Before he could dial, Rancor held up a hand. “Wait! A third person’s DNA? You mean blood?”
“No, not blood. Skin cells. On the handle. Probably from a finger. Just a smidgen, so he didn’t notice it until now.”
Rancor turned to Charity. “Must be Calvin’s.”
“I…guess.” She pressed her lips together.
“What’s the problem?”
“I still don’t understand why he would kill his…what’s that called? His mark?”
Rancor paced. “I’ve got it. Hedda. She wanted to stop Calvin…Or—”
“No. She wanted to sell the hotel, remember? Maybe Calvin was horning in on it, and she killed him.”
Michael squeaked, “Killed her own brother?”
Rancor slammed a fist into his palm. “That doesn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Wrong body.”
“Hmm.”
“And anyway, then there would be DNA from four different people.”
Charity looked at Jefferson. “Can you tell if it’s a man or woman’s DNA?”
“Sure. I’ll only be a minute.”
Before they’d even settled on the lobby’s hard plastic chairs he came back. “Woman’s.”
Rancor halted. “Dr. Jefferson, can you do us one more favor?”
The technician looked at his watch. “Depends.”
“If we brought a sample of something that belonged to Hedda Ringling, could you compare it to the DNA on the knife?”
“Hedda Ringling? As in, John Ringling’s wife?”
“The very one.”
“Wow. Okay, get it here by eight a.m. tomorrow, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Deirdre had come through and met them at the Ringling entrance with a handkerchief tied in a neat bundle inside a plastic bag. “No one will miss it. It’s one of twelve from her dresser. I wrapped some of the hair from her hairbrush in it. One or the other should do the trick.”
The following day, they once again sat or paced in the lab’s lobby. Jefferson opened the glass door and beckoned to them. “Want to see it?”
Michael held back, but Charity and Rancor followed him. “What are we looking at?”
“On one side, you’ll see the DNA from the strand of hair on Hedda Ringling’s hairbrush that you brought me. The other came from the cells on the knife handle.”
Charity didn’t want to admit she was completely at sea, but Rancor, naturally, had no such scruples. “A match, right?”
Jefferson nodded.
For some reason, the news left Charity unsettled. Have we solved the case? Or just made it murkier? “Okay. Thanks, Dr. Jefferson.”
As they reached her car, the doctor came outside. “Don’t you want the evidence back?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Rancor took the envelope from him and popped it in the trunk. “Michael, I propose you pick up Deirdre, and we’ll go to lunch. We need to see where we are.”
They met at the Dry Dock. The hostess led them to a table in the corner overlooking the bay. They ordered beer. “I do not want pizza again,” announced Charity with little hope.
“Aw, come on.”
“Me neither,” said Michael firmly.
“Okay, fine. I’m getting lobster then.”
Deirdre spoke up. “Who’s paying?”
Charity batted her lashes at Rancor. “It’s Dutch treat. He can have whatever he wants.”
He changed his order to soup and a half sandwich, and the rest of them chose seafood salads. When the waitress had gone, Rancor put his hands on the table. “I think we have all the answers now. I propose we take it to Kelly.”
“Oh, really? Do you care to confide in us?” Charity couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Sure.” He gave her a look that said, “It’s not rocket science after all.” “All right, it’s the spring of 1933. Work has been on hold at the Ghost Hotel since November of 1926.”
“So the place is derelict.”
“Yes, but John Ringling hasn’t given up on resuming construction. He refuses to listen to any suggestions that he sell the place or knock it down.”
Charity put in, “However, Ringling needs money desperately. He’s remarried after his beloved Mable’s death, to a socialite who expects to live in the style to which she’s accustomed. She has a brother who—”
“As in almost every family, gets himself in regular trouble. According to Deirdre, Hedda wanted to sell the hotel but couldn’t convince Ringling. Deirdre says—”
“I’m sitting right here, Rancor.”
He ignored her. “Deirdre says, the couple had several major arguments on the subject. So—”
“I said no such thing.”
