The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  She told him about the Finney will, the stipulation that the name HHR Press be retained in perpetuity, and Isabella’s missing check.

  “I see. And this fellow has proof that Miss Voleuse is the manuscript thief?”

  Charity paused. “N…no. But he has no reason to lie. It makes sense—her pretending to look for him, her wanting to buy the firm…” She petered out.

  George tapped a pencil. “Promise, oath, deed. Huh. It was Finney’s mother who said the answer to the riddle is in Cà d’Zan?”

  “Yes, but we didn’t find anything there.”

  “Perhaps Finney should talk to his mother again.”

  “There’s an idea. And Rancor’s going to talk to his Aunt Gertrude again.”

  “Keep me in the loop, Charity.” He picked up the receiver. “I’d better phone Arlo.”

  Charity left him, went back to her desk, and clicked on her schedule. “Oh my God, it’s Valentine’s Day.” She felt again that bite of loneliness that always came on holidays. Rancor was hardly the type to acknowledge the occasion. She sighed. Maybe I’ll see what Jane is doing for lunch.

  Jane was amenable, and they met at the Crab and Fin. It was crowded with couples gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes. Charity focused her attention on Jane. “So how’s your boyfriend doing?”

  “Darryl? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for two weeks.” Jane didn’t seem particularly downhearted.

  “You two haven’t broken up again!”

  “No—at least I don’t think so. I never know.” She sighed. “It’s his usual MO. We have a wonderful night together…” She winked. “Very…er…stimulating, if you catch my drift.”

  Yes, yes, I do.

  “But then phhhttt. Nada for up to a month. He claims it takes him that long to recover from our exertions, but I don’t believe him.”

  “Do you think he has another girlfriend?”

  “Not sure. He used to go on about how we weren’t really compatible—”

  “But you two are perfect for each other!”

  “You know that and I know that, but tell it to Darryl. He grudgingly agrees that we have the same tastes in music and food and movies and other stuff, but he’s not convinced there isn’t some Héloïse out there for his Abélard.”

  Charity patted her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “What about you? Still having it on with the great writer?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “I see.” She sipped her drink. “Another fantastic Valentine’s Day, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  By mutual consent, they talked of less painful topics for the rest of the meal—politics, the culture wars, taxes, and the rise of a local Wiccan movement. Jane pointed at a tall, broad-shouldered woman in black, her bosom covered in strings of Mardi Gras beads. “It’s this blue moon, I think. Witches and weirdos come out to play.”

  “Well, that’s Florida for you.” After dropping Jane off at her store, Charity put in a few hours at the office and went home.

  As she trudged up the stairs, rain began to fall, sparking a chorus of cheeps from the tiny native treefrogs. It seemed to grow louder and louder. When she reached her door, she found out why. A huge green bullfrog sat in a small wooden cage on the mat. A tag attached to it said, “Kiss Me.” When she picked up the cage, a guttural voice croaked, “If you don’t kiss me, you won’t get your present.” She looked around but couldn’t see anyone. The voice came again. “Down here.”

  The frog regarded her solemnly, its large eyes unblinking. She spoke to the air. “I am not going to kiss a frog.”

  “Ah, but I’m a special frog. A prince of a frog. Kiss me.”

  She had to admit she was tempted. “If I let you out, you’ll hop away.” Why the hell am I talking to an amphibian?

  “Then you’d better kiss me quick.”

  She shrugged. The rain turned into a downpour, and she moved under the shelter of the overhang. With hesitant fingers, she opened the little door. The frog hopped out. Quick as a flash, she bent down and touched her lips to its back. Surprisingly, it was neither slimy nor wet. She resisted the urge to wipe her mouth. The frog croaked once but remained crouched on its haunches, gazing at her. She shook her head. “No sense in asking. I’m only doing it once.”

  “Wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Wait for it…” There was a flash of purple smoke. When it cleared, the frog was gone, and Rancor sat on the step. “Your prince. As ordered.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “A magician never reveals his secrets.” He opened his palms to reveal a bouquet of gardenias. “For you. Will you be my valentine?”

