“Typical writers then?”
“Hey!”
“Names, please.”
“All right, but you better promise to treat them with respect. And don’t forget the kid gloves. Third is Jemimah Heartsleeve.”
“Oh, I read one of hers. Not bad. What’s that genre of romance called? Something about steam.”
“Steamy. Or did you mean steampunk? Yes, a reviewer back in the nineteen seventies told her she has a voice, and she’s never let anyone forget it. However, when aroused, she’s like a marmot with a bone, or whatever they gnaw. She lives in a hovel.”
“A hovel?”
“Atalanta’s assessment, not mine. That dyspeptic snob looks down her imperious nose at a house with a mere twenty rooms and only one indoor sunken garden. What’s worse, it’s in that bastion of rebel resistance, Charleston.”
“A step up from a rusty beach chair, I’d say.”
“Yes. Well. Her number is 843-555-2337…Ready? Last but not least is Bernard Guttersnipe (not his real name). Styles himself a modern progressive. In other words, he writes depressing novels with wholly unlikable characters and plots so vague you’re not quite sure when the book is over. His email is nihilism-at-Guttersnipe-dot-com.”
Charity whistled. “Bit of a motley crew, eh?”
“Hey, those are my friends you’re maligning.”
“So, what do I tell these friends?”
“That I tried to latch on to Isabella, and she is proving as slippery as expected. I need them to come stand by me or write a forceful letter to the judge.”
“Did she steal their manuscripts as well as their royalties?”
“Yes, and has published two of them so far, although for the life of me I don’t see why the review sites didn’t smell a rat when they received a zombie ménage romance and a treatise on the role of carnivores in Buddhist theology by the same author.”
Charity’s stomach made its feelings known. “I’m hungry. I’ll see what I can do with these names and get back to you, okay?”
“Great. You’re a doll. Oh say, did you make any progress on the skeleton?”
“I haven’t had time. It’s still between Bartlesby and Biddlesworth. And maybe Bass.”
“Biddlesworth’s the one who drowned?”
“Yes. Standish said the victim had fluid in his lungs when he died.”
“Standish did? When?”
“George got hold of his final report. There’s evidence that the body lay in water for some time.”
“So he may actually have been on the boat. So much for your hypothesis.” He hummed tunelessly, then suddenly broke off. “Wait a minute! If he drowned, when or why was he stabbed?”
“Um.” She tapped a pencil to help her think and finally decided to change the subject. “Interesting—his connection to the Ringlings.”
“Yes. I believe I told you to look into it.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I’ve been rather busy springing a man from the joint.”
“And now you’ve got another assignment. Oh, here’s room service. I’ll let you go.” He hung up.
Twit.
****
Four days later, Charity had reached only Holdridge K. Wheelock. He had graciously offered to write a letter, first asking if she set a limit on the word count. “I regret I cannot provide more personal support as I’m in the final edits of my latest treatise on exotic religions and the military.” Apparently laboring under the assumption that she wished further clarification, he added, “It’s the first-person account of a young man who converts to druidism during World War One and the somewhat mixed reactions from his platoon mates in the trenches of Chateau Thierry. Names changed to protect the innocent of course, but the message will undoubtedly resonate. Do give Rancor my best. To whom should I address the letter?”
She gave him the particulars. As she put down the receiver, she stared at her reflection in the hall mirror. There’s nothing for it but to go myself. She pulled out her phone. “George? I need a few days off.”
“Unless we’re being evacuated, I don’t think so.”
“I want to go to Paris.”
“Oh, that’s okay then. Not.”
“To fetch Rancor Bass back.”
“From Paris? What’s he doing there?”
“Um.” She had a flash of inspiration. “I don’t know, but he took the ghost story manuscript with him.”
A pregnant pause followed this announcement, followed in turn by a period of heavy breathing. Finally, George growled, “Okay, but I’m only covering the airfare. And I want you back before next edition’s deadline.”
“Sure.”
“You still have that passport you got when we thought we were going to Russia for the Olympics, right?”
