The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “Whidbey Island?”

  “North of Seattle. Puget Sound is loaded with islands. Whidbey’s the largest. They have seven vineyards, a naval air station, and a decent theatre. They even have a distillery. You want to give it a whirl?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eleven. We catch the ferry for Langley in Everett, about an hour from here.”

  “Ferry?”

  “Yes. It’s the primary mode of transportation in Seattle. Only way to get to the mainland from most of the islands. Don’t worry. You won’t get seasick—it’s a big ship. Holds maybe a hundred cars.”

  Despite Isabella’s snide comment, Charity felt her excitement build. A ferry ride! The only ferry she’d ever taken crossed the St. Johns River south of Amelia Island. It consisted of a thirty-foot-long barge that transported one car at a time. “Doesn’t worry me, I’m from Florida, remember? We live on the water.” So what if I’ve never been on anything bigger than a bass boat?

  Isabella responded with a dismissive, “Fine,” and rang off.

  A couple got off the elevator and passed her, heading to the exit. The woman, her heavy face bright red with anger, was berating her companion, an anorexic teenager. “I don’t care, Jeremy. It’s almost six o’clock, and I haven’t eaten in two hours. We’re going to McDonald’s now.”

  It reminded her that the only thing she’d consumed all day was half a panini. Might as well take advantage of the expense account. Charity turned around and went to the concierge’s desk. “Mr. Waters, can you recommend a restaurant?”

  “Certainly.” He pulled out a large folder. “There’s the Metropolitan, or the Pink Door. They’re near the market. Our own restaurant, Boka, received a three-star rating from Zagat. It’s right around the corner, and very quiet.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  She found the restaurant easily and entered just as the rain began in earnest. The room was a vision in pink lights and wave patterns, from the bamboo walls to the curved banquettes. A waiter in a crisp white shirt and pink tie handed her a menu. She looked at the appetizers, dropping a finger over the prices. What George doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “This Skagit River Ranch chicken liver pâté sounds enticing.”

  “Yes. The rhubarb adds a touch of sweet-tart citrus to it. You’ll like it. May I suggest the grilled razor clams?”

  Charity thought of the little pencil-sized clam shells she collected on Longboat Key. “Would it be enough?”

  “Oh yes, here in Puget Sound, they grow quite large. They come with pickled ramps and cherries.”

  “All right.”

  “And the grilled Little Gem lettuce to follow?”

  “After the entrée?” I’ve never heard of that.

  “Yes, a salad after the meat dish makes for a nice digestif. It is served with fruit and a pink peppercorn vinaigrette.”

  “All right.” I suppose that means I’ll have to forgo dessert.

  An hour and a half later, Charity waddled into the hotel. Mr. Waters pressed the elevator button for her. “I take it your dinner was satisfactory?”

  She patted her stomach. “Indeed.” I could get used to this.

  ****

  Isabella picked her up in the morning, and they drove north along the coast. Most of the area was heavily built up with tracts of small houses and strip malls. Charity began to wonder where the wild Pacific Northwest lived. They reached Everett and got in line for the ferry. Once they’d parked, they climbed a gangway up to a large snack bar with booths and tables.

  “Oh look. There are doors to the outside deck.” When Charity started toward them, Isabella called, “I’ll just stay here. I don’t want to mess up my hair. The wind is pretty damp.” She looked at her companion’s thick, glossy braid. “I suppose you don’t mind having your hair get all frizzy.”

  Charity was getting used to Isabella’s little barbs and paid her no mind. She walked quickly to the doors and opened them, only to be thrown nearly prostrate by the wind. She struggled forward and made it to the railing where she hung on for dear life. The channel was quite narrow, and she could see the island in the near distance. Gulls soared overhead, and the smoky gray water churned under the ferry. The sky wasn’t much lighter than the water. A pair of dolphins decided to accompany them, and Charity watched them skip over and under the waves in front of the ship. Beyond the island, white-capped mountains loomed.