“At any rate, I’m guessing Hedda’s brother Calvin took his sister aside and offered to find a buyer. She agreed on the condition that he keep his inquiries confidential. Okay, now we bring in my grandfather, Robert Bass III.”
“Another one of those brothers whose activities are a constant thorn in his family’s buttocks.”
He gave Charity a dismissive wave. “On the contrary, he tries as best he can to succeed, to prove his worth to his demanding, inflexible, unsupportive father. He secretly goes to Florida—”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where the land deals are. Do you honestly think his father intended to build a hotel in Nebraska? No, he sent Robert there to molder, but our enterprising lad was too smart for that. He turned his fine Roman nose—a family trait—to the land of sunshine and soon-to-be millionaires. As the brochures—mostly written by John Ringling—all proclaimed in large capital letters, Sarasota would be a booming metropolis within a decade, home to a majority of Americans—at least the ones with wads of cash. A place where a guy could make a fast buck—”
“Or spend it. Remember, they learned he was in Florida because he had the gall to send his expense invoices home.”
“All right, all right. Perhaps my rhetoric is getting away from me. Spend it indeed, but in pursuit of a good cause. Robert went looking for property on which to build a luxury Bass hotel and make his name a household word—at least in the Bass household.”
Deirdre put her glass down. “So he arrives in Sarasota. How does he find out about the Ghost Hotel?”
“Doesn’t matter. Hedda approaches him—”
“You mean Calvin.”
“Yes, of course. Hedda ran in circles much too ethereal to make the acquaintance of a young real estate guru.” He broke off to finish his beer. “For his part, Robert would naturally be too modest to broadcast his identity as a scion of the noble house of Bass.”
“Naturally.”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I can just see Hagen, the cunning salesman, his oily, purring voice reeling my grandfather in. Oh yes, he’d say, he was a big player in the Sarasota land scene, his eyes flitting hither and yon. In fact, he would whisper, clutching at Robert’s sleeve, he knew of a hotel that would only need some minor work to finish, one he could get for him at a bargain basement price. Can I have another beer?”
The waitress set a tray down and passed around their meals. Charity batted back Rancor’s attempt to move a hefty portion of her salad onto his plate.
“Go on.”
“So Hagen arranges to meet Bass at the hotel.”
“Wait a minute. What about Hedda? We know she was there from the DNA on the knife.”
“To be precise, we only know she touched the knife. She could have found it, or the killer gave it to her.”
“But that means Calvin didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Touch the knife. Only three people were in contact with the knife. We’ve identified the other two.”
“Hagen could have wiped his prints off.”
Michael said firmly, “In that case, the other prints would have been obliterated as well.”
This stumped Rancor, but only for an instant. “We know what a chiseler Hagen was. He probably set Hedda up to take the fal
l.”
“So where does Finney come in? His blood was on the knife as well.”
“Um.” Rancor took a quick bite of sandwich.
Deirdre spoke up. “None of this tells us why Mr. Bass was killed. It doesn’t sound like it was in anyone’s interest for him to die.”
Dead silence greeted this remark.
Finally, Charity said, “Maybe we’ll never know.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Well, at least we know what happened to your grandfather, Rancor.”
Manifestly dissatisfied, Rancor finished his sandwich. “I guess it’ll have to do.”
The waitress brought their check. Rancor patted Charity’s cheek. “You’ve got this, right?”
Sigh.
Deirdre said comfortably, “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that we agreed to split it. Mr. Bass, your share is fifteen dollars.” She held her hand out. Slowly, he drew out his wallet.
Charity noticed it had several credit cards and a bulging wad of bills. “You rat!”
“What? It’s payday. I was saving this to buy a trinket for you.” He blew her a kiss.
“Right. Admit it, you’re the biggest tightwad on the planet. You’ve had me believing you’re two steps from the poorhouse door and—”
“I have been. If it weren’t for timely infusions from Aunt Gertrude, I’d have had to survive on your paltry largesse for the occasional morsel of food tossed under the table.”
“And your travel bills.”
