The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “You mean, you think the librarian had a crush on Mrs. Ringling?”

  Michael huffed. “Or the other way around.”

  Rancor opened his mouth for what Charity assumed would be a derisive comment, but Deirdre cut in, her expression sentimental. “It’s just the romantic in me. She and John were having problems. She had no one to turn to, since the servants were still loyal to Mable.” She sighed. “Hedda must have been quite lonely.”

  Rancor looked at Charity. “HHR as a tribute to unrequited love?”

  “Maybe.”

  Finney spoke up. “Then why did he quit on such short notice?”

  Mrs. Penney said, “Because he knew he could never have her. He must have been a true gentleman.” She gave Michael a speculative glance.

  He started and blushed. “The men in my family have always been quite…er…old-fashioned.”

  “How nice.” The two edged closer to each other.

  Rancor remarked, “I read somewhere that Finney left Cà d’Zan because of a feud with Hedda. Something about a book.” His eyes flickered.

  Is he trying to smoke her out?

  “Hogwash.”

  “So…you’ve come across nothing to suggest a breach?”

  She hesitated. “Well, there were rumors at the time that they had had a disagreement over something. I believe John Ringling wrote about it in one of his journals.” She looked at Michael. “Did I mention he and Edgar were good friends?”

  Michael moved to a chair next to hers. Rancor took Charity’s hand and pulled her toward the door. For once his whisper did not carry. “Let’s give the two lovebirds a chance to get acquainted.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “On a tour of the house.”

  “Good. I want my money’s worth.”

  Under the watchful eye of the guard, they wandered around the great hall and the ballroom. Passing through a butler’s pantry, they entered a cavernous kitchen, devoid of people. Rancor pointed to a narrow stairway. “This must be the servants’ passage to the second floor. Come on.”

  He ducked under a velvet rope.

  “Rancor! We’ll get caught.”

  “Not if you’re quick. Hurry.” A small door at the top opened onto an interior gallery that ran around three sides of the house. He began opening drawers in the occasional tables scattered about.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, that’s an exercise in futility.”

  “Not really. I’ll know it when I see it. Remember, Michael’s mother said he’d find the answer in Cà d’Zan. There must be something here, something obvious.”

  “What were the three things she mentioned? A promise, an oath, and a deed. Maybe we should be looking for a deed.”

  “Right. Okay, there’s nothing here.” Rancor opened a door. “This must be the maid’s room.” They checked the bureau and under the cot. “Nothing.”

  The next room clearly belonged to a lady. Satin pillows were piled high on a canopy bed. On the dresser lay a set of sterling silver brushes. “Hedda’s?”

  “You know,” said Charity as she checked under the bed, “this house has been a museum for decades—I doubt if there’s anything here that hasn’t been examined a million times.”

  “No one was looking for a deed.”

  “Or a promise. Or an oath. What would such things look like?”

  “A promise could be a ring.”

  “And an oath?”

  “I don’t know—a coat of arms? The Boy Scout pledge? Some kind of inscription?”

  “Come on, let’s try the next room.” This turned out to be another small room with a simple cot, wash basin, and chest.

  “There. On the chest. Initials.”

  Rancor bent down. “E. F. And over here—several books from the library with index cards stuck in them. This must have been Edgar Finney’s room.”

  “That’s right. Michael mentioned he’d been given a room in the mansion.” Charity pulled up the mattress. “Hullo, what’s this?” She drew a folded slip of lavender-colored paper out. “It was stuck in one of the springs.” She opened it. “Looks like part of a note.”

  Rancor took it from her. “Female handwriting. First section is torn off. All I can make out is ‘…can never be, not after last night. Remember your promise. H.’ Gotta be Hedda.”

  “Why? Why not a maid?”

  He held up the scrap. “Look at the stationery—embossed vellum. And it’s the same color as the letter we read at Beatrice’s house. Unless the maid stole Hedda’s writing paper, it’s Hedda.”

