“Definitely not the Finney we’re looking for. All right, number three.”
Michael Finney. Grandson of Edgar Finney, who founded HHR press in Seattle in 1933. An independent publisher, he produces a broad range of genres, from romance to what has come to be called modern angst fiction.
She clicked on the website link.
Welcome to HHR Press. Established in 1933 by Edgar Finney, we release an average of ten fiction titles per year. Our writers include Jemimah Heartsleeve (for her historical romances) and Holdridge K. Wheelock, author of the controversial Christopher Robin’s Later Years, which spent six months on the New York Times bestseller list.
She went to the tab marked “Our History.”
Edgar Finney immigrated to Washington State from Florida, where he had served as librarian to the famous art collector and circus owner, John Ringling.
Another link to the Ringlings? She went back to the Google search page. An article in the Seattle Dispatch dated October 30, 1933, mentioned the new publisher in town. Seed money for his business is rumored to have been provided by a member of the Ringling family of circus fame.
Hmm. John? But why would he help the librarian? Wouldn’t he have wanted to keep him at Cà d’Zan? His wife Mable? No, she was dead by then. How about his second wife?
She opened another tab and Googled Hedda Ringling. A short biography told her Hedda had been a well-heeled socialite, upon whose income John Ringling borrowed as his wealth dissipated. So she could afford to set Finney up in business, and John couldn’t. Why didn’t she help her brother then? If he had to resort to unscrupulous land deals, he must not have been too close to her. What was his name again? She opened her notebook. Calvin Hagen. So Hedda’s maiden name was Hagen. Wait a minute. Hedda Hagen Ringling—HHR Press. Ha.
This was going to take some more digging, and she was getting further and further away from Rancor and Michael Finney. There had been no mention of Rancor in the list of highlighted writers. Maybe he’s published by several houses. She set the notebook aside and typed in Rancor Bass. His website came up.
Eleven books, all with rave reviews. Murder Cuts Both Ways received the Poe prize, and Shades of Yellow garnered a Publishers’ Weekly top pick. The last three had been published by HHR Press. A link took her to an interview conducted with Mr. Bass by Felicity St. James for People Magazine.
In response to the question of why go with an independent publisher, Bass put down his cigar and leaned back in his chair. “Why, you ask? Well, an author of my stature has an obligation to help startups like HHR. I like to spread the wealth around a bit, encourage young sprouts to grow. Finney’s firm is a good, solid business. Once I decided to publish with them, their sales increased tenfold.”
When the interviewer pointed out that HHR also published big names like Jemimah Heartsleeve and Atalanta L’Amour, Bass scoffed.
“Limited audience for that kind of tripe. My books are read by millions of all ages and persuasions. Without me, Michael Finney would be nothing more than a niche publisher.”
Charity had to stop before she gagged. What did I see in this man? Pompous, insolent, egotistical—no, egomaniacal. The phone rang.
“Charity? It’s me. I just wanted to let you know I arrived in Bangor safely, since I know you were waiting to hear from me. I’ll be tied up with family business for a couple of days.”
“Oh? I’d forgotten you were gone.”
“Forgotten? You must miss me.”
“Not really.”
“Oh.”
She waited. Her heart still vibrated with loathing, and she just wanted the call to be over.
“I…uh…miss you. A lot.”
Shit. She couldn’t help it. “I don’t see how. You can’t have enough room in that tiny brain of yours to fit anything besides your inflated ego.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve just been reading about how the world was merely a seething mass of jelly before you arrived in it.”
“Huh?”
“An interview. With People Magazine.”
A sound resembling a donkey who just got the joke about the priest, the minister, and the rabbi rattled in her ear. When Rancor finally spoke, it was breathlessly. “Oh, my dear, too funny. I remember that interview. The reporter was a total slut—she kept trying to grope me, and when that didn’t work began to insinuate things—like I slept my way to the top…” Pause for more braying. “Or my family ties forced publishers to accept my books—and reviewers to give me five stars. What a toad she was. What could I do? I gave her the full force of my disagreeable personality.” He stopped. After a minute, his voice came low over the line. “That’s not me, Charity.”