  She held the flowers and inhaled deeply. “They’re my favorite—how did you know?”

  “I made inquiries. Jane is delightful by the way. Didn’t care much for Darryl.”

  “Find out why he only sees her once a month, and she’ll be your slave for life.”

  “That would make a refreshing change.”

  “More than you deserve. Coming in?”

  “Yes. I have to watch you change into something more suitable for Michael’s on East.”

  “Rancor! I can’t afford that.”

  “You don’t have to—I have secured a source of funding.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “No. You don’t.” He closed the door behind him. “Now, you haven’t answered my question.”

  Busy with the flowers, Charity didn’t reply. He took the vase from her and set it down. Then he took her in his arms. “Will you be my valentine?”

  At that, something broke inside her, and the tears flowed.

  He dried them. “Should I take that as a ‘yes,’ or a ‘get out of my sight, you ogre’?”

  She kissed him, unable to talk.

  “Go then. Put on that pearly white dress you wore in Paris. And leave your hair down this once.”

  She obeyed, savoring the prospect of a Valentine’s Day that just might turn out to be the best ever.

  ****

  “Where did you get that frog anyway?”

  “What frog?”

  It’s going to be like that, is it? “Did you call Aunt Gertrude yet?”

  “No.” He idly tickled her nipple. “I had more important things to do.”

  “It’s noon. You’d better call her.”

  “I can’t. I have to go to work.”

  “Wait—does this have anything to do with your new revenue stream?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I have managed to worm my way back into the good graces of the store manager at Publix. He has seen fit to give me a second chance, although I’m banned from collecting carts in the parking lot. I received my first paycheck on Friday. I am now gainfully employed—as opposed to writing for a living.”

  She patted his head. “I am so proud of you.”

  He gave her a wry grin. “I’m actually getting quite adept at stacking shelves. Mr. Twittle put a gold star next to my name. If I play my cards right, I could be employee of the month.”

  “You can do anything you put your mind to.”

  He gathered his clothes and went to the bathroom. “I must make my toilette—the customers expect box boys in clean boxers.”

  He left a few minutes later. Charity arranged her flowers one more time, smiling to herself.

  Six hours later, Rancor skipped up the beach steps to her apartment.

  “Well, there you are. You’d better call Auntie before it’s time for her bingo.”

  “Mah-jongg.”

  “I thought she played canasta?”

  “Isn’t today Thursday? Thursdays, it’s mah-jongg.”

  “Whatever.”

  He dialed a number. “Aunt Gertrude? Rancor here. I’m sorry to bother you again, but I thought you’d like to know that I may have found Grandfather…No, of course he’s not still alive…Well, I suppose he could be, but in his current condition—if I’m right, that is—then I’d have to say no.
Listen, Auntie, your father snuck off to Florida rather than go to Nebraska, right? Good…Oh, you did? What did it say?” He held his hand over the receiver. “She found a telegram Robert sent to his wife in a box of old photos.” He turned back to the phone. “What’s that? Really! That’s very interesting. Thanks, thanks a lot…Who? She’s pregnant again? Oh dear, how many does that make—thirteen? Only four? Well, tell her congratulations, and I’ll be up to see it once it’s college age…Sorry, I missed that last…What did I want to tell you about Grandfather? I just wanted to give you a heads-up…Yes, I’ll call you back…All right, toodle-oo.”

  “What did the telegram say?”

  “I can’t believe my sister-in-law Alice is going to spew out yet another infant—I think the last one still has his umbilical cord attached.”

  Her voice dangerously low, Charity said, “The telegram?”

  “Oh, evidently Robert sent one to his wife.”

  “That would be the long-suffering Trudy?”

  “Yes, our long-suffering Trudy who had managed to get herself pregnant a second time.” He turned pensive. “While Auntie would never divulge, methinks the Bass men must all enjoy singular endowments. They certainly reproduce at prolific levels.”

  Charity made a mental note to get that prescription refilled immediately.