  Charity reread the fragment. “This is so baffling. What did he promise? Is this a Dear John letter?”

  “Could be. It sounds as though the affair had already happened, and she’s ending it.”

  “Maybe, but it doesn’t comport with her letter to Mistinguett. She sounded genuinely upset that Ringling was divorcing her.”

  “Maybe she’d gotten over Finney by then.” Rancor put the note in his pocket. “Now for the master bedroom.” They walked around the gallery, taking care to stay out of sight of the guard. A laminated card by a door indicated John Ringling’s bedroom.

  The room was large and faced west across Sarasota Bay. Below them, a vast terrace of variously colored marbles set in a zig-zag pattern spread out like a giant chessboard. Two carved beds in the Renaissance revival style of Napoleon III sat against one wall. Opposite them stood a rolltop desk. “Will you look at all the velvet in this place? It had to be sweltering in the summer.”

  “I believe they spent their summers in New York or traveling in Europe.”

  “That’s right—they had their own train.”

  “Do you suppose the ghost is Mable?”

  “You mean, the woman in the Pullman car? Maybe. Another story to pursue after this is over.”

  Charity was captivated by the view. “I read that Ringling moored his steam yacht Zalophus here.” She watched as a gaggle of pelicans floated past. “There must be a regatta over at the sailing squadron. See all the boats milling around?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Come on, we’ve got work to do.” Rancor began methodically searching the bureau drawers. The massive walnut desk was locked. “Do you have a hairpin?”

  “A hairpin? What year do you think this is anyway?”

  “Sorry—getting into the spirit of the age.” He gazed at her. “With that long red braid of yours, you could be the Irish cook.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “Well, the lady of the house would have her hair bobbed…and I guess wouldn’t have a hairpin either.” He stood still. “Wait, they’re called bobby pins, aren’t they? I wonder…Who was Bobby and what was he doing in a girl’s hair? Was he an early Don Juan? A hairdresser? And another thing—”

  “Rancor.”

  He sighed. “So how do I pry this open?”

  Charity rummaged through her purse. “I think…yes, I have one of those eyeglass repair kits.” She pulled out a tiny screwdriver. “Will this do?”

  “Perfect.” He fiddled with the keyhole until they heard a click. Rolling it up, he had to catch the pile of letters that tumbled out. He handed a bunch to Charity. “Go through those.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “A deed, I guess. Anything to do with Edgar Finney.”

  She dutifully went through them. “Mostly letters from creditors demanding payment.”

  “Here are some more.”

  Meanwhile, Rancor pulled each drawer out and shook it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “There’s always a secret compartment in these desks—a false bottom or something. Ah.” He slid a flat piece of wood out. “Eureka.” He set aside a heavy gold wedding ring and held up a business card. A small note had been clipped to it. “It says, ‘Edgar, you know what to do.’ ” Rancor slipped the note off and stopped, staring at the card. Silently, he handed it to Charity.

  Of heavy white stock, it had a logo stamped on it—
the letter B in raised green ink inside a blue circle. She turned it over. Someone had written in large block letters “ELEVEN P.M. AT RC.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Frog Prince

  “Wow.”

  “Wow.”

  Rancor put the papers and drawers back in the desk and rolled the top down. “Let’s get out of here. I want to think this through with a glass in my hand.”

  Charity had a feeling he didn’t mean a magnifying glass. “What about Michael?”

  “We’ll pick him up on the way out.”

  They snuck down the back stairs and strolled down the hall to the library, where they found Michael and Mrs. Penney in deep conversation.

  “Hello, hello,” Rancor shouted heartily. “Getting along famously, are we?”

  The blush showed right through the sparse hairs on Michael’s head, reminding Charity of a round, red balloon. “I…uh…Deirdre and I were talking books.” He didn’t seem to expect them to believe him.

  “Deirdre, huh?” Rancor’s mouth twitched. “We’re heading out. Do you want to come or…?”