“Those? They were courtesy of Arlo.”
Deirdre broke in. “Before you two come to blows, why don’t we adjourn to your place, Charity, and continue the discussion?”
The other three were amenable.
As they walked into the apartment, Rancor’s phone rang. “Oh, hello, Aunt Gertrude.”
The old lady’s voice skirled through the wire like a banshee’s. The others could hear her easily. “Is that you, Rancor, dear?”
“Yes, Auntie. What is it?”
“Well, a letter addressed to you came in the mail. Very peculiar. I thought your mailing address was that one in New York, although I can’t imagine why you keep a flat in that horrible city. You did promise to come back to Camden.”
“Someday soon, Auntie. What about the letter?”
But Gertrude had gone off on a tangent. “Did you give this address to someone? You really shouldn’t do that—who knows what kind of riffraff will turn up at my door. And with Orville still working such long hours and Rebecca so far away now—you know they bought that house up near Penhallow? Oh, by the way, it’s an international letter. Postmarked London.”
Rancor’s eyes widened. “London? Who’s it from?”
“A B. Abernethy. I didn’t know you knew anyone in London. We do still have British cousins, though. There’s Amelia Bass, and her sister, Theoline. They never married, you know. Very sad. Why—”
“Auntie? Could you hang on a minute?”
“What? Not too long. This is long distance, dear. I’m not made of money.”
Charity reflected that some quirks definitely ran in the family. Rancor held his hand over the receiver. “It’s a letter from Beatrice. I wonder if she discovered another ghost?”
Charity whispered urgently, “Ask her to read it.”
“Auntie? Could you read it to me?”
“Oh dear, no. That would not only be wrong, but I’m sure it’s illegal.”
“I think it’s all right if I ask you to do it.”
“Well, I could send it first class mail if you’re in such a hurry.”
“Auntie, letters always go first class mail.”
“Well, then what’s the point in calling it first class? I mean, that’s just silly. There’s first class and cabin class—no, that’s on a ship. Did I tell you I made the crossing on the Queen Mary when I was ten? I’m sure I did. Your mother is beginning to cut me off halfway through almost every reminiscence I attempt. She has the temerity to tell me I’ve told it before. Well, I say, if it’s a good story once, it’s a good story a thousand times. But no, Clara has to…” The rest of her rant gradually petered out into low grumbles.
“Auntie, I think your stories are marvelous. I never tire of hearing them. In fact”—he winked at Charity—“I’ve used some of them in my books. No, I didn’t tell you before in case you didn’t approve.”
“But Rancor, isn’t that plagiarism?”
“Er…I changed them just enough…I assure you, no one would recognize you.”
“Well, that’s all right then.”
“So, would you mind reading us—I mean me—the letter? It could be important.”
“I suppose so.” The screechy voice rose another decibel. “It says, ‘My dear Mr. Bass.’ Oh my stars, maybe this is to my brother. I’d better check…”
“Auntie, I am acquainted with the person who wrote the letter. It is definitely addressed to me.”
“If you’re sure. You know how your father gets when his privacy is violated. Why, the other day I said something completely innocuous related to his secretary, and he went off on me like some Mr. Hyde. It was quite upsetting. Now, where was I?”
“Reading the letter to me.”
“Right. ‘My dear Mr. Bass, I am so glad you gave me your address, as I have come across something in which I’m sure you’re interested. I ventured up to the attic once more (in the company of Irma and Frederick to be safe) and found—in addition to another bullet hole—a second letter from Hedda Ringling to Mistinguett. It had somehow fallen into a crack in the floorboards. It seems to be earlier than the other one we looked at.’ My, this sounds enthralling, Rancor. Bullet holes!”
“It’s for a new book, Aunt Gertrude.”
“Ah, I see. I shall continue.” A paper rustled. “ ‘Here is her letter in full. “My dearest Jeanne…” ’ ”
“Jeanne! Who the hell is Jeanne?”
“Rancor! Your language!”
“Yes, but didn’t the cover note say the letter was to Mistinguett?”