Charity stared at the phone. Bewildered, muddled, uncertain—she had nothing to say. Who was this man? How did he manage to maintain such a repulsive façade when he was…well…a bubbling cauldron of mush inside? Or is that me? “I…I don’t know what to think, Rancor.”
“Then don’t. Wait ’til I get back, and I’ll explain it all to you in one- to two-syllable words so you can understand.” A hint of levity crept into his voice. “Or maybe I could follow the immortal words of that great editor, my high school English teacher, and ‘show, don’t tell.’ ”
Charity saw an out. “When are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll be in your bed by nine o’clock tomorrow night if you’ll let me.”
Damn the man. “We’ll see.”
“Oh, and Charity. I have some news.”
****
“Pssst. You awake?”
“Rancor, I can’t do it again. I need some sleep.”
“It’s not that. Although”—a hand snaked out and fondled her breast—“I could be persuaded.”
She rolled over and found herself teetering on the edge of the bed. To save herself, she grabbed the first thing within reach, eliciting a yowl from the man next to her. “Gently, my dear. That is not a handlebar, although it may be hard enough.”
She let go and immediately tumbled off the bed. The lamp went on, and she looked up to see a face unmarred by concern. “I guess we can add gracelessness to your list of attributes.”
“Give me a hand.”
Rancor hauled her back onto the bed. “Now, will you stay still while I fondle you and tell you my news?”
“I can only lie still if you don’t fondle me.”
He let go of her breast. “Okay, for now.”
She checked the clock. “It’s only ten.”
“Really?” He tapped her nose. “We got a lot accomplished in the hour since I arrived.”
“Well, you needed the practice.” She pulled on a robe and went to the living room.
“ ‘Nine-tenths of education is encouragement.’ Anatole France. Can I trouble you for a drink?”
She obeyed and got herself one as well. Before allowing her to sit down, he retrieved a towel, two pairs of underwear, and a copy of Atlas Shrugged from her seat and piled them neatly on the coffee table. “My God, woman, I’m gone a mere forty-eight hours and you revert to the habits of a particularly slovenly magpie.”
She handed him his glass. “Your report, please.”
He took a long sip. “Okay, I had a very pleasant visit with my family. Rebecca has welcomed her fifth child into the fold. You’ll be happy to hear she named him Constantine.”
“Anything, so long as it doesn’t begin with R.”
“Yes, indeed. Also, brother Rory has taken over management of our hotel in Camden.”
“Hotel?”
“I told you our family business is real estate.”
“Seems to be everyone’s family business.”
“Well, we’ve been in it for almost three hundred years. An ancestor of mine ran a tavern on the Boston Post Road that was frequented by both Paul Revere and Benedict Arnold.”
“Your ancestor was a Tory?”
“No, of course not. We didn’t know about Arnold’s inclinations at the time. Old Nathaniel would have thro
wn him into the stable yard had he known.”
“So, what other hotels does your family own?”
“Don’t you listen to anything I say?” He relented when she didn’t appear ready to apologize. “There’s one in Kennebunk and one in Seattle. Oh, and that nice little place in San Francisco. Not to mention the three in Florida.”
“Florida!”
“Let’s see. We have the Pink Arms in South Beach, the Monkey Estate in Boca Raton, and a resort in Naples. Very exclusive.”
Charity thought of something. “If you have all these hotels, why do you have to sleep on the beach?”
“Oh God, I can’t stand those places. Full of people whose very souls are artificial. The only thing keeping them upright is the jewelry—or in the case of the men, their golf clubs. Act as ballast.”
“I see.”
“That, and I have been banned from them by my brother Rothschild, the current CEO of Bass Hotels, Inc.”
“What for?”
