The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “Let’s hope you’re right.” She took her glass to the kitchen. “I’ll get you some sheets and a blanket. You’ll have to make up the couch.”

  He indicated the balcony. “I’m used to sleeping al fresco. How about if I use the chaise?”

  “Be my guest.” Charity moved the bistro table out of the way and brought bedclothes and a lamp. “Do you need a clock?”

  “Nope. I can tell the time by the stars.” He held up his wrist. “Besides, I haven’t had to hock my watch yet.” He looked out at the water. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  She joined him at the railing. The water was calm, gurgling and whispering under a swarm of stars. “Yes, it is. I never get tired of it.”

  “We have a different sky in Maine—it’s a whole different blue.”

  “Really?” Charity tried to remember those summer days on Penobscot Bay.

  He nodded. “And it’s smaller—cut off by the mountains. Here you can see all the way to the horizon.” He put an arm around her waist. “Although somehow it’s not intimidating.”

  She leaned into his side. “No.”

  After a few minutes, she went to bed, carefully closing the door to her room. She lay awake for several hours, musing on the man in her apartment. Was his story about losing everything true? He writes fiction after all. She felt again his lips on hers. They at least seemed sincere. Her hand cupped a breast. I’ve got to get him out of here tomorrow.

  “Charity? Are you awake?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.” He slipped under the sheet. “It was cold on the balcony.” His arms encircled her. “Ah, that’s better.”

  “I’m going to sleep now.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  She pretended to snore. He pinched her nostrils together. She opened her mouth to breathe, and he stuck his tongue between her teeth. She pulled his hand away. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I agree. Now, while you’re busy spelling ‘incorrigible’ in your head, I have things to do.” He pulled the nightgown over her head and fastened his lips on one nipple. She squirmed away. He caught the other nipple and rolled it around with his tongue. Before she could move, he left it and crawled down her belly. She jerked when he began to suck her tender flesh, spearing his tongue inside. Aching for more, she spread her legs wide.

  He took her shoulders and rolled her on top of him. Instead of entering her, he let his penis graze her lips, rubbing the moist tissue and sending slivers of heat from her vagina to her throat. She caught it and, guiding it in, began to rock. He took hold of her breasts and rotated them as she rocked faster and faster. His hips lifted off the bed, and she felt his cock stiffen and then release. She collapsed on his chest.

  After a few moments, Rancor rose and padded to the bathroom.

  “Are you going to take a shower?”

  “Yes, and you might want to brush the sand off your sheets. It’ll be more comfortable.”

  Charity reflected that his suggestion came a little too late.

  He spoke as though he’d read her thoughts. “Not too late if—as is likely—that was only the first episode of the evening. I suspect you, my love, are a ravenous beast. I intend to let you sate your hunger on my quivering flesh.”

  “Second.”

  “What?”

  “Episode. Second episode.”

  “Ah. My hypothesis is confirmed.”

  ****

  The little gathering watched the patrol car pull up. The sergeant opened the rear door. A tall, lean, bewhiskered old man slid out, shaking each stalk-like leg to unkink it. Chief Kelly spoke first. “Professor Standish? I’m so glad you could come.” He turned to his companions. “May I present George Fletcher, publisher of the Longboat Key Planet?”

  George stuck out his hand, then introduced the others. “This is Charity Snow, my ace reporter, and Rancor Bass, the writer. You’ve met Vernon Edwards, Sarasota medical examiner.”

  Standish appeared not to hear. His eyes went straight to the yellow tape. “Is that where you found the skeleton?”

  “Yes.” Kelly led the way. Two CSI evidence technicians were sifting through the gravel and placing markers here and there. At a word from Kelly, they climbed out of the pit.

  Standish shook hands with the two men, who introduced themselves as Douglas and Ken. “Tell me what you know.”

  Ken spoke first. “There wasn’t much here. Obviously an old site—decades old, I’d say. We removed the bone fragments. They’re at the morgue.”