“I declare, young man, your manners do not reflect well on your upbringing. I’ve a good mind to write a stinging note to Clara on this subject. I—”
Charity whispered to Rancor, “Remember? Mistinguett’s real name was Jeanne Bourgeois.”
“What? Oh.” He spoke into the receiver. “I apologize, Auntie. I forgot myself. Do go on.”
“Well…I will. But I’m greatly disappointed in you.” After a pause heavy with censure, she went on. “ ‘It has been absolutely horrible since we returned from Paris. John has been in a foul mood what with all the money problems. I did as you advised and refused to lend him any more. Do you know, he actually raised a fist and shook it at me! I was terrified. The servants (except for Lucy, my maid, of course) all seem to take his side. I think they’re still loyal to Mable’s memory―’ ”
Rancor raised his eyebrows at Deirdre who nodded with satisfaction.
“ ‘—all except for E. He has been my champion, my knight in shining armor’—my, what flowery language. I…just a minute…”
The listeners waited. Rancor finally said, “Auntie?”
“I’m here. I confess I felt rather warm all of a sudden. Now I’ve dabbed my forehead with a touch of lavender water I’m all right. Let’s see, where was I? Yes. ‘…my knight in shining armor throughout this marriage. But, Jeanne, the most awful thing has happened. Yesterday, I asked him to come to my room. I wanted to consult with him on my intentions for the hotel—remember, I told you Calvin had found a potential buyer? Before I could speak he…oh, it’s so hard to write, but if I don’t get it off my chest, I’ll go mad. Thank God I can write to you, my dear. He professed his undying love and asked me to run away with him! I admit I was flattered, but still, it was a shocking imposition. Needless to say, I ordered him out of the room.’ ” They heard an outraged squeak from Gertrude. “Very properly so. My heavens, the impudence of this man—”
“Auntie? Is that the end of the letter?”
“Wha
t? No. There’s another paragraph. If you’ll be quiet, I’ll finish reading.”
“Yes, Auntie. Thank you, Auntie.”
“She goes on. ‘Missy, what do I do? He was my only friend. What with this new hitch in our plans, I had been about to ask him to accompany me tomorrow night, but now I must try to avoid him. Fortunately, John trusts him implicitly, so I’m not worried that he will suspect E’s attachment. We shall be sailing to Europe this spring, and you and I will be able to have a cozy chat or two. Your friend, Hedda.’ ” Gertrude raised her voice another decibel. “There’s a third page. Do you want me to read that as well?”
“Yes, please.”
“All right, but I expect a dollar in the mail to cover such an egregious amount of time on the telephone. I believe this is from the sender, Mr. Abernethy.”
“Mrs. Abernethy.”
“What? Oh, it’s from a lady? Well, I never…”
“Auntie?”
“All right, but I disapprove of these long-distance romances. Most inappropriate.” She began to read. “ ‘My dear Mr. Bass—I do hope you keep us informed as you unravel this mystery. We shall be partners in sleuthing! Yours, Beatrice Abernethy.’ She has written a postscript. ‘P.S. Lindsay and Sylvester have been models of decorum since their foray into my attic. They bring me flowers once a week (neatly cut from my garden and wrapped in wet newsprint like fish and chips) and even mowed the patch of grass in my back yard. Do visit when you can. And bring your delightful friend Miss Snow. We had such an amusing tea.’ That’s it.”
Rancor and Charity exchanged a knowing smile. “She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?”
Deirdre broke the spell. “Rancor, could you ask your Aunt if the letter from Hedda is dated?”
“Good idea. Auntie, is there a date on the letter?”
“Just a minute…Why, it’s just a few days ago. My, the international mail has really become quite efficient. In my day, it would take weeks to receive a letter, and if it were a package, well…”
“I meant on the letter Beatrice quotes.”
“Oh, let me see…Yes, I didn’t notice it before. February 9, 1933.”
“Aunt Gertrude, you are a peach. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
The Pit and the Passion Page 31