  “Anyway, he told her he was on the point of making a really fantastic real estate deal—one that would knock the proverbial socks off his father. He seemed very confident.”

  “Did he say what it was?”

  “No. He said he would write as soon as it was settled. He said he had a meeting to seal the deal that night.”

  “And?”

  “And that was the last anyone heard from him.”

  “And they moved on. I remember. Did his wife at least believe his message? That he was working on a great deal?”

  “I doubt it. Up to then, the best deal he’d ever closed was a hundred dollars for his cousin’s bike.”

  “Something tells me his cousin wasn’t planning to sell said bicycle.”

  “Your intuition serves you well.”

  Charity peered at him. “You’re holding something back. Did Aunt Gertrude happen to tell you the date of the telegram?”

  Rancor leveled a grave look at her. “February 10, 1933.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Conspiracy Theories

  “February 10, 1933. That must be the day he died. Or that night.”

  Rancor drummed his fingers on the table. “So we have definite proof that Robert was the person who arranged the meeting and can dispense with the inscrutable Mr. X. Whoever he met must be the murderer.”

  “If it was murder.”

  “Don’t be silly—a man couldn’t stab himself that many times.”

  “I’m not being silly.” Charity poured herself a glass of water. “Last night while you were busy keeping me awake long after my bedtime, I remembered something. The CSI guys found a bunch of short iron rods in the pit. Say Robert tripped and fell in. He might have landed on them.”

  Rancor rubbed his chin. “You’re hypothesizing that the holes made by the rods would resemble stab wounds on a skeleton?”

  She nodded. “In which case, it was an accident.”

  “Give me a minute.” Rancor got up and paced the room. “Doesn’t work. For one thing, the rods would still be stuck in his ribs. For another, the CSI man—was it Ken or Doug?—said they were buried in the corners. The skeleton lay in the center of the pit.”

  Damn. “All right, so it was murder. Could the killer have been John Ringling himself?”

  “Because he had the card? No…I’ve been thinking about that. He must have meant for Edgar to go to the meeting.”

  “But why meet at the Ghost Hotel?”

  “Why else? The deal they were negotiating was its sale. Robert Bass wanted to buy the hotel from Ringling for Bass, Inc.”

  “Of course! He was sure this would get him back in his father’s good graces. What a feather in his cap.”

  “Yes, adding a five-star hotel to the Bass chain would be a great coup.”

  “Even if it was a dump.”

  “Dump…” Rancor stopped pacing. “That gives me an idea. Didn’t you tell me Calvin Hagen was involved in unsavory real estate deals?”

  “Yeess. Why?…Oh! You’re thinking he was the one arranging the deal with Robert. For Ringling?”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  Charity put her glass down. “But Mrs. Penney told us Ringling didn’t want to sell.”

  “True. All right, how about this? Ringling discovered Hagen’s maneuvering and sent Edgar to tell Robert the deal was off.”

  “So this was all Hagen’s idea?”

  “Yes.”

  “But at some point, wouldn’t he have to get Ringling’s approval?”

  “Hmm.” Rancor ambled out to the balcony but soon came rushing back. “Would that approval have to come from John himself? Didn’t Deirdre also say that Hedda thought it was an albatross and wanted to get rid of it?”

  “Yes. Oh!” She held a hand to her mouth. “Hedda was secretly arranging to sell the hotel behind John’s back. Who else would she turn to but her own brother? No wonder Ringling wanted to divorce her.”

  “So where does Edgar Finney fit into all this?”

  Charity spoke thoughtfully. “If John learned about the meeting and sent Edgar to stop the deal, why keep quiet about it? Why hide the card in the secret drawer?”

  “To keep Hedda from knowing her little scheme had been exposed?”

  “But then why did Edgar cut and run?”

  Rancor picked up the keys. “We need to find out exactly when Edgar Finney left and what reason he gave.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find Michael.”

  “At this hour?”

