The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, why don’t you make him responsible for the 1919 White Sox cheating scandal as well?”

  “It’s not that wild a theory. He was a crook. He’s the most likely person to have helped Hedda arrange the deal. He could have been there that night.”

  “Even so, the same question applies to him. Why would he knock off a potential client?”

  “He knocked off Biddlesworth.”

  “Who was his partner, not his client.”

  Rancor waved at the waitress. “I need another drink.”

  Charity sipped hers. “Maybe we should look at Standish’s report again. I only skimmed the summary. There might be something else in it. Did they check Biddlesworth’s dental records?”

  “Yes, remember? He had his wisdom teeth out. So did Robert.”

  “Ah, but I was chatting with Dr. O’Brien, my dentist, the other day.”

  “A cordial relationship with a man who makes his living torturing people? I’m jealous.”

  Charity said dreamily, “He’s really the sweetest thing. He says if I come to him regularly, I’ll be able to keep my teeth longer than I live.”

  “Well, that will be helpful if some forensic dentist in the twenty-fifth century wants to probe the jaw of an ancient sex kitten.”

  She ignored him. “I mentioned the skeleton and how its teeth had been knocked out. He confirmed that, if a professional had extracted a tooth prior to the blunt trauma, he would have removed the root, but that that section of bone would show a different state of decay. He said that a forensic dentist—they’re called odontologists, by the way—”

  “Great—now I can finally finish last Sunday’s crossword puzzle.”

  “—could tell if the victim had had moderate to severe periodontal disease from the amount of bone loss.”

  Rancor threw down his fork. “Wait a minute! The Standish report should show whether the victim had periodontal disease or not, shouldn’t it?”

  Charity was dubious. “I don’t know…Would a physical anthropologist even recognize it, much less put it in his report? Dr. O’Brien says—”

  “Enough with your new flame.”

  To stem the tide of hostilities, Michael interjected mildly, “Standish is an expert. He must have a working knowledge of jaws. If it is in the report, we can check both men’s records—that is, if the police haven’t already done that.”

  “I doubt it. Remember, they settled on Biddlesworth and would have none of Bass.”

  Charity cried, “But you showed them the ring!”

  “Which worked for Biddlesworth just as well as it did for my grandfather.”

  “Wait a minute. What about ring size? Did they measure that?” Michael held his hand up and wiggled his fingers, knocking over his glass.

  Elsa materialized with a sponge and a scowl. “Did you want another drink, sir?”

  “I’m so sorry, no, I’m fine.” He tried to help her but only succeeded in spreading the puddle far enough to drip into Charity’s lap.

  “Michael!”

  “Oh dear, oh dear.”

  While everyone else scrambled to blot the spill, Rancor took the opportunity to roar with laughter. Olaf walked over, looked at the mess, and joined him.

  He was still laughing as they walked across the street to the Planet offices and Charity’s car. “I’m going down to see our good police chief.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to see a man about a—”

  “Dog?”

  “No. A finger.”

  Charity pulled him out of the driver’s seat and got in. “We’re coming with you. In case the papers have arrived.”

  “Oh yes,” Rancor said with a malicious grin. “We do want to free the radiant Isabella as soon as possible.”

  “Before those salivating policemen take advantage of her.” Michael grinned back at him.

  Rancor knit his brow in a display of manly concern. “Perhaps I should keep an eye on her after she’s released. She may be a flight risk.”

  Charity took his arm. “No, you’ll be busy this evening. Besides, if she does run, she’ll run to Holdridge.”

  “Gawd, what does she see in him? The man’s a prat.”

  “A useful tool?”

  Michael added, “Or the other way around?”

  “Nah. He’s not that bright.”

  “Maybe you’re right. She offered him a share—”

  “And,” said Rancor with a superior air, “he would jump at it, since his books sell almost as well as an epithalamium published the day after the annulment.”

  “Run that by us again?”

