The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “Huh.” The policeman tapped the book. “What does all this have to do with you, anyway?”

  “Rancor’s also had a submission stolen.”

  Kelly shot a look at Rancor. “Isn’t it copyrighted?”

  “Technically, but it disappeared before it was actually under contract, so I have no way to prove it’s mine.”

  “I see.” Kelly stood up. “This is way out of my zone of expertise. I suggest you get a lawyer. Then, if he thinks you have a case, we can get a search warrant.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “I’m assuming Wheelock or his accomplice has the books hidden somewhere. If we found more like this one—with the name altered—we could go to the assistant DA. I believe here in Florida intellectual property theft is considered grand larceny.”

  “What happens if we don’t find any more manuscripts?”

  “Then I don’t think you have a case. You can always try civil court.”

  “Thanks.” Rancor’s tone was dry.

  They drove home, Rancor muttering to himself. He slammed upstairs, got the whiskey from the cabinet, and poured himself a stiff one.

  “Sun isn’t over the yardarm yet, my good man.”

  “And your point?” He knocked it back but, after a slight hesitation, set the bottle down on the table.

  Charity took a can of peanuts from the refrigerator and began to munch. “What are you so upset about?”

  “There’s no way we can bring a criminal case against Isabella or Holdridge.”

  “Why not? We should at least consult a lawyer.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Jemimah isn’t interested, and Bernie has made so many enemies in the legal profession, no one would lift a finger for him.”

  “What about Atalanta?”

  “Since her manuscript is the only evidence we have, she would have to bring the case herself, and I’m not sure I can talk her into that.”

  “If Wheelock stole that manuscript, he likely took the others. What happened when you went to see him?”

  Rancor reached a hand out for the bottle but let it drop. “He’s skipped.”

  “Gone?”

  “Kit and kaboodle. Or lock, stock, and barrel. Take your pick.”

  “Well, we know where he lives.”

  “You don’t think he’s already cleaned out any evidence that points to his collusion with Isabella?”

  Charity tapped a finger. “That probably means Isabella discovered the book is missing from her briefcase.”

  “And told Wheelock.”

  “So they’ll both be long gone.”

  “Not necessarily.” They turned at the lilting voice. Isabella stood in the open door, a black Beretta in her hand. She stepped forward. “Give me the manuscript, Charity.”

  She thought fast. “I don’t have it.”

  “You took it. I know you did.”

  “Yes, I did, but we gave it to the police.” So he gave it back to us. So what? “It’s evidence.” She stared at Isabella and spoke deliberately. “Intellectual property theft is a felony.”

  Isabella’s mouth shut tight. Her gaze moved to Rancor.

  He wore his most impenetrable expression. “That’s right. Why don’t you put the gun down, Isabella? It’s only going to get you in more trouble.”

  She hesitated, then backed up a step. As she twirled to run, Rancor lunged at her, catching an ankle. She tumbled forward and let out a most unladylike squawk. The gun skittered across the floor, coming to rest at Charity’s feet. She picked it up.

  From the open door came a surprised grunt. “What the—?” There on the landing, grasping Isabella with both arms, stood Michael, his mouth hanging open.

  Charity put down the gun and called 9-1-1.

  A few minutes later, Isabella was gone, accompanied by two police officers and a plainclothes man. Michael, Charity, and Rancor sat at the kitchen table pouring shots of whiskey for each other. Michael finished his in one gulp and said, “You’re going to need more whiskey, Charity.”

  Where have I heard that before?

  He poured another tot. “What’s going to happen to Isabella?”

  Rancor said, “Not sure. I suppose holding a gun on us is assault—”

  “She didn’t touch us.” She glanced at Michael. “At least not on purpose.”

  “I don’t think you have to touch anyone.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “The law doesn’t always make sense. Why—”

  Michael broke in. “What happened with the manuscripts?”

  Charity answered. “Captain Kelly suggested we get a lawyer’s advice, although he didn’t think there was enough evidence to charge her.”

  “But she swindled us!”

  “As a publisher, you should know how difficult these cases are.”

