, and he stole me away with visions of top billing, huge promotional blitzes, my name in lights…or was it on Broadway? And then Michael took over and…” He didn’t look at the other man. “Er…sorry, old chap.” He lapsed into a troubled silence.
Charity hadn’t finished. “And Isabella Voleuse. Who hired her?”
“I did. She came highly recommended. She is an excellent editor.”
Rancor stirred. “Well…she had the advantage of working with five seasoned writers. Most of the time she merely soothed ruffled egos and sent the manuscript along without comment.”
“Oh, my.” The news seemed to distress Finney. “I didn’t know that.”
Charity said quietly, “Or maybe she didn’t pass the manuscripts on at all.”
“To be fair, we don’t know when she started her racket. We only know about the five missing ones.”
Rancor called the hostess over. “Velma, isn’t it? What a lovely name. Velma, I’m afraid Portia has her hands full. Would you mind bringing me a Beck’s? There’s a good girl.”
Velma, sixty if she was a day, reacted positively to being called a girl. Cheeks flushed, she peeped, “Right away, Mr. Bass.”
When she had gone, he put his hands on the table. “Back to the subject. What else did your mother have to say?”
“That was the striking part. Once she’d calmed down, she insisted that I do whatever it took to have the name of HHR reinstated. Then she said something about a promise, an oath, and a deed.”
“Deed to a house? To the firm?”
“I don’t know. When I pressed her, all she said was, ‘Go to Cà d’Zan. The answer is there.’ So I packed my bag, and here I am.”
Charity cried, “Cà d’Zan! That’s John and Mable Ringling’s house. You told me your grandfather was the Ringlings’ librarian.”
“Yes. He managed their collection of works on art and architecture. They even gave him a room in the house.”
Rancor leaned forward, his eyes alight. “I believe he was quite close to them.”
“To John, yes. He never knew Mable—she died in 1929, I believe. He came on in 1931.”
The pizza arrived. Rancor slid a slice onto Charity’s plate and handed the platter to Finney. “Was Ringling married to Hedda then?”
Charity answered. “If I remember correctly, they were married in 1930.”
Rancor took the platter back and set it beside his plate. “Did he get along with Hedda?”
Michael nodded. “By all accounts.”
“I read that Edgar Finney left Sarasota without warning. Any idea why? Could he and John have had a quarrel of some kind?”
“Or he and Hedda?” Charity didn’t intend to be left out of the deliberations.
The other man shook his head. “Mother did mention her father-in-law tendered his resignation rather unexpectedly, but she never told me why. I just assumed he wanted to go into business for himself. No one ever mentioned a rift. If true, why would Hedda give him the money?”
Rancor finished off the pizza, to the distress of his companions, and signaled to the waitress. He pointed at Charity. “She’ll take the check, thanks.”
After she had paid, he and Michael walked her out to her car. She pulled out her keys. “Where to?”
“Cà d’Zan of course.”
“I have to get back to the office.”
“No, you don’t. I told George you were on the track of something big.”
“I am?”
“Yes. An enigma.”
“Any particular one?”
“What is behind this irrevocable promise to retain the company name? Was the relationship between Edgar Finney and Hedda Ringling friendly or hostile? I don’t think we can necessarily assume she financed him as a gesture of good will. Could it have been blackmail? A bribe?” He opened the driver’s side door. “I’m convinced we’ll find the answer at Cà d’Zan.”
“Oh, you are. What was your first clue?”
“There’s no call for sarcasm, Charity. I’m in charge whether you like it or not.” He went around to the other side, leaving Michael to wedge himself into the rear seat.
Charity tried not to wail. “But what does any of this have to do with the skeleton? That’s the story we’re supposed to be following.” No point in even bringing up the ghost story anthology.
“Who knows? Maybe the skeleton is the real Edgar Finney, and an imposter went to Seattle.”
“After Finney quit? Then why did he quit?”
Michael piped up from behind them. “Excuse me, Rancor, but I should know my own grandfather, and I distinctly remember him bouncing me on his knee.”
“Did he look like you?”
There was a pause. “Mother often remarked on the…striking family resemblance.”
Rancor’s lower lip trembled. “Ah.” He turned to Charity. “We won’t learn anything unless we go to Cà d’Zan. So step on it.”
They drove down Gulf of Mexico Drive and around St. Armands Circle to the Ringling Bridge. Turning left on the Tamiami Trail, they entered the parking lot of the Ringling complex a few minutes later. Charity bought their tickets in the visitor’s center. Another hundred dollars I could have spent on rent. “So where do we start?”
“The house, of course. That’s the actual Cà d’Zan. It means House of John in some local Italian dialect. Bit pretentious if you ask me.” Rancor went to the ticket counter. “We want to see the library in the house. Is it open to the public?”
The cashier, an old man with iron gray hair and a peppy attitude, chirruped, “Why, aren’t you the lucky ones! It’s only open on Tuesdays. The docent can give you a tour. You’re in for a real treat.”
“What about the rest of the house?”
His pep collapsed like an under-inflated football. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. You can tour the ground level, but the upstairs is closed to visitors. We have a shortage of staff today—tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, you know.” He winked at Charity. “Sorry.”
They took the tram. Along the way, they passed the Circus Museum and Mable Ringling’s rose garden, ending at a circular drive before the entrance to the house. The façade, of pink stucco embellished with glazed tiles, rose two levels, topped by a large, ornate cupola. A marker informed them that the design was modeled after the Doge’s palace in Venice, and finished in 1926 at a cost of one-and-a-half million dollars.
Rancor grunted. “Do you suppose 1926 was the watershed year of Ringling’s fortunes?”
