The Pit and the Passion

by M. S. Spencer

  “Okay. So, let’s review the remaining questions.” Rancor went to the minibar and retrieved a candy bar. “One, we need to find out the reason Edgar gave for his hasty departure. And two, the date that Edgar left for Seattle.”

  “Why?”

  “If it was before February 10, Edgar can be eliminated as a suspect.”

  “We know he founded the press in 1933. Deirdre”—Michael blushed at the name—“told me he left sometime in early 1933. She has yet to find a letter of resignation.”

  “Nothing in Ringling’s papers?”

  “No.”

  Charity took a bite of Rancor’s candy bar. “Perhaps your mother knows more than she’s saying.”

  Michael bristled. “My mother is a saintly woman. She would never, ever prevaricate.”

  Rancor filled the coffee machine and plugged it in. “Is that all she told you? To look in Cà d’Zan for the answer?”

  “Yes, that and the comment about the deed, the oath, and the promise.”

  “You must call her back.”

  Finney looked alarmed. “I doubt whether she’s calmed down from my last call. I don’t want to talk to her again until I’ve resolved the issue of the firm’s name.”

  “Damn it, Michael! No matter what Isabella’s been up to, you did sell her HHR Press fair and square. She’s entitled to name it whatever she wants.”

  The little man opened his mouth, but Charity interrupted. “She would be if she had actually paid him.”

  Michael nodded in agreement. “I still haven’t received the check.”

  “Oh, really? That’s different then. At least until you have it in hand, the company is still yours. Call your lawyer.”

  Michael cast a quick glance at Charity. “I…uh…don’t have one.”

  Rancor gawked at him. “What?”

  Charity nudged him. “Isabella told him he didn’t need one.” Rancor rounded on Finney. Before he could speak, Charity said loudly, “The firm must have a lawyer on retainer.”

  “We do…but he’s hired by the company. He’s not supposed to work on my private affairs.”

  “This isn’t private. Call him.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if it’s too late to back out of the settlement.”

  “I don’t know…” He accepted a mug from Rancor. “We did sign the papers.”

  “I’ll bet they’re not valid until the money exchanges hands.”

  Finney picked up the phone and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. “Lawyer confidentiality, don’t you know.”

  “Huh?”

  The two waited ten minutes. Finally, Finney came out, shuffling slowly, head down. “He says there is a window of opportunity, but very small. I’d have to take her to court to prove she had defaulted on the payment.”

  “That could take years.”

  “And if she came up with the funds during that time, I’d be up a creek.”

  Rancor poured himself some coffee. After a minute wasted darting nasty looks at him, Charity filled her own mug. “So…we have to get her on the stolen manuscripts.”

  “You think she’s the culprit?”

  “Well, we know it wasn’t you. She led us on a merry chase, didn’t she?”

  Charity spoke into the silence. “She’s here, you know. In Florida.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Rancor gazed at her. “How do you know?”

  “She came to see George—tried to convince him to give your ghost book to her. She said you couldn’t be counted on to finish it without her help.”

  Rancor rolled his eyes. “Is the woman mad?”

  “Or stupid?”

  Rancor shot her a look. “She’s not stupid. She must feel invulnerable though.”

  “Ah yes.” Charity let a drop of jealousy trickle out. “One cannot say no to the beautiful Isabella.”

  “That’s probably it.” Charity gave him a quick glance, but his expression remained stolid. “Look, it’s getting late. How about if we grab some lunch?”

  “Great idea.” Finney showed them the door. “I’ll be with you momentarily.”

  “Okay.”

  They piled into the Mini Cooper. As they drove down Tamiami Trail, Charity mentally went over her bank account. Rancor had informed her that he’d spent his first paycheck on the frog—“and the flowers,” he had added with a rare touch of sensitivity. Maybe I can extend that expense account a few more days. After all, I didn’t take advantage of it for half my Seattle trip. Engaged in happy daydreams of dollars from heaven, she almost missed the turn to the keys.

  “Hey!”