“He claims it’s because I’m obnoxious, but I know it’s because I kept beating the house at blackjack.” He put his glass down. “Now, I was regaling you with stories of kith and kin. Don’t you want to hear what Rose has been up to?”
“Not really.” When Rancor stuck out his lower lip, she tried to recoup. “I mean, I’m sure it’s fascinating, but weren’t you going to talk to Aunt Gertrude about Robert the Third?”
“I’m getting to that. Sheesh. I can tell you were an only child.”
“I wasn’t anything of the sort. I have two wonderful brothers, which is how I’m able to handle you.”
“I see. And what do they do? High wire act? Panhandling?”
“Never mind about my brothers. What did Gertrude say?”
“Oh, I see we’re now on a first-name basis. Gertrude would not approve. No, she wouldn’t approve at all. She’s very old-fashioned—didn’t I tell you? Strait-laced, straight-backed, straight shooter…but I digress.”
“Yes, you do.”
He chucked her under the chin. “You know, sometimes you’re no fun at all. It must be the hard-nosed reporter in you.” He finished his drink. “All right. Apparently, Robert number three did not follow in the footsteps of his ancestors. While they spent their youth learning the ropes of the business, shoulder to the wheel, nose to the grindstone, etc., our Robert was sowing some very undomesticated oats. The consensus of opinion in his high school yearbook was that Robert would, in the most optimistic of views, not amount to much. A plurality of votes went to ‘Will be found face down in a Paris sewer stinking of gin,’ followed closely by ‘Dies in a barroom brawl at the hand of an enraged madam.’ ”
“I take it Robert was a ne’er-do-well?”
“What a lovely expression! Just the way Aunt Gertrude would have put it if she’d thought of it.” He broke off to peer at Charity. “I take it all back. I think—yes, I’m sure—she’ll take to you.”
Charity refrained from smiling and prompted, “Go on.”
“Then in his junior year at the University of Maine, he presented them with a wife, the adorable Trudy, at the same time announcing she was preggers. Suffice it to say, they were furious. His father, Robert Jr., proposed sending him to the Colombian salt mines. When advised that such a place didn’t exist, he insisted that the lad be punished in some dreadful manner—perhaps transferring him to Harvard.”
“The horror!”
“Yes, indeed. That’s when RB Three’s mother came up with a solution.”
“Yes?”
“She proposed her husband give him a job, but only if he graduated.”
“Running a hotel?”
“No, as a salesman in the real estate branch. At that point, we were still buying up properties to turn into hotels. In the late twenties and early thirties, Florida was the place to look.”
“So they sent him to Florida?”
“No, they sent him to Nebraska. My great-grandfather was swayed only so far by his wife’s arguments. He did not want to hamstring his thriving Florida business.”
Charity poured more bourbon into her glass and pretended not to see Rancor’s empty one placed strategically under her nose. “Forgive me, but why are you telling me this?”
“Because…” He grabbed the bottle and filled his glass, tossing her a withering look. “Because Robert did not go to Nebraska. He went to Florida.”
“And we know that how?”
“His father received several large bills for entertainment expenses—all from Sarasota establishments.”
“Did no one go after him? What did his wife do?”
“Trudy was a trifle busy giving birth to Aunt Gertrude. The rest of the family were too pissed—his father for disobeying his orders and his mother because she had invested so much marital capital in him, only to be let down. They waited a suitable period for him to show up, then moved on with their lives.”
“They seem an awfully cold bunch.”
“Well, to be fair, he’d never given them any reason to care.”
“What made them think he’d run off with a chorus girl?”
“Not a chorus girl. To save face, the family claimed she was a budding starlet.”
“Regardless.”
Rancor hesitated. “All I can say is, that was the story told to me by countless relatives.”
“What did the long-suffering Trudy believe?”
“I have it on the best authority that she’s the one who bruited the tale about that he’d deserted her for a trollop. Auntie maintains Trudy died of a broken heart, but every time she mentioned it to us children, my mother would roll her eyes. When I came of age, Mother told me that, by the time my grandfather disappeared, Mrs. Robert Bass III had had it and was seeking a divorce. She popped off before the papers went through.”