  He checked the clock. “Oh, good grief. We’ve been yakking all evening. I didn’t realize it was almost midnight.” He leered at her. “We’ll have to occupy ourselves until visiting hours are upon us.”

  Charity took his hand. “I have an idea.”

  ****

  “Open up, Michael, it’s me.”

  Charity punched Rancor’s arm. “Despite your irrational belief that your name is universally renowned, Finney doesn’t necessarily know your voice.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. I can still be considered renowned whether or not my mellifluous tenor is familiar to the masses.” At a look from her, he raised his voice. “It’s me…Rancor.”

  The door opened onto a rumpled man in striped pajamas, bits of sleep stuck in the corners of his eyes. When he saw Charity, he bleated, “I’ll be right with you,” and slammed the door in their faces.

  A minute later, he opened the door again. This time he wore a trench coat, belted but unbuttoned. Charity half expected him to throw it open, exposing his manhood to them. Instead, he ushered them in. “Sorry for the delay. What can I do for you?”

  Charity searched for a place to sit down. Clothes and newspapers covered every flat surface. A suitcase stood open on a rack, objects apparently tossed into it at random. The bathroom floor was littered with wet towels. She finally sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Michael drew the curtains aside, flooding the room with light.

  Rancor stood in the middle of the squalor, hands on hips. “You’ve only been here a few nights, Michael. How could you manage to make such a mess?”

  The other man hung his head. “I didn’t expect company.”

  “Hmmph. Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t bring Deirdre back to your hotel.”

  Finney’s eyes grew wild. “I’d never…never…” He gulped.

  Charity took pity on him. “Of course not. Perhaps we’d better tell you why we’re here. Rancor?”

  “We think we’ve solved at least part of the mystery. The skeleton we found in the pit is that of my grandfather, Robert Bass III.”

  “And how do you know that?” Michael pushed some newspapers off the only chair
and sat down.

  “Because we found his card in John Ringling’s desk.”

  “You searched his desk? In Cà d’Zan? Isn’t that illegal?”

  Rancor brushed that aside. “You were downstairs making whoopee with the docent—we had to keep ourselves busy. Now, do you want to hear our story?”

  “Okay.”

  Rancor related their discoveries and conclusions. “So we still don’t know what Edgar was doing there.”

  “If he was there. You only have the note from Ringling, and that could have meant something else entirely.” He stared at the wall, his face meditative. “Do you think Hagen set up the meeting?”

  “The thought had occurred.”

  “At Hedda’s instigation.” Michael leaned back, exposing the rumpled pajamas. Charity longed to button his coat but didn’t dare frighten the poor man. “Or…Could my grandfather have been negotiating with your grandfather on her behalf?”

  Charity spoke. “Unlikely, since it was John Ringling who sent him to the meeting—or wanted him do something about it.”

  “Wait a minute…” Rancor went to the window and gazed out at the passing traffic. “We may be jumping the gun. Edgar could have done both.”

  “Huh?”

  “He could have been acting for Hedda but, when Ringling discovered the plot, turned on her.”

  Michael gasped. “My grandfather would never betray a trust!”

  Charity put a hand up. “By helping Hedda go behind John’s back, wouldn’t he have been doing exactly that?”

  Rancor apparently felt the need to quell the rising tension and said quietly, “If not Edgar, then who did Robert arrange to meet?”

  She clasped and unclasped her hands, thinking. “Hedda herself?”

  Rancor scoffed, “This was the 1930s. Would a lady meet a man at midnight in a deserted hotel? I don’t think so.”

  “Except in one of your books.”

  “I beg your pardon—my heroines are not imbeciles.”

  “But they’re often floozies.”

  Michael cried, “Hedda Hagen Ringling was no floozy!”

  Charity raised her voice. “Could I have a glass of water, Michael?” This had the effect of completely unraveling him. He flailed his arms and honked like a demented goose. Rancor went to the bathroom, filled a glass from the tap, and gave it to Charity. She sipped. “This is getting us nowhere. Someone met Robert Bass III in the Ghost Hotel on February 10, 1933, and killed him.”