  She zipped in front of a minivan that had braked while its passengers gawked at the enormous statue of the sailor and the nurse embracing, and crossed the Ringling causeway to St. Armands Circle. They found a parking spot and walked over to the Columbia Restaurant. It was crowded, but the tall brunette who ran the desk with ruthless efficiency promised a table for three in ten minutes. As they waited, Charity scanned the customers. Her gaze halted at a far table. She pointed with a trembling finger. Rancor whispered, “Isabella.”

  “Who’s that with her?”

  “Why, wouldn’t you know? It’s the inimitable Holdridge K. Wheelock.”

  “He of the ‘I cannot accompany you but will gladly write a strongly worded letter’ fame?”

  “The very one. I wonder what it took to get him to break away from his probing study of the holistic approach to ant farming?”

  Charity noted Isabella’s loose white gauze outfit, just barely opaque enough to hide the billowing mounds of her breasts. “I can’t imagine.”

  Rancor frowned. “If he found Isabella, why didn’t he contact us?”

  “Why don’t you go ask him?” Did I really suggest that?

  “Maybe I will.”

  Michael cringed. “I don’t want to talk to her. She makes me nervous.”

  “Fine.” While the other two hung back, Rancor strode over to the table, stopping to say a word to the hostess. While his back was turned, Charity saw Wheelock hand a thick manila envelope to Isabella. She thrust it into her briefcase just as Rancor arrived at their table.

  “Why, Rancor Bass. Fancy meeting you here.” Even from a distance, Charity could make out the mellow tones of a carefully crafted baritone.

  “Hello, Holdridge. I see you’ve come to help Isabella with her…problem.”

  The man—his shock of white hair and flowing beard falling just short of a bad impression of Ernest Hemingway—stood and held out his hand. Isabella fluttered her lashes at Rancor and gave him a dazzling smile.

  “We were just finishing up, or I’d ask you to join us. Are you alone?”

  Rancor turned and pointed at the little troop pretending to read the menu. “No, I’m with my coauthor Miss Snow…and Michael.” He beckoned them to approach, but Michael hid behind Charity and refused to budge. Charity left him with the hostess and approached the table.

  Wheelock jerked. “Finney? What’s he doing here?”

  “His mother sent him. And he wanted to find you, Isabella.”

  “Me?” She contrived to look both amused and eager. “If he wanted to turn himself in, he could have gotten hold of me at any time.” She took a sip of her drink. Charity noticed her hand shook slightly. “However did you catch him?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t as hard to find as you thought.” Rancor’s tone bordered on threatening.

  Isabella tossed her blonde locks. “I’ve been doing my best. Ask…” She glanced at Charity. “I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name. Prudence? Patience? Some virtue.” She didn’t wait for an answer, but went on smoothly, “You know I’m happy to help in any way. I presume you’re going to have Michael arrested.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “For stealing your manuscript of course. Poor Holdy here lost his only copy of Customs and Rituals of the Caribbean Puritans.” She patted his arm fondly. “You know he refuses to back up his manuscripts. Too…er…”

 
“Twenty-first century?”

  “Yes, well…” She rose, picking up her purse and the briefcase and sidling around Rancor. “I have a meeting. Must be off.”

  He let her go. Charity had half expected him to lock handcuffs on her but realized there was nothing they could do until they had solid evidence. Once Isabella was out of sight, Rancor sat in the seat she had vacated. Michael edged nearer. Rancor fixed Wheelock with a hard stare. “What are you doing here, Holdridge?”

  Charity couldn’t resist. “And what did you give Isabella?”

  “What? Oh…er…just an article I wrote. She wanted to look it over.” His eyes wandered to the waiter. “I really must go.”

  Rancor put a hand on his forearm. “Not yet. Holdy, did you ask Isabella about the manuscripts?”

  “Er…yes…yes, I did. She…she says she believes Michael is responsible…” Here he nodded at the little man. “I told her it was more likely those Chinese pirates again. They must have hacked into HHR’s computers and ripped the submissions off.”