  “What? Annulment?” When the other two leaned toward him with undisguised menace, he said quickly, “Epithalamium. Poem written for the bride and groom. One of fifty types of poems. I can list them all.” He took a deep breath. “Limericks, haiku, idylls, rondeaux—”

  “That will do, Bass. Can we get back to the problem at hand?”

  “Yes. The problem being, how do we keep the little tykes from stealing any more manuscripts?”

  “Good question. Michael?”

  “Once I get HHR Press back, I’ll publish an article detailing their activities. No respectable firm will deal with either one. And we’ll get Atalanta to blab about it to all her friends in the Manhattan literary circles.”

  Rancor sighed happily. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll be reduced to pilfering the memoirs of suburban housewives from vanity presses.”

  When they reached the police station, Captain Kelly was gone for the day. Frank greeted them. “Hey, you’re just in time. The Seattle real estate lawyers faxed the settlement papers.”

  “Wow, this must be why those guys get the big bucks. I wonder if HHR pays their retainer too?”

  Michael nodded miserably. “Isabella said it was only fair. How ironic that I have to pay them to get my company back.” Frank gave the papers to Michael, who took them gingerly, as though they burned his fingers. He looked at Rancor. “Should I tear them up?”

  “No! Keep them. Knowing Isabella, she’ll have a second copy. This has the cover letter stating that the sale is null and void. You can whip it out if she tries any funny business.”

  “Okay. Is it all right to drop the charges against Isabella then?”

  “Sure.”

  They signed the forms and waited in the lobby for Isabella. It took half an hour for her to appear. Somehow, she’d managed to change into an ivory linen jacket dress, the Chanel pearls looping in carefree ropes down her back. Rancor nudged Charity and whispered, “Do you suppose she got Bobby to retrieve a fresh ensemble from the hotel?”

  “Shh.”

  Isabella said nothing to them but took Bobby’s arm and walked, head high, out to the street. A taxi pulled up, and the young policeman handed her in. She waved languidly at Rancor, then spoke to the driver, who sped off.

  The phone at the desk rang. Frank picked it up. “Sergeant Ingersoll, Longboat Key Police Department. Yes? Miss Voleuse? She’s just been released…No…you don’t have to send it…Sure, no problem.”

  Rancor cocked his head. “Was that Holdridge Wheelock? Did he finally return her call?”

  “Uh uh. Some other guy.” He checked his log. “A Mr. Guttersnipe.” He guffawed. “What a moniker!”

  “It’s not his real name. So what did he want?”

  “Said he’d secured bail money for her, but since the charges have been dropped, there’s no need for it.” He glanced at the phone. “Funny. He sounded awful gloomy—kinda like that donkey in Winnie the Pooh.”

  Michael piped up. “Eeyore.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Despondent? Despairing? World-weary?” Rancor smiled. “That’s our Bernie. Hmm. When Holdy didn’t come through, Isabella must have decided to cadge the money from him.”

  Charity shrugged. “He’s given her money before.” She took Frank aside. “Will the chief be in tomorrow?”

  “No, ma’am, he always takes Monday off to go fishing with his fathe
r. He’ll be in on Tuesday.”

  “We’d like to see him.”

  “No problem. What’s it about?”

  “Teeth and fingers.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Teeth and Fingers

  “The case is closed, Charity.”

  Rancor pushed in front of her. “Correction, Kelly, the case is cold. Not closed.”

  “Funny, here I thought only the police could decide whether to reopen an investigation.”

  “But, Chief,” Charity pleaded, “I need to tidy up a few loose ends for my article. I only want to have another look at Standish’s report.”

  The police captain relented but refused to look at Rancor. “All right. For you, Charity. Frank! Get me the Standish report on the Chart House skeletons please.”

  “And…er…could we have the autopsy report as well? From the medical examiner?”

  “Yes, yes. Now get out of my office.”

  They took their spoils to the interrogation room. Rancor chose Edwards’ report, and Charity picked up Standish’s.

