The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “And you were so pissed at me you called the police.” Rancor seemed to find this diverting. “I now know the French will do anything a beautiful woman tells them to.”

  She flicked his cheek. “You are too cute, Bunny.” She turned to Charity. “That’s my pet name for him. It fits perfectly, don’t you think?”

  Before Charity could comment, he picked up the story. “When I learned they’d both gone to London, I hightailed it after them. That was just about the time you reached Paris, Charity.”

  Isabella said, “I was supposed to meet Michael at the Victoria and Albert, but I saw Rancor enter the building and knew the game was up.” In an impressive display of simulated ire, she drawled, “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you, Bunny.”

  Charity, busy keeping the bile down, gurgled, “What did you plan to do with Mr. Finney when you caught him?”

  This question seemed to floor Isabella. “I…uh…guess I hadn’t thought that far.” For once, she seemed unsure of herself. Then a crafty look washed over her face. She swiveled so her breast just brushed Rancor’s arm and cast beseeching, ocean-colored eyes at her companion. “Rancor? Will you help me?”

  Rancor tossed off his drink. “Let’s order some wine.” He opened a wine list the size of a small town’s phone book. “Would a Bordeaux work for you, Charity?”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. What is Isabella playing at?

  “I think the Moulis-en-Médoc, Chateau Malmaison 2008.” He ordered it. “Isabella, I asked Charity to contact Atalanta, Holdridge, Bernie, and Jemimah. I’ve heard from Atalanta.” He touched Charity’s hand lightly. “Holdridge told you he would write a letter. What about the other two?”

  “Jemimah Heartsleeve is on a book tour and unavailable. She returns in February. The other one—Guttersnipe? He left a voicemail saying he didn’t believe in royalties—that they were all part of a cruel capitalist system that robbed the poor. He went on to say the government should provide free books to all.”

  “Number one, has he never heard of public libraries? And two, fine talk from a man who stands to inherit five million dollars from his capitalist-running-dog father.”

  Isabella frowned, but in a pretty way. “Oh, Rancor, you’re too mean to poor Bernie. You know he’s ashamed that his father owns all those parking lots. I do believe he has refused to accept a penny from him.”

  Rancor gaped at her. “Refused? Is that what he told you? Ha. His father cut off his allowance after that episode with his college thesis. Plagiarized whole chunks of it from his own brother’s.”

  Isabella gave an indulgent shake of her head. “He was only a schoolboy, Rancor. He’s a grown man now. And such a heavenly writer. I can forgive him anything.”

  No one—not even the hovering Elsa—responded. The waitress set down plates and displayed the bottle to Rancor before uncorking it with a practiced hand. They ate quietly for a while.

  Isabella declined dessert—“I am so full.” Charity had the peppermint stick ice cream with hot fudge and extra whipped cream. Rancor finished his wine.

  As they walked out the door, he turned toward a fire-engine-red Lamborghini. Laying a hand on Charity’s arm, he asked, “See you tomorrow?”

  Charity, her key in the lock of her battered Mini Cooper, hesitated. “I’ve…uh…got work to do.”

  He spoke low. “I have to find out if she’s really on the up and up, Charity. Have some patience.”

  Well, it’s not a great excuse, but it’ll do. “Okay.”

  He got in the Lamborghini. Isabella honked her horn, startling several old ladies on the patio, and roared out of the parking lot.

  Charity drew an X in the air, hoping the curse would land right on Isabella’s head in the form of bird poop, and went home. Her answering machine was blinking. “Miss Snow? Captain Kelly here. I thought you’d like to know we’ve identified the skeleton.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Ubiquitous Biddlesworth

  Charity checked the time. Nine o’clock. No use trying to call him back tonight, and tomorrow was Sunday. She spent a wakeful night, in which nightmares came and went, the worst involving Isabella nibbling on a corpse. She called the police department at eight Monday morning. “What do you have for me?”

  “Oh, hi, Charity. I’ve got someone with me now. Can you come over in, say, fifteen minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  She ate breakfast, then walked down to the station. The police chief was alone. “I hope you have time to get this into the next edition. We’re ninety percent sure the dead man is Rodney Biddlesworth, Esquire.”