  “In that case”—Rancor was dangerously calm—“there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “That’s right.” The author stood up quickly and knocked his chair back. “Just chalk it up to bad luck.” A vein in his neck pulsed rapidly. “So, I hear you’re working on a ghost story anthology? A little out of your wheelhouse, no?”

  Rancor threw a nonchalant arm over Charity’s shoulder. “You know I can write in any genre, Holdy. Besides, it gives me a chance to work with a real pro. I’ve found a great publisher too.”

  “Oh? You’re not staying with HHR?”

  “Didn’t you hear? Michael sold it. To Isabella.”

  The man’s eyes grew wide, and his face flushed. “No, I… No. She didn’t tell me. I’ve…uh…I’ve got to go.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  Wheelock looked as though he wanted to lie but couldn’t think of a plausible one. “At the Ritz-Carlton in Sarasota.”

  “Great, we’ll have to get together for a drink.”

  The man slunk out of the restaurant. At the entrance, he glanced back, then disappeared. Charity and Finney sat down at the table. “Now what?”

  “Now we eat.”

  “What about Isabella?”

  “She’ll keep. Does she know George has canceled their agreement?”

  Charity pulled out her cell phone and dialed. “George? Have you called Arlo yet to explain the deal’s off with Isabella Voleuse? Yes? Did you tell her that she’s out yet? Great—no, no. Whatever you do, don’t tell her. Right. Yes, I will, when I get there.”

  After a meal in which conversation revolved around anything but Isabella, Charity felt better. They dropped Finney off at his hotel and headed back to Longboat Key. As she put the leftovers in the refrigerator, she said, “So, what do we do about Bo?”

  “Bo? Oh, you mean Isabella. The only hold we have over her is her lack of payment. As long as she doesn’t deliver, Michael has a chance to get HHR back.”

  “What about the thefts?”

  He clucked his tongue. “I’m afraid Wheelock’s right. Unless we catch her red-handed with our submissions, she can blame a hacker.”

  “This is so frustrating.”

  “Fear not—we’ll get her somehow. I wonder what Wheelock is doing here? Hmm. I think I’ll give Atalanta a call.”

  “Why her?”

  “Well, Jemimah isn’t the bright stick she used to be, and besides, she said she wanted no part of this. Come to think of it, she was right about poor Michael.”

  “What about Mr. Guttersnipe?”

  “Bernie? He has no imagination. Besides, Isabella told me he and Holdridge haven’t spoken in years.”

  “Atalanta is the erotic paranormal romance writer, right?”

  “Yup. Although recently she’s made noises about branching out into a different genre. She may be able to help. I want to see if she’s heard from Isabella or Holdridge recently.”

  He dialed a number. “Atalanta L’Amour, please. Rancor Bass calling.” He held a palm over the receiver. “She’s gone and hired herself a social secretary. Thinks it makes her look more swank…Betty? It’s me, Rancor. I’ve got news for you.” He told her about Isabella and Finney. “And today we saw her lunching with Holdridge…Really? Hmm. You don’t say. Let me know if you find it.” He hung up.

  “Betty?”

  He answered absently. “Betty Jones—Atalanta’s real name. “

  “Ah. So what did she say?”

  “That Wheelock had been to visit her last week. First he tried to convince her that the manuscript thefts were committed by a Chinese pirate. When she wasn’t persuaded, he slyly suggested Michael might be the guilty one.”

  “How did she react?”

  “She changed the subject. She told him she was on the last draft of a new book—a mystery set in Manhattan. He joked that she sure didn’t want to submit it to Michael and she said, oh no, she was keeping the only copy under her mattress and planned to hand carry it to her agent.” He poured himself a glass of water. “Yesterday, she discovered the manuscript was missing.”

  “Wheelock?”

  “She doubts it. Several people have been in the apartment since his visit, including the maid.”

  “Did she ever leave him alone in the room?”

  “Good question. I’ll give her another call.” He stood. “But first I think I’ll pay a visit to the new Ritz-Carlton. I understand it’s a bit more commodious than the old one.”

  “Ha ha. Drop me at the paper, would you? George wants to know why he can’t tell Isabella yet.”

