The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “At your service.”

  “Well, that’s real friendly of you. Maybe you’d sign a copy of one of them for her—she’d be awful pleased.”

  “Yes, of course, bring it along, happy to, now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  Murray blocked his way. “You know, if you were to have one on hand right now, that would be swell.”

  Rancor peered suspiciously at the mailman, who, with his deadpan face, could have been Buster Keaton’s stand-in. “Let me guess, if I give you a book—”

  “And autograph it.”

  “And sign it, you’ll conveniently find my letter in your truck?”

  “I’d be happy to take another look.”

  “Done.” Rancor went back to Charity’s apartment, retrieved the least dog-eared volume from the bookcase, and took the steps two at a time. Meanwhile, Murray had miraculously located a fat envelope postmarked Bangor, Maine. They solemnly made the exchange. When Rancor returned, Charity said, “What were you doing with Murray? It looked like some sort of handoff.”

  “Your precious mailman, aka Bernie Madoff, held up Aunt Gertrude’s letter for ransom. I had to give him one of my books.” He stopped and gazed upward. “Hey, I just remembered something. An ancestor of mine was a notorious train robber—a Sam Bass. Hmm. I’ll have to ask Auntie G. about him. Maybe I could slip him into a story…”

  “You gave him one of your books? I didn’t know you had any here.”

  “I don’t—why would I have any here? I barely have a change of clothes here. I took your copy of Shades of Yellow. Oh, and thanks.”

  “What? Rancor, you really take the cake.”

  “Another trite phrase. What am I going to do with you?”

  For answer, Charity marched into the bedroom and started throwing Rancor’s things in a garbage bag. He followed her. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking your stuff to Goodwill. I’m sure there are lots of men far more deserving of these jeans than you.”

  He took her hand. “All right, I’m sorry. I’ll get another copy from Michael—and sign it with a very personal note. How’s that?”

  She wasn’t quite ready to forgive him, but she dropped the bag. He kissed her hand. “Now, let’s go see what Gertie has to say.”

  Back in the living room, he opened the envelope. Under a handwritten note lay several pages of dates and squiggles. Rancor read the note.

  Dear Rancor,

  Dr. Allenby—he’s the dentist who took over from old Dr. Wright, and I must say, although young, he’s quite thorough and very respectful. At any rate, he was so kind as to go into his archives to find these papers. I can’t imagine what you want with your grandfather’s records. Seems rather queer to me. At any rate, Dr. Allenby (he’s really quite good, though very young) says he may even have an impression. I think he means a mold of Robert’s teeth, not one of those comedic spectacles. Let me know if this helps—is it for one of your books?

  Love, Aunt Gertrude

  P.S. Alice sends her thanks for the baby blanket. I presume she will write you herself, but one never knows with your generation.

  “Okay, let’s see.” He pored over the papers. After about five minutes, he looked up. “I have absolutely no idea what any of this means.”

  “Here, let me.” Charity contemplated the squiggles and numbers. “It’s no use. I’m going to call Dr. Nash.”

  Rancor scowled. “If you must.”

  The odontologist answered on the first ring. “Oh hello, Ms. Snow! It’s good to hear from you. I mean…er…this case is quite fascinating, isn’t it?” He paused, perhaps remembering the pain of Rancor’s grip. “I have a class this morning, but if you’d like to come up after two o’clock, I’ll take a look.” He gave her directions.

  Three hours later, they drove across the Cortez Bridge and headed east into Bradenton. “There it is, on the right.”

  They turned into the parking lot of a long, pink-stucco building crouched among the palmettos. A young man in scrubs took them down a corridor to a door marked “Boynton Nash, DDS, PhD.” The doctor came around his desk and held a chair out for Charity. She handed him the envelope. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  He skimmed the pages. “Yes, sir, these teeth belong—or rather, could have belonged—to our skeleton. See there”—he pointed—“there’s a ten, and there’s an eleven-millimeter pocket. And some on the right side as well.” He looked wistful. “Too bad the actual teeth are gone. I wonder what the killer did with them? It would confirm the identification.”