Charity put her glass in the sink. “So, what you’re saying is, no one ever really looked for him.”
“They considered themselves well rid of the baggage. And presumed he was happy with Coco La Strumpet.”
Charity turned around. “I’m going back to bed.”
He took her hand. “Good idea.”
She shook it off. “You can have the couch.”
“What? Why?”
“Until I know that Isabella won’t show up in her Lamborghini—”
“It’s rented.”
“Sure it is. Until then, you, my man, must hold it in.”
“I shall have the affidavit in your dainty, if somewhat work-hardened, hands tomorrow. Notarized.”
“See that you do.”
Chapter Thirteen
A Rap Sheet a Mile Long
“I haven’t told you what I found out about Finney.” Charity handed the jar of jalapeno slices to Rancor.
He spooned out a pile. “What could you know that I don’t?”
“Many, many things. For instance, did you know that Finney’s grandfather named his budding publishing firm after Hedda Hagen Ringling?”
Rancor took a swig of beer and smacked his lips. “ ‘Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.’ Benjamin Franklin.”
“Yeah, I have the same T-shirt. So I take it you didn’t know.”
“Never really thought to ask about it. That’s right, it’s HHR Press, isn’t it? Why on earth would he do that?”
“Scuttlebutt is she gave him the money to set himself up.”
“But the company is in Seattle.”
“Yes, but Finney moved there from Sarasota. He was the librarian for Cà d’Zan.”
Rancor dropped his sandwich. “Really? How intriguing.”
“Why intriguing?”
He got up and went into the living room, returning with a heavy volume. “Casting about for something to take my mind off your succulent attributes the other day, I picked up this biography of John Ringling. One of the dullest renditions of an exciting life I’ve ever come across. The author spent seven hundred pages detailing the contents of every room in the mansion and arguing with himself over the provenance of eac
h stick of furniture.”
“Rancor…”
“Well, in one slightly more stimulating passage, he noted that the librarian was a very close friend of John’s. He devoted a paragraph or two to their relationship and also to that which developed between the librarian and Hedda after she married John. Seems he left rather suddenly. Don’t recall his name.” He started to page through the index.
“It was Finney. Edgar Finney. Did the author describe the relationship between him and Hedda? Warm? Chilly?”
Rancor flipped through the book. “Ah, here it is.” He read silently. “It just says they spent time together doing research ahead of the Ringlings’ trips.”
“So why would Hedda give him the money to establish a business in Seattle?”
“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe John was the secret benefactor.”
“Then Edgar would have named the company JR.”
“True. The only other explanation is that they were secret lovers.”
Charity shook her head. “Remember Hedda’s letter to Mistinguett? She was heartbroken that John wanted a divorce.”
“She also mentioned hiding something from him.”
“Perhaps it was the money she gave Finney?”
“You said yourself that was a rumor. I think the opinion of a board-certified biographer who has spent years studying the Ringling family—”
“Or at least their belongings.”
“—should carry more weight than the fruit of some reporter’s wild imagination.”
The telephone rang. Charity picked it up. “Yes? Yes, it is. Yes, he’s here. Just a moment.” She handed the receiver to Rancor. “It’s Bernard Guttersnipe. He sounds lugubrious.”
“It is always with a heavy heart that he faces the world. Except on Tuesdays.”
“What happens on Tuesdays?”
“He’s merely depressed.” He held up a finger. “Bernie? Rancor here. What’s up?” He listened. “Oh, she did. Oh, you did. Oh, she did. Okay, thanks for letting me know.” He hung up. “Do you have any more beer?”
“Rancor! What did he say?”
“That, as I requested, Isabella paid him a visit. However, instead of enlisting his help, she told him she’d located Finney in Seattle and asked him for money. Which he gave her.”
The Pit and the Passion Page 18