  Finney put his head in his hands. “What else can we do?”

  “I don’t know.” Charity stood and took the glasses to the sink. “By the way, what were you doing on my doorstep?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Michael almost smiled, then took it back. “My accountant left a message that funds had been deposited in the HHR account.”

  “Isabella’s check?”

  “He didn’t say.” His eyes filled with tears. “I hope not.”

  Rancor spoke up. “So HHR still has a bank account?”

  “Yes—for the time being. Although…come to think of it”—he scratched his chin—“Isabella was supposed to make it out to me, not to HHR Press.”

  “Just another way to delay the payment while you sort it out with the bank.”

  He blew his nose. “I suppose.”

  Charity patted his arm. “Perhaps we can use Isabella’s arrest as leverage.”

  Michael perked up. “Say, that gives me an idea. Could we offer to drop the charges in return for giving me back HHR Press?”

  Rancor swung around on Michael, a light in his eyes. “It’s worth a try.”

  ****

  “We’re supposed to meet Michael at the station at nine.”

  “I think we have time for one more roll in the hay.” Rancor reached for her.

  “My, you have really lapsed into the well of trite phrases lately. ‘Roll in the hay,’ ‘kit and kaboodle,’ and…what was the other one?”

  “Never mind the words. You will be amazed and awed by the originality of my actions.”

  A short time later, she grudgingly admitted that actions spoke louder than words.

  “See, even you’re prone to it.”

  “Is that a homonym I hear?”

  “A mere pun.”

  “As a serious writer, you are supposed to hate puns.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I read a book once that divided the literary world between those who loved and those who despised puns. All the respectable writers shunned them, or pretended to.”

  “Well, I love them.” Rancor threw back the covers and rose. “It’s time we got going. Upsy daisy.”

  They reached the police station just as Michael pulled up in a cab. Sergeant Ingersoll said, “Oh hi, Charity. What’s going on?”

  “We’re here about Isabella Voleuse, Frank. This is Michael Finney, and you know Rancor Bass.”

  Frank acknowledged Rancor with a curled lip. “Yes, we here in the precinct are well acquainted with Mr. Bass.”

  Rancor managed to look chagrined. “I’ve learned my lesson, Sarge. Really I have. I intend to go straight from now on.”

  “Good to hear. Now folks, we need you to sign the paperwork charging Ms. Voleuse”—he pronounced the name with some reverence—“with assault. And in your case, Mr. Finney, with battery.”

  Rancor shot a patronizing look at Charity. “See? I told you, assault isn’t the same as battery. It’s—”

  Michael cleared his throat. “Erm, is it possible to drop the charges? I…er…don’t think she meant to hurt anyone.”

  The sergeant goggled at him. “She held a gun on you.”

 
; “She has a permit for it. She may have felt threatened. Don’t you have one of those ‘stand your ground’ laws here in Florida?” His watery eyes pleaded with the policeman.

  Frank turned to the other two. “How about you guys?”

  Rancor and Charity exchanged glances. “We have a proposition for her.”

  “We don’t do deals.”

  “Well, could we have five minutes alone with her? Just to gauge her frame of mind?”

  “I’ll have to ask Captain Kelly. One minute.” He went into the office. When he came out, he was shaking his head. “He says all right, but there has to be a cop in the room.”

  “That’s all right—it’s not like we’re invoking lawyer-client privilege or anything. Speaking of, did she call a lawyer?”

  “She made her one call. Name sure sounded like a lawyer, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”

  Charity made a guess. “Could it have been to Holdridge K. Wheelock?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Something like that. Miss Voleuse didn’t get through to him though. Had to leave a message. She seemed very upset.” His face fell at the memory.

  Rancor cackled. “I’ll bet she was. Looks like old Holdy skipped out on her too.”

  Frank held an arm out. “This way.” They entered a windowless room about eight feet square.

  Another policeman brought Isabella in from her cell. Apparently, she had been allowed to refresh her toilette, for her hair shone and her teeth sparkled. Her makeup was perfect—even to the orange lipstick that matched her immaculate orange jumpsuit. Charity looked closer. Oh my God, she’s even got a tiny orange bow in her hair. The policeman trotted behind her, his face worshipful.