“You mean, maybe once he paid for Cà d’Zan he had nothing left for the Ritz-Carlton?” Charity stepped back and gazed upward. “Possibly.”
They handed their tickets to a bored young woman who led them past the Gothic-arched wooden door to one painted in gold leaf. Cherubs blew kisses from the elaborate raised panels. Entering a wide foyer lined with statuary and paintings, Charity pointed. “Look at that, a full set of armor.”
Michael smirked. “Every house should have one of those.”
They passed through the magnificent dining room, set for twenty, and then a small bar lit by Tiffany stained-glass windows. A padded-leather door in one wall led them to a room lined with bookcases. Michael was headed to the desk when a short, busy woman of about thirty-five came forward. “Hello! I’m Deirdre Penney, curator of the collection. Welcome to the library of Cà d’Zan.”
Michael and Charity assumed listening poses. Rancor ignored the docent and wandered over to a window. After a pause sizzling with reproach, Mrs. Penney plunged on.
“First, you should know that most of the collection is now housed in our Education Center. This little room was Mr. Ringling’s study.” She pointed out the stacks, filled with titles like Seventeenth-Century Portraiture and Rules for Authentication of Works of the Dutch School. “Please, sit down if you like.” When they had settled into plush green wingchairs, Mrs. Penney began to talk about the house. “Mable was the principal overseer of the construction. She chose the building materials and the furnishings, even the paintings. The Ringlings often picked items up at auction. For example, the crystal chandelier in the living room originally hung in the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York.” She sighed. “Such a tragedy that Mable died only three years after they moved in.”
Charity said idly, “And then John married Hedda.”
Mrs. Penney’s face tightened. “Yes. By all accounts, the marriage was not a happy one.”
Rancor asked, “Is this part of the collection catalogued?”
“More or less. The last official librarian began work in the 1930s, but he quit rather abruptly, and then, when Mr. Ringling died in 1936, it languished. I maintain the furnishings and the paintings, but the books are more or less as they were when he left.”
Rancor went to one wall and pulled out a large tome. Mrs. Penney made a move toward him, but he waved her off with an imperious gesture. “It’s all right, I’m a writer.”
This seemed to flummox her, and she sat down with a plop. Rancor flipped through the pages. “This one’s on Italian renaissance architecture. Look, here’s a picture of the Palace of the Doge in Venice. Isn’t Cà d’Zan modeled after it?”
Mrs. Penney rallied. “Yes, it is. The turrets and statuary niches—”
“Do you have anything on the history of the Ghost Hotel?”
“Ghost Hotel?”
“Ringling laid the cornerstone for a Ritz-Carlton on Longboat Key in 1926 and stopped work on it the same year. You don’t know about it?” He gave her a disgusted look and dropped the book onto the desk.
The lady did not back down. “On the contrary, I know quite a bit about the magnificent hulk that sat empty on the southern tip of Longboat Key for almost forty years. Why—”
“Hey, here’s a book about it.” Michael picked up a volume from one of the tables.
Charity took it from him and, switching on the lamp, she began to read.
“Ringling entered into a contract with Hegeman-Harris Company, Inc., of New York in February of 1926. Work began March 1926. The building’s plan called for more than two hundred rooms, three golf courses, dock facilities, and a rail line that would bring passengers right to the hotel. Due to money troubles, Ringling ordered the work stopped in November, with barely one-third completed. Although Ringling and his successor John Ringling North maintained that eventually they would resume construction, the shell lay vacant until 1963.”
Finney remarked, “So Ringling never gave up on the hotel.”
“Despite the fact that he was basically insolvent by 1929.”
Rancor, who had been perusing the shelves, spoke up. “I wonder why he never tried to sell it?”
Mrs. Penney answered. “There is no evidence that John Ringling ever considered selling the property. I understand it was rather a bone of contention between him and the family. Mable agreed with him, but Hedda—his second wife—called it an albatross and pressed John to unload it.”
“Could that be one reason he divorced her?”
“I…uh…don’t know.” Mrs. Penney seemed suddenly uncertain.
Rancor took the book from Charity. “I just thought of something. The letter.”
The other three stared at him. “What letter?”
“From Hedda to Mistinguett. Remember, Charity? She said John had served her with divorce papers…”
“I do remember.” Charity spoke slowly. “Didn’t she also say something about an ‘incident’?”
“You’re thinking they had a fight over the hotel?” His brow creased in thought. “He didn’t actually divorce her until 1936—ten years after construction was discontinued. It couldn’t have had anything to do with that.”
“Why not? The wreck still stood, and the Ringlings were scrambling for cash.”
Rancor stuffed the book into an empty space on a shelf. After tapping her foot for a long minute, Mrs. Penney pulled it out and inserted it in its proper place.
Rancor looked as though he were tempted to move it again, so Charity raised her voice. “Let’s get back to the problem at hand. We’re looking for something to do with Edgar Finney.”
Mrs. Penney’s eyes opened wide. “The last librarian?”
“The very one.” Rancor swept his arm out. “May I introduce you to his grandson, Michael Finney?”
“How do you do.” She gave the publisher an appraising look, which softened when he smiled at her.
Rancor steamrolled on. “Michael owns—or rather, owned—HHR Press in Seattle, founded by his grandfather in 1933.” He studied the woman. “You wouldn’t happen to know why he named his company after Hedda Hagen Ringling, would you?”
She shook her head. “No idea, although they were friends. According to her letters, she spent a great deal of time in the library. She said Finney was very attentive and helped her in her research. She would always check sources before she and John left on their treasure-hunting trips to Europe.” Her eyes grew misty. “I always thought there might be a bit of tender feeling there.”
The Pit and the Passion Page 23