“They poop all over my beach.”
“It’s not your beach.”
“It’s as much mine as theirs. Now stop it, and come eat some breakfast.”
They had finished their coffee when Charity picked up her purse. “Shall I drop you at Publix?”
He checked his watch. “I’ll be early for my shift.”
“Well, you can do some shopping for dinner tonight.”
“I suppose you expect me to cook.” He emitted a heavy sigh. “The drudge work never ceases.”
“Trust me, you don’t want me to cook.”
“Other than the odd boiled egg. I remember. Well, it’s a good thing you’re perfect in every other way.”
“Yes, it is,” she remarked serenely.
She left him at the delivery entrance of the grocery store and spent a quiet day writing up her article on the fish fry at Pirate’s Landing.
At least seventy people consumed sixty pounds of fresh-caught mullet and all of Mrs. Connally’s famous coleslaw. As a token of appreciation for the hard work of the fishermen—Joe Moroni and Bill Bacon—a brand new fish-cleaning station was unveiled. Unfortunately, this had the effect of reigniting the only recently buried feud between the two, and fists flew. Distracted by the melee, no one noticed the flock of pelicans landing on the station until it was too late.
When she reached home, Rancor was busy in the kitchen. “They’ll be here any minute, Rancor. Hurry up.”
“Yes, dear. Right away, dear. I’ll just finish harvesting the lower forty before I paint the barn, okay?”
“As long as you get the stuffed galantine of turkey roasted and the eight-layer torte baked.”
“Be done in a jiff.”
The doorbell rang. “Welcome, Deirdre. Michael.”
Michael had a worried look on his face. “Charity, did you by any chance…”
“Why, yes, I did.” She handed him his cell phone.
“Thanks, I—”
“No need.”
Rancor came out. “Shall we eat first, then call your mother?”
Michael’s chin wobbled. Deirdre said, “Why don’t we relax and have a drink?” She held up a bottle of wine. “Then, after Michael’s talked to Mrs. Finney, we can discuss it over dinner.”
Charity reflected that Mrs. Penney seemed to have a knack for taking command. Fine. Whatever works.
Rancor poured wine for Deirdre and whiskey for himself and the other two, then they all sat down in the living room, faces turned expectantly toward Michael. He fidgeted. “Perhaps I should call her from the bedroom?”
“No, dear. Now, what are you going to ask her?”
“Well, I guess I should start by telling her I have HHR Press back.”
“Excellent.”
“Then I’ll ask her about Grandfather.”
“Good,” said Rancor. “Get her to spell out what she meant by the deed, the oath, and the promise.”
“She wouldn’t before—why would she now?”
“Because you will tell her we went to Cà d’Zan as she directed and found the note and the card. See what she says about that.”
“All right.” He gulped down his drink and picked up his phone. It jiggled in his hand. The group waited tensely. “Hello, Mummy? It’s me, Mikey. Did I wake you?” He checked his watch. “Oh, of course, it is much earlier there. Really? How much rain? I see. What? Oh…oh…I’m sorry to hear that….What did the vet say?…Well, if he feels you should put Snookums down, then…No, of course not, he’s a sweet dog. It was only four stitches. I forgave him ages ago.” He looked up to see three pairs of eyes shooting daggers at him. “Listen, Mummy, I have some good news. I got HHR Press back. Yes, she…the lady who wanted to buy it…yes…she decided not to, so I have the purchase agreement back. Yes, I thought you’d be happy to hear it.” He listened to what seemed to be a long tirade, holding the receiver an inch or so away from his ear. After a while, the strident voice slowed. Deirdre touched his hand.
“Oh! Oh, er, Mummy? Speaking of ‘deed,’ remember when we talked last week? Uh huh. And I asked about Edgar Finney and why he went to Seattle, and you said something about a deed, an oath, and a promise?…Yes, well, we did as you advised. We went to Cà d’Zan. By the way, I met a nice lady there.” He squeezed Deirdre’s hand. “What? Well, sometime, yes, but I…no, I’m not ashamed of you…yes, I’ll ask her, but Mummy, I’m trying to ask you something.”
Rancor started to reach for the phone, but Charity stopped him. Michael spoke quickly. “At Cà d’Zan, we found part of a letter in Grandfather’s room. We think it was written by Hedda Ringling. It mentioned a promise. Would that be the promise you meant? Yes?” He seemed to be listening. “Yes, but Mother—what was the promise?”
Deirdre whispered, “Was it to leave Sarasota and not come back?”