  “Are you willing to sign a document that says these are the dental records of the victim?”

  “I can say they are most likely those of the skeleton. You’d need a DNA match to be certain. Who do you think it is, by the way?”

  “Robert Bass III.”

  “Bass? He’s a relative?”

  “My grandfather.”

  “Oh my. I gather you are only now discovering what happened to him?”

  To Charity’s amazement, Rancor’s face crumpled. In a broken voice, he whispered, “Yes.”

  Rancor was subdued the entire ride home. When Charity parked at the police station, he stayed in the car. “You go tell him.”

  Charity nodded and went in. “Captain, may I speak to you?”

  “Sure. What’s going on?”

  “We’ve just come back from seeing Dr. Nash. We showed him Robert Bass’s dental records, and he confirmed that they were probably identical to the skeleton’s.”

  “Probably? He wasn’t a hundred percent certain?”

  Damn. “He said something about DNA.”

  “Charity, you know we don’t have the resources to get DNA from corpses that old.”

  “Why not? They did it for Richard III. And I think a forty-thousand-year-old Neanderthal. Surely we could find some DNA on an eighty-year-old skeleton. Can’t we at least ask the Sarasota CSI lab?”

  “And who would we match it to?”

  “To Rancor Bass.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I see. Is Mr. Bass willing?”

  “I…uh…haven’t talked to him about it yet.”

  “He has to be willing.”

  “I’ll make sure he is.”

  “But what about Biddlesworth? Standish’s report showed he’d been immersed in water for some length of time. If Bass didn’t drown, how would his skeleton show signs of water damage?”

  “I don’t know.” Charity’s high spirits began to sink. “Everything else works though. There must be some explanation.”

  Kelly closed his eyes. “There is one other possibility.”

  “Yes?” She hoped her eagerness wouldn’t put him off.

  “The elevator shaft.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to make a call. Hang on.” He dialed a number. “Leo? Nick Kelly here. Can you do me a favor?…Yes. I want you to meet me at the Chart House…What? No, not for happy hour. This’ll just take a minute…Okay, okay, beer’s on me. See you in ten.” He hung up.

  “Leo?”

  Kelly picked up his hat. “A friend. He works for the Corps of Engineers. Let’s just say I have a hunch.”

  “I’m coming too.”

  “I didn’t expect you not to.”

  She jumped in her car and followed the captain out onto Gulf of Mexico Drive. Rancor didn’t ask where they were going, which—she reflected—was good, since she couldn’t enlighten him. When they reached the Chart House parking lot, a tall man in khakis and thick glasses stood by the pit. “What do you want, Nick? I’m dying of thirst.”

  The policeman pointed down. “Could you check the soil layers in the pit? I want to see if there’s any evidence of water seepage.”

  “Sure thing.” The man jumped down and took a flashlight and a large magnifying glass from his backpack. He examined the walls of the pit for several long minutes. Finally, he stuck out a hand, and Kelly hauled him up.

  “Well?”

  “Indications of standing water for at least a mont
h in the bottom three feet. I’d say when the shaft was abandoned—”

  “Closed. A small boy fell in it and died.”

  “Ah. Well, at some point after that, groundwater must have seeped into the pit.” He pointed at the Chart House. “Hope that’s what you wanted to hear, because by my watch, it’s Miller time.”

  The police chief looked at Charity. “The last hurdle?”

  She took of skip of happiness before realizing the implications of Leo’s findings. “No, not yet. Nash said we need DNA proof that it’s Robert Bass.”

  “All right. I’ll give CSI a call. Then I have to go treat Leo to his pound of flesh.”

  He dialed a number. “Get me Jefferson…Bill? Can you swab someone for DNA this afternoon? Good, I’ll send him down…No, he’s not a person of interest. We’re looking for a match for a John Doe. Yeah. Thanks.” He hung up. “He’s waiting.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Same building as the morgue. Second floor. But Charity”—he held up his hand—“no matter what happens, I’m shutting down the investigation.”