  “Fragments? Were they articulated or just a jumbled heap?”

  “More of a heap—the backhoe did a number on them. Doug here thinks there could be enough for a pretty complete skeleton, though.”

  The other investigator added, “We also found some smaller bones mixed in—maybe of an animal. A few chunks of rotted oak. Oh, and a couple of scraps of cloth. Sent ’em to the lab.”

  “What kind of cloth?”

  “One felt like flannel—suit material.”

  Ken chimed in. “The other one’s probably denim.”

  “That’s odd.” Standish rubbed his chin. “Why would someone wear both a business jacket and jeans?”

  Rancor drawled, “Casual Friday?”

  Standish, ignoring him, spoke to Douglas. “What do you think?”

  “No idea. We’ll have to wait for the chemical analysis. The most puzzling items were several metal objects—thin iron cylinders.”

  Kelly stepped closer. “Well, this was a construction site. Could they be those rods they use to stabilize concrete when it’s poured?”

  “Too short.” Ken waved at the pit. “We found them buried in each corner, as though demarcating the space.”

  Douglas pointed down. “The pit is a few feet deeper than a portion of old pavement we found in a corner. And the walls were clearly prepared for drywall.”

  “Plus, it’s eight feet square. We’re guessing this was originally an elevator shaft.”

  “Only prepared for drywall, you say? You don’t think it was completed?”

  “Uh uh.” Ken pointed at a darker line in the soil. Bits of blackened wood protruded from it. “See that? It was boarded over, probably soon after they dug the hole.”

  “Any idea why?”

  Douglas shook his head.

  Charity nudged Rancor. “Tommy T.”

  “Who?” The police chief stared at her.

  “Tommy T. The ghost child. What…you mean you haven’t heard the stories? He’s been seen several times in the Chart House. The restaurant staff thinks he was the son of a laborer who worked at the hotel construction site. The child supposedly fell down an elevator shaft and was killed.”

  Rancor added, “And now he haunts the men’s room.”

  The professor scoffed, “Poppycock.”

  “Nonsense.” Edwards pursed his lips.

  Rancor sniffed. “Your skepticism does a disservice to your reputations as scientists. In fact, there have been numerous documented instances of paranormal phenomena for millennia. Do not assume the science is settled.”

  This speech was met with amused condescension by the two doctors. Without bothering to respond, they turned back to the pit.

  Standish asked Douglas, “So, nothing else unusual?”

  “We took some scrapings of the dirt, but no, nothing else.”

  Charity glanced at Rancor. His face showed no emotion. Am I doing the right thing by keeping mum?

  The two agents tidied up and returned their equipment to their cases. “We’ll meet you back at the morgue.”

  George, trailed by Charity and Rancor, headed back to his car. Kelly stopped them. “Uh, sorry, you can’t go to the morgue.”

  “What? Why not?”

  He nodded at Standish. “Turns out he refuses to allow lay people in the operating room.”

  Rancor snickered. “So I suppose he’ll bar the ME.”

  Kelly gave a half-hearted laugh. “I’m afraid we’ll all have to wait for the great man to finish his work.”r />
  After grousing a minute, George shot Charity a meaningful glance. “You know what to do.” He got into his Volvo.

  The two police cars and forensics van left the parking lot. Rancor watched them go, frowning. “Well, that sucks.”

  Charity climbed into the Mini. “I’m going back to the office to write up what we have. At least we can get a preliminary article into the next edition.”

  Rancor joined her. “I wonder when the television people will get wind of this.”

  Charity pointed at a News Channel Six truck turning into the lot. “I guess they already have. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  “You don’t want to share your information with the rest of the press? Where’s your esprit de corps?”

  “You never heard of a scoop? I got me one, and I aim to keep a step ahead of those bozos the whole way. George expects no less.”

  When they reached the office, Charity loped to her desk. Rancor stood uncertainly in the center of the room. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “You have some research to do, pal. Remember the evidence?”