“Of course I do.” She booted up the computer and clicked on a travel website. One flight left from Tampa the following afternoon. She made the reservation and called the number Rancor had given her. The hotel concierge answered.
“Monsieur Bass is away from his room at present. He informed us that he would return tomorrow.”
“Where did he go?”
“I’m unable to disclose that information.”
“Was he with a woman?”
The man hesitated. “Yes.”
“Who goes by the name of Isabella Voleuse?”
“I regret, mademoiselle, but I’m unable to provide you with that information either.”
Damn. “All right. I’d like to make a reservation for Saturday night.”
Again he hesitated but finally said, “Yes, of course. And how long will you be staying with us?”
“Indefinitely.”
“I see.” He took down her information. “Would you like me to apprise Mr. Bass of your impending arrival?”
“Yes. Tell him the flight comes in at seven a.m., and I expect him to meet me.” That should scare the daylights out of him.
“Certainly, mademoiselle. We at L’Hôtel Paris look forward to your visit.”
She hung up. Now where did I put that passport?
****
Rancor was not at the terminal when Charity arrived. She caught a taxi that took her to the Left Bank and St. Germain des Prés, then up the rue du Seine to the rue des Beaux Arts. The driver let her off in front of what would have been a rather nondescript building were it not for the very un-nondescript bronze ram’s head guarding the entrance. Charity slipped under it quickly and entered an atrium that opened—six floors above—to the sky. A spiral staircase snaked around its walls.
The concierge greeted her with some trepidation. “I do apologize, Mademoiselle Snow. Monsieur Bass did not return last night. I sent a car to Charles de Gaulle to pick you up, but you had already left in a taxi.”
“That is all right, Mister…er…uh…”
“Monsieur Atlas, at your service.”
Oh God, how much of that eighth-grade French am I going to remember? Or need? “I’m sure you did your best.”
He whistled to one of the bell hops and sent her luggage up with him. “We have put you in our Mistinguett room. I hope you will find it cozy.” He crooked a finger at the other bell hop. “Jean-Pierre will show you the way.”
The boy took her up in an old-fashioned iron elevator cage and down a narrow hall. He opened a door, revealing a room filled with sleek, mirrored furniture. In a charmingly accented voice, he said, “It is decorated in the art deco manner according to the tastes of Mademoiselle Mistinguett.” A king-sized bed piled high with silk-covered pillows sat on a raised platform.
Charity could imagine a courtesan lounging on it, pink tongue peeping through rouged lips, inviting her current lover—a minor aristocrat—to a night of passion. “And who was Mistinguett?”
He shrugged, as only a boy of sixteen would to whom anything over twenty is old. “A singer, I believe.”
When he had gone, Charity went through to a sumptuous marble bathroom. The sink held toiletries by Green and Spring. A thick, white robe hung from a hook. She ordered roo
m service and sat by the window, watching the city awaken. The croissants were flaky, the butter richly yellow, and the cherry preserves thick and tart. She began to relax. Maybe I’ll just take a little nap before I go out and explore.
She lay down on the bed, the satin sheets rustling under her hair.
The telephone woke her. “Mademoiselle Snow? I have Monsieur Bass on the line. Will you take the call?”
She rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock. Two? The sun was bright outside, but the city quiet. Oh yes, the long lunch. “Hello?”
“Charity! You’re here! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
His mellow tenor filled her insides and spilled over. “I did. I left message after message. Where have you been?”
“The question is rather, where am I now?”
“Whatever.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Try me.”
“Um. Er. London.”
She could barely hear him. “Did you say London?”
“Um. Yes. See, Isabella scarpered to London while I was distracted.”
“Distracted? By what?”
“Never mind that. I’m about to meet her at the Victoria and Albert Museum—although she doesn’t know it.”
“Rancor, you are aware you skipped bail? I’m sure that’s as much an offense here as it is in the States.”
“Don’t worry, it won’t be a problem. As soon as I get her signed confession, I’ll be back. Then, whether or not my friends substantiate my claims, I’ll win the day.”