  “Miss Voleuse? Will you sit here?” He held the chair out for her.

  “Thank you, Bobby.” She gave him a gentle smile, adding just a dab of pathos. Bobby teared up.

  Michael gestured at the other chair, but Charity said, “No, you sit. You have to make the offer.” She and Rancor leaned against the wall.

  Michael gazed at Isabella, his face inscrutable.

  She cringed a tiny bit, then stiffened. “What do you want, Michael?”

  Somehow the little Finney found his footing. His voice firm, his eyes unblinking, he said, “We have a proposal for you, Isabella. We will drop the felony charges in exchange for the abrogation of the sale transferring HHR Press to you.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Absolutely not. The firm is mine.”

  He spoke quietly. “You haven’t sent me the check yet. Until I have the money, the transaction is not final.”

  Charity watched Isabella carefully. If she had in fact deposited the funds, she would protest, but she said nothing.

  Michael waved his hand about the room. “I suggest that if you don’t agree, you will not be in a position, one, to get your hands on the money, or two, to send it.”

  Isabella may have been drop-dead gorgeous, but she was also very smart. It took her all of two minutes to decide. “Okay. How do we do it?”

  Michael let out a breath. “We’ll drop the charges. Then you can send me the paperwork from Seattle and—”

  Rancor stepped forward. “Er, Michael? Perhaps we should complete the transfer first.”

  Isabella pressed her lips together. “You’re going to leave me in jail?”

  Bobby’s face brightened. “We’ll take good care of you, Miss Voleuse.”

  Frank shook his head. “We can’t keep her here, Bobby, not if they’re not going to pursue the case.”

  Almost everyone in the room seemed disappointed. Michael spoke. “Rancor is right. I don’t think we’re quite ready to drop the charges, Sergeant. Perhaps you will allow Miss Voleuse to make another call.” He stared at Isabella, waiting her out.

  When she didn’t answer, Rancor jumped in. “Yes, Isabella, have your lawyer draw up the nullification of sale papers and fax them to Michael.”

  Charity added, “Now you won’t have to worry about the check—or anything.” She smiled sweetly at the woman.

  Isabella said lightly, although Charity noted a steely glint in her eye, “I’ll just be going then—Bobby? Would you escort me to my cell? I need my briefcase and my cell phone. Thank you so much.” She shot a bitter look at Rancor and let herself be led out.

  Rancor slapped Michael on the back. “Well done!”

  Michael looked quite pleased with himself. “I must say, I stood up to her, didn’t I? Rather!”

  Charity hated to sprinkle gloom on the festivities. A killjoy’s work is never done. “Um…boys? Today is Sunday—she may not get hold of her lawyers until tomorrow.”

  Michael fell back on the chair. “If she’s let out before that, we’re screwed.”

  The sergeant began to say something, but Rancor interrupted. “Perhaps she could have the papers sent here? That way, even if she’s flown the coop we’ll have them.”

  Charity touched the officer’s sleeve. “Frank, can you have her ask her lawyer to fax them here?”

  “Sure. But if you’re going to drop the charges, you have to do it first thing Monday. Captain’ll have my head otherwise.”

  “It’s a promise. Call us when the papers come in.”

  The three left, springs in all their steps. Rancor opened the car door with a flourish. “What say we get a spot of lunch? I’m paying.”

  “I thought you’d blown your wad on the frog?”

  Finney blinked. “Frog?”

  “Never mind. No, that was last week’s pay. I got paid again this week. Is this a great country or what?” He helped Charity in. “Olaf’s all right?”

  Charity remembered her last meal there without fondness. “How about Dry Dock? Milton’s? Tide Tables?”

  Rancor gave her an affectionate pat. “You have to get right back on the horse. Or is it a bicycle?” Both men appeared absorbed by the question.