  They pulled into the pier, and people scrambled to return to their cars. Men in yellow vests herded them down a ramp to the tarmac. The Lotus was one of the last off. Isabella pointed at the terminal clock. “We don’t have much time. The winery closes at one.” She pulled out onto the road. “I think it’s this way.”

  Something told Charity they were going to get lost.

  Isabella roared down the one-lane country roads, taking first a left and then a right, then another right. Where the street curved, they came to a familiar intersection. Charity pointed at a grocery store. “Didn’t we pass that already?”

  Isabella followed her pointing finger. “Oh dear. I’m sorry. We seem to be going in circles. No matter. We can catch him at the theatre. “

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “It’s right in the middle of Langley. We can ask directions.”

  Charity refrained from noting that they could have done that for the winery. “Why don’t you have GPS?”

  “Couldn’t afford it.”

  “Oh.” I suppose you have to cut corners somewhere.

  A few minutes later, they entered a small village. A large brown building sat at the corner, a sign declaring it to be the Center for the Arts. “This is it.”

  They pulled into an empty parking lot. “Not a lot of interest in the show, I guess.”

  “Maybe not.” Isabella got out. “Wait here.” She went inside. Returning a minute later, she jumped in the car and slammed the door. “Damn. I got the date wrong. The show starts tomorrow.” She gave Charity a roguish look. “You’ll think I’m awfully incompetent.”

  I think you’re deliberately screwing this up. “I guess we’d better head back.”

  “We can catch the three o’clock ferry if we hurry.”

  And don’t get lost. Charity was quiet on the way home. I want to talk to Rancor about this. I think our Miss Isabella may have a different agenda from the one agreed upon.

  Isabella let her off at her hotel. It was still fairly early, so she decided to take a walk. She wandered down First Avenue until she came to an area of old brownstones. She stopped at a historic marker and read aloud. “Pioneer Town, the original downtown Seattle, founded 1852.” Underneath the marker lay a pile of brochures. She picked one up.

  Pioneer Town flourished during the Klondike Gold Rush of 1897. The buildings are some of the best examples of nineteenth-century Romanesque Revival urban architecture in the United States. Nearby is the hundred-year-old Smith Tower, once the tallest building on the West Coast. Also in Pioneer Square stands the city’s first monument, a Tlingit totem pole stolen from Alaska. Be sure to take the Seattle underground tour. There you will see the sunken storefronts that literally melted below the level of the sidewalk in the Great Fire of 1889.

  She wandered around the square a bit, then headed up Cherry Street. At number nineteen, a man was replacing a plaque by the door. She noticed the old plaque leaning against the wall. She peered at it, unable to read the letters upside down.

  “Ma’am? Can I help you?”

  “Oh, sorry. I was just wondering what the sign said.”

  “Hang on.” He picked it up and showed it to her.

  HHR Press

  ~

  Established 1933

  He squinted up at the building. “Been here for generations. Not many of the old firms left.” He frowned.

  “Has Seattle grown a lot?”

  “Twice as big as it was a decade ago, yeah. My great-grandaddy came out here to pan for gold.”

  “And did he find any?”

  “Nope. Found a wi
fe though. And the time to have eleven children.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Nowadays, we’re lucky to have enough time for one.” He pulled a dog-eared photo out of his wallet. “That’s my boy, James.”

  She peered at the black and white school picture of a little boy sitting stiffly. “How old is he now?”

  “Twenty-one, and lucky he ain’t in jail.”

  Unable to think of anything encouraging to say, Charity asked, “So…who’s taken over the building?”

  He put a screw in the new plaque. “Called IV Enterprises. One of those shell companies I think. You ask me, it’s the Chinese behind it. They’ve bought up a lot of real estate in Washington.”

  IV? Sounds like a medical company. “Have you seen the new owners? Did they hire you?”

  “Nope, just their secretary—or maybe their front. Classy.” The man fanned his face. “A real looker.”