  Finney cast a sideways glance at the docent. “The house will be closing in a few minutes. Deirdre…Mrs. Penney…has kindly accepted my offer of a ride home. She usually takes the bus.”

  Charity pressed her lips together to hide the smile. “Um, Michael, you came with us, remember?”

  “Oh! Oh dear.” He turned to Mrs. Penney. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “That’s all right.”

  She turned away, but he hesitated. “Perhaps I could accompany you on the bus?”

  She turned back, a lovely smile on her lips. “That would be very nice. You are most certainly a gentleman, just like your grandfather.”

  Rancor backed out. “Give us a call, and I’ll come get you, Michael.” He ran down the sidewalk to the parking lot. Half an hour later, they sat in Tommy Bahama’s on St. Armands Circle. Once the waiter had brought their margaritas, he drew the card and the note from his pocket and smoothed them out on the table. “So…what have we got?”

  “A fragment of a letter probably written by Hedda, a business card, and a note to Edgar.”

  “Let’s set Hedda’s missive aside for the time being. Give me the card.” He pointed at the logo. “That’s the Bass family crest. We know my grandfather was in Florida. This card has to be his.”

  Charity was less certain. “You said your great-grandfather had business interests in Florida already. It could have been any Bass employee.”

  Rancor bit his lip. “Perhaps. At any rate, it means we were involved with Ringling in some way. I say for the time being we work under the assumption that it was Robert.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s stick with the facts we have. I propose we call the card owner Mr. X.” Charity turned the card over. “ ‘ELEVEN P.M. AT RC.’ Two questions arise: what is RC? And who was Mr. X going to meet?”

  “Well, the card was in John Ringling’s possession.”

  “Then why the note to Edgar?” She pointed at the small square of paper. “ ‘You know what to do.’ ”

  “Sounds ominous, like he’s telling him to put a horse’s head in X’s bed. Cool.”

  Charity ignored Rancor’s breathless hiccup. “Or…could he be telling Edgar to meet with Mr. X?”

  “Then why not say that?” Rancor closed his eyes. “Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree. Maybe the note and card are totally unrelated.”

  “Weren’t they clipped together?”

  “So Ringling was a neatnik.” Rancor sipped his drink thoughtfully. “Let’s move on. So two people met at RC…RC…of course! The Ritz-Carlton. The Ghost Hotel.”

  “Makes sense.” Charity finished her drink. “To recap. We have all these threads intersecting at an elevator shaft on a starless night some eighty years ago.”

  “Why starless?”

  “Must have been.”

  “This isn’t fiction you know, Charity. You can’t just create the atmosphere you want.”

  To shut him up, Charity raised her eyes and her voice. “Who was there at the pit? Why were they meeting there?”

  “And why in the middle of the night? I can’t see a man like John Ringling sneaking around his own building site, especially considering his bulk.”

  “And why kill the person you’re meeting?” Charity rubbed her chin. “You know, it’s possible it was an accident. It was probably pitch dark—”

  “Starless?”

  “Precisely. Mr. X doesn’t see the pit and falls into it. Edgar—or Ringling—panics and runs back to Cà d’Zan.”

  “And then what? Why not just tell someone? If it was Finney, why bolt?”

  “I would imagine because his employer would be none too happy with him for misplacing an associate.” Charity stood up. “Too much speculation. I think we have to go back to the skeleton. Forget the Ringling circus for now.”

  “Ha ha. You think perhaps a call to Auntie G. is in order?”

  “Yes.” She paid the bill and they drove home. As they reached her door, Charity’s cell phone rang. Rancor pulled it out of his pocket. Charity toyed with the idea of ripping it from his hand but decided to wait. He pressed Talk. “Oh, hello. Sure, give me the address.” He hung up. “Our Romeo needs a ride home. He sounds reluctant.”

  “It’s only a first date.”

  “Yes, but look what we did on ours.”

  Charity scoffed. “I can’t see the timid Michael Finney—nor the decorous Deirdre Penney—in a passionate embrace.”