  Rancor finished first. “Looks like Edwards measured all the long bones—tibia, femur, etc., but not the fingers. So we can’t use ring size to identify him.”

  Charity said glumly, “And Standish found no evidence of any other bone fractures prior to death, except for his finger.”

  “Looks like the only things left to check are the teeth.”

  “I’m afraid so.” She read on. “The teeth were knocked out by blunt force—”

  “Say, I just thought of something.” He riffled through Edwards’ report. “Yes, I thought I read this. They found some teeth fragments with the victim.” He read further, his frown deepening. “Damn. Not large enough to help in identification.”

  “Must have been a real haymaker to do that much damage.”

  “With a pretty heavy object. A baseball bat maybe.” Rancor put his chin in his hand. “That eliminates Hedda as a suspect, you know.”

  “How so?”

  “It’d take a powerful person to do it. A man.”

  “Or a woman if she used some kind of leverage.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sure Hedda always carried her trusty crowbar around in her purse.”

  “You’re still fixed on Calvin Hagen then?”

  He nodded. “The idea has a certain rhythmic charm.”

  “Okay.” Charity closed the folder. “We’re going to have to talk the captain into calling in a forensic dentist.”

  “Can’t we just hire one?”

  “With whose money?”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll do that while you call Aunt Gertrude.”

  “Oh dear, she’s going to think I’m trying to elbow my way into her will.” He checked. “Unless I’m already in it, in which case she’ll cut me out. She’s a crusty old bird.”

  “Nonetheless, we need your grandfather’s dental records.”

  “You really believe she can lay her hands on them?”

  “I haven’t even met the lady, and yet I’m positive she can.”

  Rancor pulled out a cell phone. Charity immediately felt around in her bag for hers. “Ah, there it is.” She eyed Rancor with suspicion. “Since when did you acquire a smartphone?”

  “This? Oh, I…uh…borrowed it…from Michael.”

  “What happened to that disposable one you had in Paris?”

  “Used up all the minutes. And anyway it only accepted euros.”

  Charity’s cell buzzed. “Hi, Michael…You think you left it where? Sure, I’ll call the restaurant.” She put her phone in an inside pocket of her purse and zipped it shut. “That’s it. We’re stopping at CVS for a prepaid phone.”

  His eyes lit up. “How generous of you.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll just go outside and make that call, shall I? You tackle Kelly.”

  When they met again in the parking lot, Charity was smiling. “He’s such a dear. He ranted a while, then got on the horn. A Dr. Nash will meet us this afternoon at the morgue to take a look at Exhibit A.”

  “And dental records for Robert Bass the Third—together with his schedule of vaccinations and school grades—will arrive by post in two days.”

  “Post?”

  “Gertrude despairs of the return of the pony express and has resigned herself to trusting the post office with her precious correspondence. Unfortunately, she always springs for heavy insurance and insists the recipient sign for the envelope.” He patted her shoulder. “We’ve done well. Perhaps we should repair to a local tavern to partake of some light refreshment while we wait for the dentist.”

  “What about Michael?”

  “Michael hinted that he would like some time off from our exertions to get to know Mrs. Penney better. They are taking a scenic cruise of Sarasota Harbor on Marina Jack today.”

  “How romantic!”

  “They are sweet together. Not like us.”

  A pang hit Charity right under her left center rib. “What…what do you mean?”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her hard. “We, my dear, are brazen, bawdy, and hot.”

  “Th-that’s…okay, then.” She felt a little shaky.

  After a filling lunch of spaghetti and meatballs at Ciao d’Italia, they drove to the morgue. Kelly arrived at the same time, accompanied by a pudgy man with sandy hair. The police chief greeted them. “Charity. Mr. Bass. This is Boynton Nash, from the LECOM School of Dental Medicine. He’s a forensic odontologist.”

  Rancor took the opportunity to nod sagely.

  Kelly turned to his companion. “Boynton, this is Charity Snow, reporter for the Longboat Key Planet, and Rancor Bass.”