He sounded so pleased with himself she almost hadn’t the heart to tell him what a nincompoop he was, but she girded her loins and bit the bullet. “You’re a chump, Rancor Bass.”
“I beg to differ. Say, did you bring any of the ragamuffins with you?”
“No. I couldn’t get hold of anyone but Mr. Wheelock. He promised to fire off an irate letter to the Paris police.”
“Well, it couldn’t hurt…Look, I’ve got to go. Sit tight, and I’ll be back before you can say ‘jailbird.’ ”
Charity decided to take a walk along the quai de Conti. The city had begun to wake up on this dreary January afternoon. A damp wind blew old newspapers into little piles. The river was gray and choppy. She watched a Bateau Mouche chug along, tourists pointing and shouting as they passed under the Pont Neuf and caught sight of the Cathedral of Notre Dame in the distance. A small café near the Bibliothèque Mazarine provided a tiny cup of coffee and a cheese-filled crêpe for little more than it would have cost to buy a house in North Dakota. She mused on the vagaries of life. I’m sitting on a sidewalk in Paris—number one on my bucket list for so many years. The scene had usually included someone else though. Someone warm, generous, thoughtful. Someone wholly unlike Rancor Bass. Who isn’t here anyway.
She paid the bill and returned to the hotel. With nothing else to do, she decided to explore the public areas. The bar, a pocket-sized room paneled in mahogany and reached through a colonnade of green marble columns, was deserted but for the bartender. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. I am Philippe. May I concoct a libation for you?”
Charity was still trying to translate his English words into ones she understood when he pushed a glass filled with a lavender-colored liquid across the highly polished surface to her.
She sipped. “Delicious. What is it?”
“My signature cocktail. I call it a Thirteen-S. I mix champagne with a dash of violet liqueur and a bit of lime zest.” He smiled proudly as she finished it in two swallows. “Have you taken a swim in our hammam yet, mademoiselle?”
“Hammam? What’s that?
“Oh, it is Turkish for bath. We have a beautiful subterranean pool. If you like, I’ll make a reservation for you with the concierge.”
“I can’t just go down and swim?”
“Oh, no, mademoiselle. We light candles around the coping, and you have it all to yourself. That is, unless you have a significant other person with which to share it?”
She tried to speak lightly, even though something gnawed at her heart. “Not yet, Philippe. Someday though.”
He winked at her. “When you are ready, think of me!”
“Thank you.” She wandered out toward the restaurant. Elegant velvet armchairs flanked side tables. Through French doors, she could see a fountain and a patio garden. All very fin-de-siècle. She sighed. Maybe I’ll just take another nap…
The elevator clanked its way to the fourth floor. As she entered her room, the sun dropped behind the roofs of Paris and church bells began to peal all over the city. For a glorious instant, they were the only sound before the inevitable car horns started up again. She sighed. “On the other hand, a swim might be restorative.”
She called down to the desk. “Is the hammam available?”
“Yes, indeed, mademoiselle. I will have it set up right away.”
She checked her suitcase. “Oh dear, I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”
“Ne vous inquiétez pas, mademoiselle. I will have an assortment brought up for you.”
A few minutes later, Charity faced a smiling bellhop and a bed covered with tiny bikinis. He held up a platinum-colored string with a triangular patch about two inches across. “This one is very nice, Mademoiselle Snow. It would go beautifully with your eyes.” He winked at her. “They remind one of the silver fox, n’est-ce pas? Sauvages, mais aussi beaux.”
“My eyes? Savage but beautiful? You are too poetic, Jean-Pierre.” Charity silently thanked her French teacher for all those vocabulary quizzes. She took the bikini from his outstretched hand. “Thank you. That will be all.”
“I shall await you outside to escort you to our piscine.”
“Thank you.” Charity put on the suit and covered it with the terry bathrobe. The boy took her down the elevator to a crypt-like alcove faced with old stone. Through a glass door, she glimpsed a steam room tiled in blue glass. Candles had been lit around the edge of the pool, and the sapphirine water beckoned. Charity slipped in and floated on her back, letting the warm water soothe her.