  “What about Bartlesby?”

  “Bartlesby…Bartlesby…” He flipped through some papers. “Oh yeah. Randall Bartlesby. Frank found a death certificate for him. Died 1949.”

  “In Costa Rica?”

  He checked the notes. “No, in Dallas, Texas. Killed by the irate husband of a woman he was diddling. I guess his wife was right—a real low-life.”

  One down. “So what did you learn about the other candidate…Biddlesworth?”

  “Rodney Biddlesworth, originally from Maryland. Worked for a real estate company that wanted to buy several acres along the shore north of Sarasota. He was in negotiations with one Calvin Hagen, brother of John Ringling’s second wife Hedda Hagen Ringling. According to papers filed in small claims court by a Philip Sousa, Hagen had represented himself as an agent with the authority to sell the plots. Court found against Hagen. Biddlesworth then filed his own lawsuit but disappeared before the trial date. If you add up all the judgments against him, Hagen would have had to declare bankruptcy…and that was before John Ringling called him out for pilfering from his sister’s piggy bank.”

  Charity jotted it down for Rancor. When and if she saw him again. “So we have motive. How about a physical ID?”

  “Examination of the skeleton’s jaw revealed that four wisdom teeth were missing before the rest were knocked out. Dental records confirmed that Biddlesworth had had them removed a few years before he died. That, and evidence of water in his lungs, leads us to conclude that Hagen threw him overboard.”

  “After he stabbed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he end up in the hole then?”

  The question seemed to fluster Kelly. He stood up and paced. “How about this? Hagen tossed Biddlesworth into the water, but then he began to worry the body would wash up on shore too quickly. So…he fished it out before it sank and dropped it in the abandoned elevator shaft.”

  “Hmm. Well, I’ll write it up.”

  Frank came in and whispered in Kelly’s ear. The captain turned to Charity. “Do me a favor? Wait a couple of days. I guess we’re still trying to locate his relatives.”

  “Just give me the word.” She rose. “I’ll be at my office.”

  She arrived in time to see George slam his phone down, his face scrunched up and bright red. He saw her and crooked a finger.

  “What is it?”

  “Mickenbacker. He’s demanding a draft or at least an update on the ghost book. He says Rancor hasn’t returned his calls. The one to Bass’s former publisher went unanswered as well. He’s fit to be tied.”

  “What’s the big rush?”

  “This was going to be the first title published by Kumquat House since Arlo bought it, and they’ve already spent five thousand dollars promoting the release of a new book by a best-selling author. Arlo’s going to have my ass if your friend doesn’t come up with something in the next forty-eight hours.”

  “My friend?” Charity’s fatigue—both physical and emotional—was beginning to take its toll. “Hardly. What do you expect me to do about it?”

  “Find the bastard. Sit him down. Make him write.”

  “I can’t do that. He’s…he’s with…Isabella.”

  “Isabella?”

  “The editor. The one we thought had taken his manuscript. She claims the publisher, Michael Finney, is the real thief. Rancor has agreed”—she swallowed hard—“to help he
r catch him.”

  “Well, that would explain why Arlo couldn’t get hold of the publisher, but Bass still owes Kumquat three books.” He peered at her. “This Isabella…is she a rival by any chance?”

  “A rival?”

  “For his affections?”

  Charity bit her lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” When he snorted, she said grudgingly, “But if you were…right, I’d have no chance against her. She’s a—well, picture Bo Derek, only more perfect.”

  “A blonde bombshell, eh?” He patted her awkwardly. “He’s had loads of them, I’ll wager. I’m sure he’d prefer a more…um…” He petered out.

  “Thanks for the endorsement, George.”

  “Look, Charity, you know I think you’re the most accomplished, lovely, nice young lady on the planet. No one—not even Bo Derek—can hold a candle to you. So gird your loins, girl, and get to work.”