  “Evidence? Oh.” His hand clenched in his pocket.

  “Go find out what U and M refer to.”

  He saluted. “Yes, ma’am.” He kissed the top of her head. “Regroup for dinner?”

  “You buying?”

  “When my ship comes in. Or we solve the case.”

  ****

  “I’ll have a mai tai.”

  “Make that two—but don’t make mine very sweet. And make it a double.”

  Charity gave Rancor a dirty look. “I’m not made of money.”

  “Funny, you look as enchanting as a five-dollar bill.”

  “Don’t you mean a three-dollar bill?”

  “No.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “Allow me to amend my assessment. I’d say you were a 1933 double eagle.”

  “Huh?”

  “Last of the double-eagle gold coins from the US Mint. Creepy old FDR signed an executive order in 1933 forcing people to turn them in to the Treasury so the government could melt them down to spend on the thousands of ill-conceived federal programs that prolonged the Depression. Folks received worthless paper money in return.”

  “I thought FDR brought us out of the Depression?”

  “Urban myth. By the beginning of his second term, America had fallen into an even worse recession, due, according to significant research, to policies that concentrated the money at the national level where it could do the least good. And those average Joes who used to own actual gold coins—coins that could have bought them clothing and shelter—ended up burning the paper notes to heat up their hobo stew.”

  “So, you’re comparing me to a gold coin that no longer exists?”

  “There are a few left. The last one sold at Sotheby’s for over seven million dollars.”

  “Oh.” To hide her embarrassment—or pleasure?—she picked up the menu. “I’m not getting the mullet sandwich again.”

  “Why?”

  “Tasted like mud.” The waiter brought their drinks. She pulled the paper umbrella out and sucked on the handle. “All right, did you find anything out about the ring?”

  He sipped from his glass and grimaced. “Too sweet and not enough alcohol.”

  “Shut up and tell me.”

  “I can’t do both.”

  She half rose from her chair, and he put the drink down. “The quick answer is no.”

  Her shoulders sagged.

  “But I did narrow the choice down. Let’s say for the purpose of discussion, the U and M refer to a university. In the lower forty-eight, it turns out there are nine universities of M.”

  “Okay, Minnesota, Michigan, Maryland—”

  “Whose report is this?”

  “Go on.”

  “Hmmph.” He pulled out a little spiral notebook. “Where was I? Oh yes.” He read, “Universities of Minnesota, Michigan, Maryland, Mississippi, Maine, Missouri, Massachusetts, Montana, and Miami.”

  “Miami?”

  “Miami, Florida. It’s the only private school in the lot.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Not really. So…oh there you are, Donna.” He winked at the generously endowed waitress, who tripped on a loose board. “We’ll have the steak and grilled shrimp combination. And salad with vinaigrette on the side. You want a baked potato?”

  This last was directed at Charity. She debated with herself whether to order something she didn’t want or get the steak and shrimp as she had planned. Like Mother always said, “Pick your battles.” She compromised by deflection. “Yes—with the works.”

  “Sour cream and chives and butter?”

  “Please.” She waited for the snotty remark.

  “Perfect. Love all that cholesterol. Doctor says I need to hike mine a few ticks.” He handed the menus back. “Do you want to choose the wine?”

  She almost laughed but restrained herself. “Why, yes, how gracious of you. We’ll have the Rex Goliath merlot.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “The house wine?”

  “Er…yes.”

  Donna left, dragging one foot in a blatant attempt to elicit sympathy from the dreamboat at the table. Rancor leaned over. “So, besides the school, we have a man’s initials, plus that of his wife or girlfriend, and a date.”

  “Date?”

  “1931. His graduation year.”

  “Of course. That does narrow it down, doesn’t it?” Charity stopped, water glass halfway to her lips. “Rancor, you said your family went back a long way in Maine. Did any of them go to the University of Maine?”

  He looked chagrined. “That I do not know yet. However, a more pressing question is, when was the university established? Has to be at least four years before 1931.”

