The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “Yes.”

  ****

  “Oh look, Isabella’s landed on her feet.” Rancor shook open the paper. “Come in off the balcony, Charity. I don’t want to have to shout.”

  She appeared, mug in hand. “Shh. Do you have to yell? Mr. Flibbet in 1G is giving me the fish eye again.” Her cheeks reddened. “You don’t think he can hear…hear…”

  “Our boisterous lovemaking? I always make sure to leave the windows open. Old man, alone, bored. He deserves a little diversion, even if it’s only vicarious.”

  Charity knew it was useless to remonstrate, so she asked, “What did you want?”

  “Here on page six. Isabella was seen at Per Se—for you gals from Alabama, that’s the ‘in’ restaurant in New York City…Where was I?” He ran a finger down the text. “Ah, here it is. She was seen with—I’m quoting here—‘the prominent writer Bernard Guttersnipe.’ ” He closed his eyes. “Funny, I don’t remember Bernie being part of the Manhattan party scene.”

  Charity looked over his shoulder. “He seems to be the center of attention now.”

  “Who wouldn’t, with Miss Arm Candy fawning over you?” He read on. “Oh my God. You know what they’re celebrating?”

  “What?”

  “The release of Bernie’s new book, Love Among the Hominids: a Prehistoric Romance.”

  “So?”

  “Doesn’t sound like ‘modern progressive’ fiction, does it?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  He threw the paper down. “It’s not the drivel Bernie usually writes because it isn’t. It’s a clever, complex murder mystery set in the Pleistocene Era. It was originally entitled Dead before Her Time.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Because it’s my book. Love Among the Hominids was my subtitle.”

  Charity dropped into the other chair. “Bernard Guttersnipe’s the thief?”

  “Not his real name,” Rancor said absently. “Yes, it looks that way.” He brooded. “Makes sense when you think about it. We know Holdy’s incapable of strategic thinking, and Isabella—well, she’s smart, but her beauty’s really her greatest weapon. They couldn’t have pulled it off without someone wielding a Machiavellian-grade intellect.”

  “Guttersnipe?”

  “Guttersnipe.”

  “But he and Wheelock weren’t on speaking terms.”

  “Or so Isabella would have us believe. Now I think of it, neither Bernie nor Holdy ever mentioned a quarrel.”

  Charity put down her coffee and reached for the pitcher of juice. She halted, pitcher in hand. “Wait. Sangria. Remember when you talked to Wheelock at the Columbia? He was clearly surprised to learn about IV Enterprises.”

  Rancor took the pitcher from her and poured himself a glass. “True. So I was right—Holdy was a mere pawn in a ruthless game played by Isabella and Bernie.”

  “Bernie as the puppet master?”

  “Yes. Remember, he called just after we sprang Isabella from the pokey. He—not Holdridge—was the one she begged to bail her out. The boss.”

  “He was also the only one who didn’t respond to your request for help. Atalanta and even Wheelock pitched in—”

  “Or else, in the case of Ms. Heartsleeve, exhibited a hitherto undemonstrated mental acuity by tipping us off to the real culprit.”

  “Huh? Oh, right, I’d forgotten—didn’t she tell you to consider authors rather than publishers?”

  Rancor snapped his fingers. “That’s what she meant by ‘lusting after the pie.’ I do believe she was trying to hint at Bernie’s complicity.”

  Charity picked up her phone. “What are we going to do?”

  “Do? Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “For now. Trust me, my love, I have the matter well in hand. We’ll just cast a wider net.”

  ****

  “I’m going to miss Michael.” Rancor poured the pink concoction from the blender into a highball glass and handed it to Charity. “But probably Deirdre more. Your Singapore Sling, my lady.”

  She took it and they walked out to the balcony. Sunset was in full swing, and a throng of onlookers stood on the beach below them gazing toward the western horizon, where carmine missiles pierced the hyacinth clouds and streaked across the sapphire sky. “It was so sweet, the way he proposed right there in the library at Cà d’Zan.”

  “It would have been more romantic if she hadn’t been giving a lecture to forty-five Girl Scouts at the time.”

  “I disagree. The way he stood up in the back and asked her to marry him.” She sighed. “It was like those proposals on the Jumbotron.”

  “If you ever do that to me, I’ll turn you down.”

  “Not to worry,” she said comfortably. “You’ve already proposed.”

  “I did? Did you accept?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Any plans to do so in the near future?”

  She paused. “I’m thinking about it.”

  He pulled her onto his lap. “How can you refuse to marry the great Rancor Bass, slayer of dragons? I’m a catch.”

  “What do you mean, dragons?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Atalanta is suing Bernie, Isabella, and Holdridge for ten million dollars. Considering she hired the best lawyer in Manhattan and has the backing of twenty other authors who were treated shabbily by the trio, we think she has a good chance to win.”

  “Are you involved?”

  “I’m the star witness.”

  “Well, we’d better get married before you testify. I don’t want to have to grapple with any more rabid packs of admiring fans than you have already.”

  “If you mean Jane, she’s invited me to speak at her book club.”

  “See?” Charity sipped her drink. “It’s begun already.”

  “I’m planning to talk about my work in progress.”

  “You mean the ghost story anthology?”

  “Oh, that? I…er…sent it off last week. George was so astounded he forgot to ask what, if any, contribution you’d made.”

  “You didn’t.” Charity’s mouth fell open. “Tell me you didn’t take full credit.”