  As she waved him off from the Planet parking lot, it occurred to her that she no longer resented his treating her car—not to mention her apartment—as his own. Oh dear, I may be getting used to having him around. She walked up the steps.

  The last person she expected to see sat—still in her white gauze outfit—in George’s office. Isabella. She gestured wildly at George through the glass. He came out, closing the door behind him.

  “You didn’t tell her anything, did you?”

  “No. But it hasn’t been easy putting her off. She wants to see Rancor’s manuscript.”

  “No problem. He doesn’t have one.”

  “Ah, well, that will help.” He peered at her. “You’ll enlighten me once I’ve gotten rid of her?”

  “Of course.”

  Charity waited, pretending to work at her desk, until Isabella stood up, whereupon she strolled to the door and stood with her back to it, blocking the exit. When Isabella came out, she chirped, “Oh, hi. How did you like the Columbia?”

  Isabella didn’t seem happy. “On the touristy side.”

  “Did you try the white sangria?”

  “I believe so,” she said absently.

  “It’s sooo good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes, it was.”

  “And where are you off to?”

  Isabella gave her a piercing look. “I have some errands to do. Why?”

  “Oh…” Charity managed an artificial titter. “We don’t have many public restrooms on the island. You might want to use our facilities before you go.” She walked to her laptop and sat down. “As my grandmother always used to say, ‘Try to keep empty.’ ”

  Isabella hesitated, then shrugged. “Thanks.” She left her briefcase and purse on the chair and went through the door marked Women. Quick as a pickpocket, Charity opened Isabella’s briefcase and took out the envelope Holdridge had given her. She popped it into her desk drawer and began typing furiously. Isabella came out, retrieved her bag, and left without a word to Charity.

  She listened for the roar of the Lamborghini to diminish and drew the envelope from her drawer. It was sealed. She went to the break room, set the kettle on, and steamed it open. George walked in as she slid a sheaf of papers out of the envelope.

  She looked at the title page, then silently handed it to George. He read it aloud. “The Sexpot Shifter and the Burning Cave, by Atalanta L’Amour. Fina
l Draft.” The author’s name had been crossed out with blue ink, and “Sebastian Frye” inserted in its place.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Lady Packs Heat

  Rancor put the manuscript down and sipped his coffee. “Are we looking at the smoking gun?”

  “Gotta be.”

  “Atalanta says the maid saw Holdridge go into the bedroom. When she asked him what he was doing, he claimed he was looking for the bathroom.”

  “Holdridge must have nicked it then. That means he’s in on it with Isabella.” She buttered a piece of toast. “So what’s next?”

  “We’d better get this to the police.”

  Charity paused. “Do they have jurisdiction?”

  “We’ll find out. It’s always best to start at the first rung.”

  “Okay.”

  They found Captain Kelly in his office. “Hey, Charity, haven’t seen much of you lately. What are you working on?”

  “Oh…er…lots of stuff. Right now we want you to bring a case of intellectual property theft.”

  “Whoa. We’re talking felony here. It’s probably something that should go to the district attorney. What have you got?”

  Rancor gave him a quick rundown.

  “Let me guess—it’s Chinese or Indians. Piracy’s rampant nowadays.”

  “Nope, although the perpetrators will try to claim that. We only got proof of their identities yesterday.” He slapped the envelope on the desk.

  Kelly pulled the papers out. “Who’s Atalanta L’Amour? Sounds pretty spicy.”

  “She’s a famous writer. This manuscript was removed from her apartment by one Holdridge K. Wheelock who turned it over to Isabella Voleuse to publish under a false name.”

  “Holdridge Wheelock? Isn’t he the author of that hilarious book on Christopher Robin? Why would he steal anybody’s work? Guy’s probably a millionaire.”

  Rancor snorted. “Average annual income for a writer—unless he’s a superstar like me—is nine thousand dollars. Holdy lives off his pension.”

  Charity felt a sudden twinge of doubt. “To tell the truth, we don’t know why he’s doing it.”

  “Isabella’s probably promised him a cut of the profits.”