  Charity polished off her mai tai. “Did you do any research this afternoon?”

  He relented. “Yes, I did. The University of Maine is a land-grant college, established 1868. I have a call in to my Aunt Gertrude, repository of all family matters. She will undoubtedly generate a list of University of Maine alumni, along with their majors, their spouses, and running commentary on their faults.”

  For a second, she marveled at the way their minds worked together, then dismissed it as just a schoolgirl infatuation. Donna rushed up with their plates, setting Rancor’s down gently and slapping Charity’s before her without a second glance. Her eyes bright, she chirped, “Do you need anything else, sir?” Charity was reminded of an overwrought chickadee.

  Rancor inspected the meal. “Sweetheart, I think you forgot something.”

  Hand on heart, she cried, “The sour cream? The ketchup? What? What?”

  He gave her what he obviously considered his Messiah look—kindly and forgiving. “The wine?”

  Charity held out an arm to catch the poor thing as she fainted. Thankfully, Donna rallied before she hit the ground and raced off to the kitchen, flying back with a bottle in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. She forgot to fill Charity’s glass, so Rancor did the honors.

  “Okay, how about the initials. RB—Rancor Bass.”

  “Ha ha.”

  Charity continued to muse. “Of course, Rancor has to be a pen name. It’s much too outlandish to be real.”

  He poured more wine. “Au contraire, ma petite. It is my real name.”

  “Really? Rancor? Someone in the family detested you on sight? I guess that’s not so surprising.”

  “Not exactly.”

  She took the bottle from him and peered into his face. His eyes were clouded. Have I pinked an old wound? “Tell me.”

  He glanced at her serious face and assumed a lighthearted air. “My father named me. You see, I was the sixth child in what was supposed to be a childless marriage.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Oh yes. My father had renounced offspring. His father had abandoned his wife and children when Dad was two. Ran off with a lady of the night, according to family lore. Never heard from him again. My grandmothe
r died soon after he left, and my great-grandparents took my father and his sister, my Aunt Gertrude, in. As a result, Dad swore he’d never reproduce.”

  “And then he met your mother.”

  “Clara Pendleton was the mayor’s daughter. She had auburn hair”—he reached out to touch Charity’s braid—“much like yours. Smart as a whip. She intended to go to New York to teach or, failing that, become a star of the stage.”

  “So…er…flexible.”

  “Indeed. And lovely. He once wrote that her breasts were like moons, her eyes like stars, and her vagina like a lotus.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “He did. Where do you think I get my way with words?” He grinned.

  “So, he…wait, what was his name?”

  “Rupert.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. Another gift from his splenetic dad. According to Auntie, Grandpa refused to pass on the family name of Robert.”

  “So, Rupert fell in love with Clara. I take it she changed his mind about having progeny?”

  “No, never. She just kept having them. Gave them all names beginning with R. Rupert Jr., then Rebecca, Rothschild—Mother thought the banking family exceedingly romantic—Rose, and Rory.”

  “And Rancor.”

  “That came later. Rory was five years my senior. My father thought himself well out of it. Then along came this squawling boy child with a shock of luxuriant hair the color of freshly turned Delta soil and a penis the size of Long Island.”

  The unfortunate Donna appeared at the table as he pronounced these last words and dropped the water pitcher. She knelt to mop up the spill and managed to rise just as Rancor stood up, thus finding herself nose to nose with the aforementioned organ. Charity felt sorry for her. That blush must really hurt.

  “Will there, will there be anything else…sir?”

  “Thanks. She’ll take the check.” He waved at Charity. “I need to pee.”

  The two women watched the tight jeans walk away, gulping in unison.

  Charity didn’t have a chance to resume her interrogation until they returned to her apartment. When she dropped her sweater on the back of the couch, Rancor picked it up and took it to the closet before heading into the kitchen.

  “You hadn’t finished about your birth…I mean childhood.” Moving on for now, if only for Donna’s sake.