  “I beg your pardon. As far as I can tell, you have been in the bath since the denouement of our little tale. Someone had to put pen to paper. Or stylus to tablet…Gosh, I just realized civilization has come full circle and reverted to Sumerian technology…Where was I?”

  “Selling me out.”

  He had the effrontery to be smug. “Arlo loved it. He says it will be released next month and wants us to come up to New York for a grand gala to celebrate its launch.” He looked her up and down, a skeptical frown on his handsome face. “Do you even have a dress that isn’t a hand-me-down from Eloise or Pippi Longstocking?”

  “I have a ball gown from the Longboat Ladies’ Sewing Circle production of La Traviata. Would that do?”

  “I’m guessing that’s what they’re wearing in Tara this year.” He leaned away from her fist. “But it will have to do.”

  ****

  Later that evening, Rancor slid from the bed and began picking up the clothes scattered willy-nilly across the floor. As he laid a neatly folded shirt on the quilt, she reached out and traced the thin white line that ran from his nipple to his stomach. “You never told me how you got this scar.”

  “That’s because I don’t want to.”

  “Come on, Rancor. I’ve told you all my secrets.”

  “So what? There’s nothing embarrassing in them—unless you count that blunder with the ducklings.”

  “We don’t have to revisit that right now. Come on, give.”

  “All right, but if I see a lip twitch or an eye twinkle, I’ll spank you.”

  “Oh, sure. If you’re trying to bribe me, it can wait until after your confession.”

  Rancor paused.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m thinking there are hidden depths in you. I like them. Okay, here’s the story. You wouldn’t know from my present calm, mature, manly demea
nor that I was a bit of a daredevil in my youth.” He ignored the snicker. “As you know, I grew up in Maine. Winters being what they are there, I learned to ice skate at a young age. I was—naturally—exceedingly good. So one snowy December afternoon, my sister and a cousin and I decided to go skating. It had been unseasonably warm for the prior two weeks, but the night before we’d had a hard freeze, so Geoffrey and Rose and I went to check on the ice in the local pond. Rose thought it was a little thin, but, being the youngest and the most intrepid—”

  “You mean foolish.”

  “You choose your adjective, and I’ll choose mine. At any rate, I insisted we try it. I pushed Geoffrey out to the middle and proceeded to skate rings around him. Which apparently softened the ice enough that he broke through. I rushed to his aid…and fell in as well.” Here he turned away from Charity, but she could tell from the deep purple color of his ears that he was blushing furiously. He mumbled something.

  “What was that?”

  “Rose saved us.”

  “Your sister pulled you out.”

  “She pulled both of us out. At the same time. And carried us to the bank.” He turned, an agonized look on his face. “I never, ever lived it down.”

  Charity somehow managed not to laugh but only by dint of kissing Rancor passionately. Once she was sure he had been pacified and her hysterical giggle smothered, she asked, “So, what’s this work in progress you’re going to talk to Jane’s group about?”

  He beamed. “A new romantic suspense. It will have a fast-paced plot complete with a glamorous villainess, corpses, and a brilliant hero who cracks the case.”

  “You’re going to write up our Ghost Hotel story.”

  “With a different title and new, more flamboyant names.”

  “A work of fiction, then?”

  “What can I say? I’m a genius. And soon to be rich again.” He took her in his arms and waltzed her about the room. When she was out of breath, he sat her down on the bed and checked his watch. “Midnight at last. All right, go ahead.”

  “Go ahead and what?”

  “Go ahead and propose.”

  “Me? Why should I?”

  “Because, my dear, it is Leap Year Day. You are required to do the honors.”

  “It is?” She got up and checked the calendar. “Oh my God, you’re right.”

  “So…down you go.”

  She stared at him. “What…here? Now?”

  “On your knees, woman.”

  Charity waited as long as she dared, then put a pillow on the floor and kneeled on it. “Rancor Bass, you wretch, will you marry me?”

  He stared at her, his mouth open. “You’re proposing? Really?”

  “Isn’t that what you demanded?”

  “Yes, but…but…” He put his head in his hands. A muffled voice, full of question marks, siffilated between his fingers. “What could you possibly see in me?” He raised his face to look at her.

  She checked for a curled lip, a cynically raised eyebrow, a sneer, but found only damp eyes. “I see a man who hides his warmth behind quips, and who shutters his true feelings with arrogance and flippant remarks.”

  “Can you see a man who’s terrified? Who is so used to being deified that he can’t come down from the clouds lest an exquisite soul such as yourself wipes away the misty drops and finds only a man?”

  “I saw him.”

  “And?”

  “I figured he needed a lift. And possibly a meal.”

  His eyes danced. “How about a place to stay?”

  “Nope. He has to live with his Aunt Gertrude.”

  “Forever?”

  “Only until the wedding.” When he attempted to negotiate, she said firmly, “No, sir. I promised. Now pack your bags and come back in a week.”

  A week later—the promise fulfilled—they proceeded to the oath and, later that evening, the deed.

  A word about the author…

  Although she has lived or traveled in every continent except Antarctica and Australia, M. S. Spencer spent the last thirty years mostly in Washington, DC, as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter, editor, birdwatcher, kayaker, policy wonk, nonprofit director, and parent.

  She has two fabulous grown children, a perfect granddaughter, and currently divides her time between the Gulf coast of Florida and a tiny village in Maine.

  Ms. Spencer has published ten romantic suspense/mystery novels.

  http://msspencertalespinner.blogspot.com

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