  “Yes, George.” She went to her desk and pulled up the column she’d been drafting before the advent of Isabella. I still can’t believe they’re going to knock down the Chart House for more tourist units at the Longboat Key Club. Everyone knew it would only add to the already horrendous crowding in the season. I’m lucky I’m within walking distance of the office. From January to April, traffic on Gulf of Mexico Drive ground to a standstill—Cadillacs and Buicks stalled nose to tail, little old men sitting on pillows to see over the steering wheel, heading to the fourth errand of the day. I’m sure it’s just to get out of the house and away from their little old wives. For the natives, it meant that for four months they sat inside from nine in the morning until seven at night, venturing out only during the snowbirds’ nap times and after the early-bird dinner hour. When the new development opened, six hundred more people and three hundred more cars would pack the roads. The club made the pitch that guests would be satisfied to stay in the resort, and if they went anywhere else they would take public transportation. Excuse me? If I’m paying $500 a night for a vacation, I don’t sit in my hotel room. And I don’t take the bus. She began to type.

  An hour later, she took a break. George knocked on the glass wall of his office. “Want to get a bite of lunch?”

  “Sure.” They walked down to the Blue Dolphin and ordered sandwiches. While they waited, George beat a tattoo on the place mat. “So, did you finish the Club article?”

  “Yes—I’ll format it and send it to you when we get back.”

  “How about the skeleton story?”

  “I guess I’ll just say that the police are nearing a resolution of the case. Kelly is ninety percent sure it’s Biddlesworth, but he wants to notify next of kin before we announce it.”

  “It makes sense—all the pieces fit.”

  “I dunno. Something about it bothers me.” It couldn’t be that I’m wishing the body were Robert Bass. That’s just morbid. On the other hand, a family scandal would be laid to rest. If Rancor’s grandfather had been murdered, it was unlikely he ran off with another woman. Unless…

  George finished his iced tea. “Well, get something down on paper. I need eight inches for A4.”

  “I thought Mike’s Bikes bought a full-page ad?”

  “They pulled it. I did get a half from Longboat Cardiac though.” He chuckled. “Says something about the target audience on the island, doesn’t it?”

  Back at the office, Charity spent the rest of the afternoon pulling her notes together. She gave high points to Captain Kelly and to Vernon Edwards, but only made passing mention of Standish’s contribution. “No flowery compliments, just name, rank, and serial number.” That’ll fix him.

  At home, the answering machine did not blink. She fixed herself a drink and went to sit on the balcony. A flock of skimmers passed, bodies only inches from the water, red bills open to scoop up the silvery fish that jumped the waves. Below her, a yellow-crowned night heron danced a dance of death with a ghost crab. She watched, engrossed, as they squared off against each other, the crab jabbing his claws like a boxer and the bird aiming its beak at his prey’s vulnerable belly. Beset by his nemesis, the little beast finally tired, and the heron snatched it into his jaws, crunching the shell with obvious relish. If he had lips, he would have licked them.

  The breeze fanned her cheeks. She tried not to think about Rancor. He must be busy with…her. She went in, threw on a bathing suit, and went down to the beach. At low tide, she could walk out twenty yards before it was deep enough to swim. She sliced through the clear blue water with strong strokes, watching puffs of red kelp swirl around under her.

  Feeling better, she heated up some leftover pizza and drank a beer while she watched the news. Nothing about the Chart House case. After a while, she shut it off, pulled a book at random from the bookshelf—noting with a sigh that it was by Jemimah Heartsleeve—and went to bed.

  The next day was the same, except the skimmers were gone and brown pelicans searched the gulf for slightly bigger fish. Two magnificent frigatebirds—their wings shaped like perfect chevrons—soared high overhead. Still no word from Rancor. George slammed around the office scowling. “I’ve had to put Mickenbacker off three times. I need something to show him by the end of the week or else.”

  When she returned from her walk the morning of the fourth day sans Rancor, there was a message on her answering machine. “Ready.”

  What the hell? Charity saw no reason to reply.