He nodded mutely. “We also found a business card in John Ringling’s room. Ringling had written a note on it to Edgar. Do you know anything about that? No? Oh. Really? That’s not what you sent me there for?” He shot an inquiring glance at Charity.
She mouthed, “Ask her when Edgar left Cà d’Zan.”
“Mummy? Do you know exactly when Grandpapa left Cà d’Zan? You do? Let me write it down.” He scribbled on a pad. “And why did he leave?…No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. What’s that? Deed? A horrible deed? Who did it?”
Rancor looked at Charity. “Not a property deed, a deed deed.”
She tapped Michael’s shoulder. “Was it a murder?”
Michael waved her off and listened intently. “I see. And after that, he made the promise… And she took an oath? What was it? Okay.” He put a hand over the receiver. “She says she took an oath to underwrite HHR Press in perpetuity.”
Deirdre gasped. “Who is she?”
“Hedda Ringling.”
Rancor’s voice trailed up to a shriek. “And the deed? What about the deed?”
Michael returned to the receiver. “Mummy? What was the deed? All right then, who did it?…Why not? We need to know, Mummy. Not me…someone else. Yes. Okay…Cà d’Zan again? All right. And look for…what did you say? The blood? Anything else? No, you don’t have to walk Snookums now. Mother…” His shoulders sagged. “Yes, Mother. No, Mother. Good night, Mother.” He hung up. “That’s it.”
Wisps of steam were rising from the top of Rancor’s head, so Charity took over. “Let’s eat.”
They filed into the dining room, and Charity brought out a large tureen. She ladled stew into soup plates and passed them down the table. Deirdre sniffed. “This smells wonderful. What is it?”
Rancor growled, “Navarin d’agneau.”
“Pardon me?”
Charity, who had read the recipe over Rancor’s shoulder, translated. “It’s a lamb stew with green peas and new potatoes. We’ll have salad after.” At least I learned something on my trip to Seattle.
Rancor grimaced. “Charity insisted a homey meal would go down better than my famous vindaloo curry.”
They fell to and gradually, under the attentive ministrations of Mrs. Penney, Rancor came back to himself. “Yes, I got the recipe from Jacques Pépin. Did you know he was invited to the United States to invent recipes for Howard Johnson’s frozen dinners?”
“I never! Did you hear that, Michael? You’d think he’d be ashamed to admit it.”
“Not at all—he was proud of his work. Anyway, I was in New York at a book festival, and he stood in line for an hour to get my autograph. To thank me, he offered to give me a cooking lesson. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I have a degree (among several others) from the Culinary Institute of America.” He waited for the oohs and aahs and went on. “He did teach me one thing—to deglaze with dry sherry rather than wine. It does add a certain subtle smokiness, don’t you think?”
It went on like that until Charity had had enough. “We need to hear from Michael. Now tell us everything your mother said.”
Rancor interrupted. “We already know what she said. Snookums will have to b
e put down.”
“And also that she knew about the letter but not about the card.”
“And she wants us to go back to Cà d’Zan. Does she think this is a game?”
Charity stuck a bowl of rum pudding napped with whipped cream and dried currants under his nose. “Dessert?”
The others ate theirs. When Charity thought things had calmed down, she asked Michael, “Now, when did Edgar Finney leave Cà d’Zan?”
“February 11, 1933.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm what?”
“The last time Trudy heard from her husband—”
“The telegram?”
“Yes.” Charity laid down her spoon. “It was dated February 10, 1933.”
****
They decided to meet at Cà d’Zan the next morning. Deirdre said, “I’m working tomorrow, so I can take you in as my guests before the museum opens.”
This cheered Charity no end. “Thank you! It means I’ll have enough change to put gas in the car.”
Rancor waved her aside. “More important, we’ll have the place to ourselves to search.”
Michael, Rancor, and Charity arrived at the employee entrance of the complex at seven, and Deirdre let them in. “We’ll have to walk down to the house.”
It being a beautiful day, only Rancor complained. They reached the house as the sun struck the cupola. Deirdre unlocked a side door, and they passed through into the dimly lit foyer. Their voices echoed under the high ceiling of the great hall. “Where do we start?”
“Not a clue. All she said was ‘look for the blood.’ ”
“It must be a stain on something. Or a painting?”
“Michael and Deirdre, why don’t you take the downstairs, and we’ll split the upstairs.” Rancor went to John Ringling’s room and sent Charity to Hedda’s. She checked the inside of the bureau drawers, the floor, even the bedspread. They met in the hall. “Nothing.”