  “You’d be surprised what lurks in the heart of a jellyfish.” He kissed her. “I’ll be back later.”

  But he wasn’t back later. About midnight Charity gave up and went to bed. The moon had gone down when she felt warm breath on her cheek.

  “Hello, precious.”

  She opened her eyes. “Where have you been?”

  “With Michael. We’ve been inspecting a crime scene.”

  “The pit?”

  “The very same. It seemed appropriate to recreate the setting—see if it helped.”

  “And?”

  “Not really. I mean, the mysterious Mr. X and Edgar—or John—wouldn’t have met in an elevator.”

  “Of course not. There was no elevator. Remember? After Tommy T fell in, they boarded it over. No, it was an accident. In the dark Mr. X tripped, broke through the rotting boards, and fell into the pit.”

  “You’re asserting he also fell on a knife multiple times?”

  “Oops—I’d forgotten about that.”

  Rancor ran his fingers down her spine and around to her breast. Flicking at her nipple, he murmured, “Hmm. I wonder…passionate embrace…hmm. Look, I’ve got some things to do in the morning, so we’ll have to cut our lovemaking short. Come here.”

  She thought fleetingly about playing coy. In the end, that seemed an unnecessary waste of time.

  ****

  Rancor was gone when she woke up. She made herself breakfast, checked the news on her laptop, and headed to the office.

  “Hello there, stranger.” George seemed preoccupied.

  “Sorry—we’ve been chasing after the murderer.”

  “Murderer! Oh, you mean of the skeleton? What’ve you got for me?”

  “We’re pretty sure the police are wrong.”

  “Oh, they’ll love to hear that.”

  “I’m sure.” She turned serious. “Rancor thinks it’s someone from his family’s company, possibly even his grandfather, Robert Bass III.”

  “The murderer?”

  “No, no. The victim.”

  “Whoa. Tell me more.”

  She told him about Finney, of their search of Cà d’Zan, and finding the card and note.

  “You seem to have an embarrassment of facts, none of which hang together.” He rubbed his hands. “Let’s get to work.” He sat down at his desk, but his gaze went beyond Charity to the outer office and he paused
. “Um, we have a visitor.”

  Charity swung around. Isabella.

  The woman sashayed in. Today, her blonde hair was swept up in an elaborate French twist, held with a ruby-studded clip that matched her ruby-red dress. A long, thick gold chain swung fetchingly between her breasts. “Why, Mr. Fletcher, I thought I had an appointment?” Her long lashes flipped up and down. She did not look at Charity.

  “Yes, yes, you did, Miss Voleuse. I’m at your service. Charity, would you excuse us?”

  Charity opened her mouth to refuse but, at a look from George, left.

  An hour later, Isabella came out, her expression one of smug satisfaction. She didn’t say a word to Charity but sauntered out. Charity marched into George’s office. “What was that all about?”

  “Er…um…Miss Voleuse—Isabella—thinks Rancor is dragging his feet on the ghost story anthology. I must say I agree. I’ve yet to see a chapter.”

  “That’s because we’re still in the research phase.”

  “Well…” His eyes went vague. “She seems to think Rancor is spending too much time with you—that she would be better suited to work with him, having edited several of his other books.”

  “Really.” She hoped her voice oozed with sufficient venom.

  “Yes. She has offered her services to Kumquat House to nudge him along. I passed it along to Arlo, and he agreed.”

  “But George, she wants to steal the book!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I told you about how we kept missing Finney in Seattle. I think she deliberately led me on a wild goose chase. We’ve determined that she is actually the one stealing manuscripts. Not Michael.”

  “Michael…Finney?”

  “Yes. I think she bought the press from him so she can publish the books under another name.”

  “Huh. She didn’t tell me that.”

  “It’s now IV Enterprises. And she has yet to pay for it.”

  “You mean, for the business?”

  “Yes. Poor Michael—he’s going to be cut out of the will now, and he won’t even have her money.”

  George indicated a chair. “All right, spill.”