  Nash held out a hand to Charity, his eyes round with admiration. “Ms. Snow, it is a real pleasure.”

  A woman in a lab coat opened the door. “The subject is in Room Five. Would you come this way?”

  Nash gestured to Charity to precede them. “After you, Ms. Snow.” She walked ahead, fully cognizant of Nash’s appreciation and Rancor’s displeasure, and enjoying every minute of it. She swished her braid.

  They entered a frigid room lined with steel cabinets. The skeleton lay on a table in a large basin. Charity surveyed the remains, feeling slightly sick. “Why is he in a tub?”

  “Only way to hold him together.”

  Mr. Nash accepted a pair of gloves from the assistant and began to examine the bones. “Male adult, fairly young—no sign of osteoporosis. Hmm. Someone knocked out all his teeth.” He looked up. “Boxer?”

  “No, we think it was deliberate, to make identification impossible.”

  “Ah, so he was murdered?”

  “Stabbed to death. The physical anthropologist who examined him—”

  “Standish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prick.”

  Rancor agreed. “Right on the money.”

  “Nevertheless.” Kelly cut off the banter before it could take a turn toward the tasteless. “Standish set the year of death between 1930 and 1935.”

  “Mm hmm.” Nash probed the jaw. “Wisdom teeth removed much earlier. Signs of moderate periodontal disease.”

  “You can tell that?”

  “Look here at the upper left section of the maxillary. No soft tissue left of course, but where the gum receded you can see the topography is asymmetrical, indicating bone loss. Patient probably had some deep pockets—tens and elevens.”

  “Tens and elevens?”

  “A measurement of the distance between the original gum line and how much it has receded.” He stood up. “That’s about all I can tell you. Do you have any dental records to match?”

  Kelly handed him a file. “These belong to Rodney Biddlesworth. He’s the most likely prospect.”

  Nash looked at them. “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong guy then. Biddlesworth had no periodontal problems at all.”

  “But everything else fits.” The police chief’s voice rose half an octave. “Wisdom teeth gone—”

  Charity said mildly, “A lot of people have their wisdom
teeth taken out.”

  Kelly faced Nash. “Right age, placed in Sarasota in the correct time frame, disappeared without a trace, water in his lungs, ring found that matches his graduation year and college—”

  Rancor interrupted. “Unless the date of the inscription—1931—refers not to the class year but to the date of his marriage. Robert Bass III eloped in 1931.”

  Nash looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s one other possible identity for the skeleton.”

  “Well, did your second man have periodontal disease?”

  “We’ll find out in a couple of days. I’m having his records mailed here.”

  Nash took off the lab coat and hung it on a peg. “If that’s all you’ve got for me, I’m going to head back to school. I have classes all this week.”

  “Oh, dear. Can we bring the records up to you when we get them?” Charity tried to keep the frustration out of her voice, without much success.

  He smiled at her. “Sure.” He took a card from his wallet and gave it to her. “Call and leave a message when you have the records.”

  “Thank you so much, Dr. Nash.”

  He hesitated. “Um, Ms. Snow, if you’re…uh…free Saturday night, we’re having a…um…faculty party and—”

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Sorry, Dr. Nash. The lady has another commitment.” From the anguished expression on the dentist’s face, Rancor was probably squeezing rather hard.

  ****

  Rancor waited by the mailbox for a day and a half. When the mailman came up the walk with letters in his hand on Thursday afternoon, he stopped just short of tackling him. “What’ve you got for me, Murray?”

  The old man wiped the sweat off his brow. “And who might you be?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  Murray, a postman of the old school, straightened and pulled in his considerable gut. “It makes a difference to the United States Postal Service—and by extension, Homeland Security. Sir. I can’t give you mail to which you are not entitled.”

  “Do you have a letter addressed to Rancor Bass, care of Charity Snow?”

  His adversary slowly and deliberately leafed through the pile, lifting each envelope up and peering at it. “Don’t see it here. Say, are you the Rancor Bass that writes those books my wife devours?”