  She almost panicked. “Why? If it is in fact Robert Bass III, we have to find out who killed him.”

  He studied her. “Why the sudden interest?”

  Charity put a supplicating hand on his. “Don’t you see? It’s all connected somehow. Isabella and Finney, and the Bass family and the Ringlings—there’s a thread there. We just have to find it.”

  Kelly leaned on his car. “You want to tell me about it?”

  The implications of what she’d been saying suddenly struck Charity. “I…uh…no, not right now. I will though…as soon as we get the DNA results. Yes. I will.” She backed away. Or maybe later.

  She ran back to the Mini. Rancor still slumped in the passenger seat. “Rancor, wake up!”

  “I am awake.” His voice sounded raspy and clogged.

  Has he been crying? “You have to go give your DNA.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can confirm that the skeleton belongs to your grandfather.”

  “What difference does it make?” He sounded uncharacteristically withdrawn.

  “Don’t you want to find out who killed him?”

  “We know who killed him. Calvin Hagen.”

  “Okay, then, don’t you want to find out why?”

  “Charity, give it up. We’ll never know.”

  She got in the car and started the engine. “You’re pathetic, you know? You brag about how clever you are, you lord it over people—treating them like…like serfs, but inside you’re just a coward. You’re one of those writers who’d rather sit in his cave and imagine the world the way he wants it. You can’t deal with it as it is.”

  “Are you finished?”

  No. “I don’t know.”

  “Charity, it just hit me. I mean, if we’re right, my grandfather was murdered. He never saw his children grow up. Never saw my father hit his first baseball. Never saw Aunt Gertrude in her beautiful yellow gown, all set for her senior prom. Never saw them graduate. Never held me in his arms. If he wasn’t a reprobate after all, do I really want to know?”

  Having no good answer for him, she gripped the steering wheel and focused on the road.

  Rancor kept his head down. In a low voice, he continued. “You’re not wrong about writers—we do relish the ability to make characters act and plots twist the way we want them to. It’s hard to accept that that power doesn’t extend to the real world.”

  She glanced quickly at him. “Is that really why you write? For the power?”

  “No. We write to ease the need, the desire, the lust if you will, to have people moved by those characters and plots—to be affected by our words, to have them color the way our readers look at their lives. We literally ache to share our vision with others.” He paused. “Charity, my father never gave me his blessing. Perhaps my grandfather would have. If we know for sure what happened to him—that it wasn’t his choice to leave us—it makes the loss even more painful.”

  She pulled into the parking lot of the lab and turned off the engine. Drawing his face to hers, she kissed him gently on the forehead. “I don’t agree. His children and grandchildren should have the opportunity to be proud of him. You should try all the harder to redeem his memory.”

  He was silent, then whispered, “Okay.”

  Charity reflected that this was the first time Rancor had allowed a vulnerable side to show. The rush of affection almost crushed her chest. “Let’s go.”

  The lab assistant swiped the inside of Rancor’s cheek and put the swab in an envelope. “We’ll compare this to a sample from Skeleton 59-A’s bones. It’ll be a couple of hours. Can you wait?”

  “N—”

  “Yes.”

  They sat on a hard bench in the waiting room. Rancor kept his head in his hands. Charity twiddled her thumbs. When that grew tedious, she went to finger games. “Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors, and—”

  “Charity, please.”

  The young woman came out. “Dr. Jefferson will see you.”

  They were ushered into a tiny cubicle. A man in the requisite white coat sat at a desk reading a file. He looked at them over his half glasses. “Interesting.”

  Rancor revived some of his old swagger. “Us? Yes, we are.”

  “No, the specimen. His body is a textbook example of a sedentary life and a diet of too much meat and too little fiber.”

  “You can tell that from the DNA?”