  Olaf’s was pretty empty at that early hour, and they were led to a booth in the garden room. A blast of sun called their attention to the luxuriant bromeliads blooming among the spiky orange terrestrial orchids. Behind them, a bright crimson bougainvillea climbed a trellis. “Bloody Marys for everyone?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Elsa appeared. Summoning her inner strength, Charity ordered the captain’s platter. The waitress paused. “You know that’s a lot of food. Do you want to share it?”

  “No, but thanks for asking.”

  Michael chose the seafood Cobb salad and Rancor the potato-crusted grouper. No one spoke while they ate, Charity dwelling on the felicitous image of Isabella eating her lunch on a prison tray. I hope it’s a double bacon cheeseburger and fries with extra gluten on the side.

  Rancor lay down his fork. “So, where are we?”

  “We’re about to get my company back,” crowed Michael. “I’ll be able to tell Mother all is well.”

  “And hopefully she will convey what she means by a deed, a promise, and an oath.”

  Charity added, “Not to mention what we’re looking for in Cà d’Zan.”

  “You don’t think she meant the business card?”

  “I can’t see how. It was in Ringling’s locked desk. I doubt if she expected us to break into it.”

  Michael sniffed. “That’s for sure. You certainly shocked me.”

  Rancor wasn’t listening. His eyes closed, he muttered to himself, “So how do we get her to spill the beans?”

  Charity coughed. “Rancor, dear, you did it again.”

  “What did I do again?”

  She tapped a finger on the back of his hand. “ ‘Spill the beans?’ Is that the best you can do?”

  He slapped his forehead. “I am out of practice. The sooner we solve this murder thingy the sooner I can get back in the groove…Damn!”

  Charity bestowed a forgiving smile upon him. “Perhaps if you simply shut up?”

  Michael sucked the last bit of drink from his glass, leaving the ice cubes to clank and shuffle. “I shall call her tonight.”

  “Your mother.”

  “Ye
s.” He accepted a second Bloody Mary from Elsa.

  Charity mused. “Do you think she knows who killed Robert Three?”

  “I don’t see how, but she should know when and why Edgar left Sarasota.”

  “You’re assuming his departure had something to do with the murder, but he could have left for an entirely different reason.”

  “Mrs. Penney’s notion about his ‘tender feeling’?” Rancor directed a shrewd look at Michael.

  She nodded. “Hedda was happily married. He knew he had no chance with her. He had to leave Cà d’Zan.”

  Michael put his glass down. “But what about the card? Ringling told Edgar to go to the Ghost Hotel.”

  Rancor shook his head. “That’s not a given. We don’t really know what Ringling meant by his note. But if Edgar did go, he had to have witnessed what happened before or after Robert’s death. He didn’t want to be forced to testify because—”

  “Because Hedda killed him. Has to be.”

  “Why?”

  Charity, busy with her thoughts, didn’t answer right away. After Elsa replaced her drink, she steepled her fingers. “Okay, here’s the story. Edgar followed Hedda on John’s instructions. He saw her murder Robert. Struck with the horror of it, he ran home, packed, and left.”

  “Wouldn’t he have told John?”

  “No—that would have implicated Ringling. He had to keep his name out of it. All of Ringling’s business dealings depended on it—and his finances were already on the skids.”

  “What about the note and Robert’s card then? No one but Ringling could have hidden it in his desk.”

  “True, but that was only to keep Hedda from finding it and realizing that he knew about her deceit. He must have assumed Edgar had taken care of the problem and didn’t ask further.”

  “But this doesn’t make any sense. Why would Hedda kill the man she wanted to do business with?”

  Michael ventured. “Perhaps he was also her lover?”

  “No. Hedda loved Ringling. We know that from a letter she wrote.”

  Rancor put down his glass. “Wait. Biddlesworth.”

  “What about him? Honestly, Rancor, do you have to keep strewing red herrings in the path? Biddlesworth was thrown from the boat and drowned. Period.”

  “Biddlesworth is immaterial, but he is relevant. I’m talking about Hedda’s brother, Calvin Hagen. We’re pretty sure he killed Biddlesworth. Maybe he killed Robert as well.”