“They couldn’t find a Victorian bathing costume for you?”
She raised her head. “Rancor?”
“The one, the only. Monsieur Atlas said I might find you here in the seraglio.” Rancor undid the towel around his waist, revealing a tan, fit torso with a long white scar running down the right side. Keeping his eyes on Charity, he dropped his trunks and slid into the water.
A while later, she pulled herself onto the ladder and tried to catch her breath. “Wow. There’s something to be said for your own private pool.”
Rancor rose beside her. “Indeed. Do you suppose if I clap my hands, musicians will appear, followed by voluptuous maidens bearing grapes and wine?”
Charity ran her palm over the water’s surface. “Are you telling me you’re not satisfied by my recent efforts?”
He kissed her. “A little lagniappe is always in good taste. So are grapes.”
She climbed out of the pool and slung a towel around her. “I’m going to my room.”
“In a huff?”
“No, in a towel.”
“Which is yours?”
“My what?”
“Your room. Each of the twenty rooms is devoted to a particular artist or celebrity. I’m—of course—in Oscar Wilde’s room.”
“Of course.”
“It’s decorated with dunning notices from the hotel. He said he’d die before he’d fork over his last sou, and he did.”
“Die? Here?” She gave a little shudder.
“In the very room. Say—that could go in the ghost story book.”
“Perhaps another one. May I remind you that you’re supposed to be working on Florida ghosts only? No exceptions.”
He climbed out. She couldn’t help but touch his chest. “How did you get that scar?”
He held the towel over it, his eyes shifting over her head. “Never mind.”
She had never heard him use that tone before—a blend of regret, shame, and f
ury. She let her hand fall.
After a minute, he asked, “So, which room did they give you? The Mata Hari? The Leopard room?”
“I believe Monsieur Atlas called it the Mistinguett room.”
He goggled at her. “There’s a Mistinguett room? How marvelous!”
She pressed the elevator button. “Why? Who or what is Mistinguett?”
“She was a music hall star—at one point the highest paid female entertainer in the world. By all accounts, worth more than even Gypsy Rose Lee. She played the Casino de Paris, the Folies Bergère, and the Moulin Rouge. I believe she even starred in some silent films.”
“And she lived here in the Hôtel Paris?”
“It appears so. Say, do you mind if I come look at it?”
“Not at all.” What a dumb question.
She unlocked the door, and he sidled in. “I forgot their rooms are either mignon or bijou—both of which mean painfully small.”
She retorted, “I believe it’s a category chic. Much larger than the bijou rooms.” And more expensive.
Rancor picked up a small card. “It says here the bed and dresser belonged to Mistinguett herself.”
Charity surveyed the bed with sudden doubt. “I wish I’d read that before taking my nap. I wonder how many ‘gentlemen’ left their spoor on it?”
“I’m sure they’ve changed the mattress at least once since then.” He took her hand. “Come with me.”
“Where to?”
“To Oscar’s death chamber.”
“A bit macabre.”
“As I meant to be.”
Rancor’s room was bigger than Charity’s and had a balcony. “It’s partially decorated like Wilde’s dining room in England. How do you like the peacock frieze? I think the decorator confused John Singer Sargent with Oscar Wilde. But then, they were friends. Now”—he sat her on the bed—“I shall order room service. We’ll sit on my balcony, and I shall beguile you with tales of my exploits while we partake of a small repast.”
Charity went to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To change.” She blew him a kiss. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
When she returned, a small cart covered in a white tablecloth and gleaming silver took up most of the center of the room. Rancor was opening a bottle of champagne. “Let’s go outside.” He wheeled the cart out onto the balcony. Charity leaned over the parapet to watch the people and cars far below. A man on the sidewalk turned chestnuts over a hibachi. The comfy, Christmasy smell rose on wisps of smoke to her nostrils. Another man hawked cut halves of coconut from a tinkling fountain.
The Pit and the Passion Page 12