  “No, from the bones.” He marked something on the form with a pen. “This is the first time I’ve had a chance to study DNA from old bones. I had a blast.”

  “And?”

  The man took his time, perhaps appreciating the unaccustomed attention. “Um…well. The DNA told us he was a Caucasian of English ancestry, with black hair and brown eyes, tending to plumpness. No diseases at the time of death. What did he die of, by the way?”

  “Murder.”

  “Ah.”

  “Um, Dr. Jefferson, did you…do you have the results of my DNA test?”

  He pulled another sheet of paper closer and read it. “Well, I hope this is what you wanted to hear. It’s a match to the dead man.” He gave Rancor a quizzical look.

  Rancor sat down on a straight chair, his eyes on the floor. Dr. Jefferson stood up and said firmly, “I’ll have the results sent to Captain Kelly.” He indicated the door, and the two went out ahead of him.

  Skirting the marina, Charity took a quick left off Marina Drive. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking you for a drink at Marina Jack’s.”

  “Good.” He laid his head back.

  The waitress had just delivered mojitos when Michael passed by the table, Mrs. Penney on his arm. They were laughing. Michael saw Charity and Rancor and stopped. “Hi there. What have you two been up to?”

  “We found out who the dead man is.”

  “The one in the elevator shaft?”

  “Yes.”

  Deirdre leaned in. “What are you talking about?”

  Michael patted her hand. “I’ll explain later. Who is it?”

  “My grandfather.”

  He whistled. “Well, I hope it’s a relief to know what happened to him.”

  “That’s just it. We don’t.”

  “You know he was stabbed to death.”

  “That’s right, but by whom?”

  Michael took a step back and held his hand up. “Don’t look at me—I haven’t a clue.”

  “Oh, but your mother may.”

  Chapter Twenty

  A Deed, an Oath, and a Promise

  “I am not going to bother Mother again. I’ve got HHR Press back, and we have money in the bank. It would really upset her to trot out past family troubles again. She’s too old for it. I’m too old for it.”

  “Michael, you promised us you would!”

  Finney shut his mouth tight, an expression of mulish obstinacy hardening his flabby features.

  Rancor stood up and stalked
away. Charity looked from Deirdre to Michael. “But if you don’t help us, Rancor will never have closure. Besides, don’t you want to know what part—if any—your grandfather played in it?”

  “Not really.”

  Charity realized that her first impression of Michael Finney had been right on the mark. Here he stood before her in all his mediocrity, without courage, without will, without mettle or purpose. She feared that there would be no resolution for her lover.

  Mrs. Penney let go of Michael’s arm. “Miss Snow, does this have anything to do with Hedda Ringling and Edgar Finney?”

  “We think so.”

  “Well, then, Michael, if your mother has any information on Edgar Finney, you should ask her. It’s important that we have a complete history of the Ringlings.”

  “But Deirdre—”

  “Michael.”

  “Um. Okay. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  She beamed at him. “That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you.”

  So this is how you handle a spineless wimp. “Why don’t you two come over for dinner tomorrow night? You can call her from my place.”

  Michael started to refuse, but Deirdre said, “How delightful. We accept. Say, seven?”

  “Perfect. Michael knows the address.”

  Deirdre gently turned her man in the direction of the door. When they’d gone, Rancor stalked back. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t stand to look at him. What a sheep.”

  “Luckily, he’s latched onto a lioness.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Deirdre wants Edgar Finney’s story. So Michael is going to call his mother.”

  “Good for her, but how do we find out what Mrs. Finney says?”

  “Taken care of. They’re coming for dinner. We can coach him on the questions and listen in on the answers.”

  Rancor kissed her. “Since the estimable Mrs. P. is not within range, you’ll have to do.”

  “Thank you.”

  ****

  The next morning dawned bright and clear. Charity found Rancor on the balcony tossing crumbs of bread down to the beach. A flock of gulls screamed and fought over the tidbits.

  “You’re not supposed to feed the birds.”

  “Why not?”