  A few minutes later, a text popped up on her phone:—Hello?—

  The question appeared rhetorical, so she ignored it. It’s not that I’m angry with him for ditching me. Not at all. She crawled back under the covers and turned the TV on.

  “Police have identified the remains of the skeleton found under the parking lot of the Chart House as one Rodney Biddlesworth, formerly of Upper Marlboro, Maryland. Using dental records, as well as missing persons reports and other evidence, they determined that he died sometime in the 1930s. Mortimer Peterson, Sheriff of Sarasota County, stated that the case will be closed as of today.”

  They’re giving up! Charity jumped out of bed. She dialed the Longboat Key police number. “Captain Kelly? I just heard you’re closing the books on the skeleton.”

  “Yes. I know there are a few loose ends, but it’s really not worth the time and cost to continue. I mean, the man died decades ago.”

  “But he was murdered!”

  “Be that as it may, his killer is likely just as dead.”

  “What about Biddlesworth’s family?”

  “The two distant cousins we managed to run to earth? They’re happy it’s over. Closure and all that.” He paused. “By the way, loved your piece on the new club development. We can’t handle the traffic now—imagine what it’ll be like with all those new cars on the road.”

  “I know—FDOT says there were ten thousand more cars on Gulf of Mexico this month than during the same month last year.”

  “Ten thousand? I’m going to have to ask the town council for more officers.”

  The minute she put the receiver down the phone rang. “Charity? Why aren’t you returning my calls and texts?”

  “You mean the one call and the one text? I thought they were just informational.” I am not going to let him know how I feel.

  He clicked his teeth. “Charity, you’re deliberately trying to provoke me. Haven’t you missed me?”

  Oh goody, an easy one. “No.”

  “Yes, you have. Can I come over? I want to tell you what I’ve been doing.”

  I can whap this baby out of the park. “No.”

  “I’ll bring food.”

  “No.”

  “I won’t bring Isabella.” Merriment bubbled in his voice. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re jealous. Admit it. After all, she is stunning.” When Charity didn’t respond, he began to wheedle. “Charity, you know my heart belongs to you. That, and I’m extremely horny. It’s been three whole days.”

  Before she could stop herself, she snapped, “Four. Four days.”

  “Aha!” His triumph galled her. “So, I’
ll bring dinner.”

  Grasping at the last life line, she stuttered, “I…uh…have work to do. Come over tomorrow evening.”

  “Another twenty-four hours? You wound me.”

  “You’ll survive.”

  “I suppose I can find something to occupy me until then.” Before she had a chance to form a sarcastic reply, he crooned, “Ooh, I’m thinking all sorts of lascivious thoughts right now, can you tell?”

  She hung up, resolving not to spend the rest of her day imagining the lascivious thoughts running around in Rancor’s id.

  ****

  The doorbell buzzed at six. She didn’t hear it because she was in the shower. As she stepped out, it buzzed again. “Coming.” She threw on an old muumuu of her mother’s and skipped to the door.

  “Wow, I didn’t think you could look any dowdier than you did the other day.”

  “Rancor!”

  He held out the hand that wasn’t carrying a white plastic bag and a dozen roses and touched her hair. “Stringy, wet hair, albeit a sizzling copper. Eyes unadorned, albeit the most lustrous of grays, teeth”—he pried her lips apart—“unbrushed after I’m guessing a steak and cheese for lunch…but,” he added prudently, “still snowy.” His eyes drifted down to her chest. “Breasts scandalously hidden under the sort of dress usually worn by women of a certain size. And yet”—he grabbed her as she turned to run—“the most alluring creature I’ve ever seen. Good evening, Charity.” He brushed the tips of her fingers with his lips.

  The object of his attention stood stock still, completely overwhelmed by the desire to kiss this wicked man. Finally, she pushed him off and went to her bedroom. There she drew the muumuu over her head. Scrabbling around in a drawer for a T-shirt, she felt warm breath on her shoulder. “That’s better.” A finger traced her spine down to the crack of her ass. His hand spread out over one buttock and squeezed. She slithered away from him. His other hand took hold of her left buttock and gave it a smack. She landed face forward on the bed.