  “Well, thanks.” She turned around and realized she had no idea in which direction to go. “Can you tell me how to get to the Bass Hotel?”

  “The one on First Avenue? Sure.”

  When Charity reached the hotel, she went straight up to her room and called Rancor. He answered on the first ring. “There you are. I’ve been waiting all day. Report!”

  Was there an “I miss you” in all that? “We went to Whidbey Island and got lost looking for the winery. Then we discovered that the play Isabella said Finney was going to didn’t start ’til tomorrow. So we came home.”

  “Hmm. Isabella seems to be off her game.”

  “Or on it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if she’s deliberately missing Finney.”

  “Protecting him?”

  “Maybe. And guess what.”

  “I don’t want to. Just tell me.”

  “I came across HHR Press. Only it’s no longer HHR Press. It’s IV Enterprises. The handyman thought it might be a shell company.”

  “Pretty impressive for a handyman. Are you sure he wasn’t a cop or something?”

  She thought of the dog-eared wallet and the little boy, James. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then we’re on our own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Isabella told me she would get in touch with the Seattle police—see if they could keep tabs on Finney.”

  “She didn’t mention that to me.”

  “Maybe I misunderstood her.”

  “Taken in by her perfect smile?”

  “Nah. Although it is brilliant, isn’t it?”

  Why does he do that? “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “What? That’s it? No air kiss?”

  “Save it for Isabella.”

  ****

  The ringtone woke her at eight the next morning. The same deep-throated voice purred, “Ready for another stab at it?”

  No. “What have you got?”

  “Michael made a reservation for lunch in the restaurant in the Space Needle. I’m betting he’s meeting with whoever he sells the manuscripts to. We can confront them both.”

  I’ll give her one more chance. “Okay.”

  “I’ll pick you up at one. Oh, it’s pretty fancy. Do you have a nice dress? If not, I can lend you one of mine. Of course, we’d probably have to let it out some.”

  Such a darling woman. “Thanks, but I packed something appropriate.” Make that, should have. “I…uh…I’ve got some things to do this morning. Why don’t I take a taxi and meet you there?” She called the lobby. “Mr. Waters, is there a clothing store nearby?”

  Four hours later, she met Isabella at the entrance to the Seattle landmark, sporting a brand-new gray-and-red plaid dress that brought out both the silver in her eyes and the copper in her hair. They took the elevator up to the SkyCity Restaurant. The round room was awash in hazy light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Charity felt slightly dizzy and wondered if the altitude was getting to her. Isabella said loudly, “You do realize the restaurant is turning, don’t you?”

  Sure enough, when she looked out and down, it was clear that the room was slowly moving. The maître d’ greeted them. “Yes, indeed. SkyCity rotates three hundred sixty degrees every hour, affording our patrons a truly panoramic view of Seattle and Puget Sound. Now, may I have the name of your party?” He held a pen poised above the reservation book.

  “We don’t have a reservation. We’ve just arrived in the city. We’re all alone and simply famished. Could you by any chance find us a table for two?” Isabella gazed soulfully into the man’s eyes and then down to his chest. “Cecil?”

  Cecil regretted very much, all the while bestowing admiring glances on Isabella, but there were no tables available. Perhaps the ladies would care to make a reservation? He opened the book. “We have an opening at two p.m. on…March 4. That’s a Tuesday.”

  Oh, a Tuesday. Why didn’t you say so?

  “That’s too bad. We’re only in town for a few days. Actually”—she moved a little closer to him—“we’d just like to speak to a patron. A former colleague. His name is Michael Finney.”

  He looked the list over. “I see no Michael Finney here. Perhaps it is under another name?”

  Isabella’s lip quivered oh so slightly. “Oh dear, it must be. He is lunching with someone, but I don’t have the other man’s name. Could we perhaps stroll around a bit? Spy him out?”

  “I’m afraid not. It is against our policy to allow people to hop tables. I am so sorry.” He looked genuinely grief-stricken.

  Charity leaned in. “Could we have a drink at the bar?”

  The great Cecil appeared to have noticed her for the first time. “Well, that can be arranged. Right this way.”

  Charity started to follow him, but Isabella grabbed her arm and hissed urgently, “No, let’s forget it. If we see him, they won’t let us talk to him. I think we should go downstairs—catch him on the way out.”

  Charity let herself be piloted out to the elevator, but when they got to the bottom she shook her arm free. “Look, this is getting ridiculous. I’m—we’re—wasting our time. My flight leaves tonight. Please, just take me back to my hotel.”

  “You sure? Okay.”

  Is it my imagination or did she just relax? “You can keep us up to date.” I won’t sit by the phone though.

  Isabella didn’t speak again until she dropped Charity off at the hotel. “Have a good flight. I’ll let Rancor know how we fared.”

  “It’s all right—we’ve been in constant touch.” Take that.

  Isabella blinked, but her face remained bland. “Nonetheless.” She waved gaily and roared off.

  Charity called Rancor and told him about the latest washout. “I’m sure now she’s doing it on purpose. She was pleased to hear I’m leaving tonight.”

  “What would she be playing at then? It doesn’t make sense. We only lost a few manuscripts. She lost her job because of Finney. She should be even more desperate than we are to find him.”

  “Maybe she’s known where he is all along.”

  “You think she’s in on it with him?”

  She hesitated only a moment. “I do.”

  “You’re sure you’re not just suspicious of a pretty face?”

  “Rancor, stop it. You should have seen her expression when I said I’d had it. She positively glowed. Her plan has been to take me on all these wild goose chases—with Finney always out of reach or disappearing just before we get there.” She thought of something. “She did it with you too.”

  “Me! Oh, you mean, the Amtrak and New York sightings? Hmm. Are you suggesting that he was never there at all?”

  “No, but the question arises: how would she know where he was going to be if he didn’t tell her?”

  “It could have been the undercover police detective she’s been working with.”

  “What! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just found out. Remember Isabella said she was going to contact them? Well, I asked her. A Detective Snyder has been tr
ailing Finney.”

  “According to her. Did you call the police and confirm it?”

  “Not yet. I just got off the phone with her. I’ll call them next…I suppose you want me to pick you up at the airport.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Heavy sigh. Are you bringing me a present?”

  “No, Rancor.”

  “Another heavy sigh, this time slightly more martyred.” He hung up.

  Charity felt at loose ends again. What to do? I know. I’ll go over to the IV building and see if anyone’s about. Maybe they can tell me what happened to HHR Press. She took her purse and walked to 19 Cherry Street. She rang the bell. No answer. A passerby said, “Who are you looking for?”

  “The company that just bought this building.”

  “I don’t think they’ve moved in yet.” The drizzle chose that moment to turn into a full-fledged deluge. The man shook out his umbrella. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  Even though Charity stood on the landing shivering in the downpour, it didn’t seem to occur to the man to offer to share his umbrella. He pointed to the corner. “There’s a bar over there. You might want to get out of the rain.” He walked on.

  Charity made a dash for the building. The bar—more a pub—was dry and snug. A fire blazed in the corner. She found a seat next to a mousy little man. The last few strands of hair had been carefully combed over his pate, and he sat hunched over, a tartan scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, a cup of cocoa between his palms. She ordered a Rusty Nail.

  He glanced at her. “Interesting choice of drink.”

  “I thought it would warm me up.”

  He coughed. “February in Seattle not toasty enough for you?” His voice was hoarse, but Charity imagined it would still be a bit grating in better health.

  “I got caught in the rain.”

  The bartender brought her her drink.

  The customer seemed inclined to chat. “You live around here?”

  “Just visiting.”

  He sipped his cocoa. “Not many natives around anymore. All newcomers.”

  “Really?”

  “Me, I’m third generation. Granddad came here from the east coast. Set up a business. It prospered. That is, until I came along.” His face drooped.