“Let’s try the other rooms.”
A few minutes later, Rancor came up behind Charity, who was sitting on an upholstered chair overlooking the living room. “Anything?”
She shook her head. “We should probably try to bring the police in on it—CSI could find old blood better than we can.”
“Let’s see how the others fared.” They found them in the great hall. Michael lounged on a delicate settee while Deirdre idly but superbly played a nocturne on the grand piano. “Any luck?”
Michael shrugged. “I even checked inside the piano.”
“The kitchen is spotless. I suppose we could start going through the volumes in the library…” Not even Deirdre seemed happy at the prospect.
Rancor idly swung the velvet rope that surrounded the suit of armor. One of the stanchions began to tip, and Charity leapt to right it. Rancor paid her no mind and began to pace. “Blood…blood. Maybe she didn’t mean real blood. Maybe ‘bloodlines’? A genealogy?”
“Another reason to check the books.”
As all four desperately tried to think of some other avenue of approach, they heard a key turn in the front door lock. A young woman came in. She stared at them curiously. “Deirdre? What’s going on?”
“Oh, hi, Sally. These are my friends.” She glanced at the others. Rancor nodded. “They’re on a…a scavenger hunt. For the…uh…the Humane Society. You know, animals.”
“Scavenger hunt? You mean, like, to raise funds?”
Deirdre nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. For the pandas…I mean, er, puppies. We…they…must find items on a list and…and people contribute to the cause.”
Charity said brightly, “We had to get a photograph of Hedda Ringling—”
“Yes! And a newspaper clipping about the Ringling yacht—”
“And,” Michael chimed in, “a menu from the Ghost Hotel!”
Rancor shot him a look and added quickly, “Of course we’ve already collected those.” He gave the girl an imploring look. “Now all we have to find is a blood stain.”
Sally considered, lips pursed. “Blood stain, huh? I don’t think I’ve seen one on any of the furnishings. Maybe the carpet…” She looked past Rancor. “How about the knife? Would that work?”
“Knife?”
She gestured at the suit of armor. The handle of a silver knife shone dully from a mesh belt at the figure’s waist. “Steve Gardner—the curator—says the knife in the scabbard doesn’t belong to the same period as the armor. It’s all rusty, which he says means it’s made of inferior metal. The brown stains might look enough like blood for your purposes.”
Michael read the little card attached to the armor. “Why doesn’t he think the knife came with the armor?”
“Mr. Gardner says”—she wrinkled her nose—“that it was likely one of those purchases by Hedda Ringling, who—he says—didn’t know her…um…behind from her elbow when it came to Renaissance art.”
Charity murmured, “Robert Bass was stabbed to death.”
Rancor kept his face very still. “Thanks so much, Sally. Do you mind if we check it out?”
The girl looked around warily. “Steve’s not in yet. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want you to touch it.”
Deirdre patted her hand. “My dear, I take full responsibility. I’ll speak to Steve about it later. It is for such a good cause, you know.”
Rancor said airily, “We’ll return it by close of business. The curator will never know it’s gone.”
Sally hesitated, then nodded. “All right, but I’m splitting. You never saw me, okay?”
“Not a problem.” They watched her disappear into the kitchen. Rancor stepped up to the armor, wrapped a tissue around his hand, and yanked the knife out of its sheath. He gave it to Charity, who slipped it into her purse. They walked to the exit.
“I have to stay here, but call me later if you have news,” said Deirdre.
When they reached the parking lot, Rancor held out his hand. “Let me see it.”
Charity drew it out, still keeping the tissue wrapped around it. Russet stains covered the blade. “It has to be the murder weapon.”
“How do we find out for sure?”
“Jefferson at Sarasota CSI. He’ll help us.”
Dr. Jefferson was very busy but promised to test the knife that evening. “I’ll let you know.”
“You already have Robert Bass III’s DNA. Can you compare it?”
“Sure, but I won’t get back to you until Monday. Lab’s closed tomorrow.”
Charity spent Sunday pacing, Rancor spent it drinking, and Michael played endless games of solitaire. He finally went back to his hotel after Charity grabbed the cards and threw them away.
The phone rang at eleven Monday morning. Charity picked it up. “Hi, Doctor.” She listened. “Oh, that’s great. What? Another person? Any idea whose it is?…Yes, I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t.” She banged the receiver down. “He found DNA from two different people on the knife. One is Robert Bass’s.”
“And the other?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Calvin’s.” Rancor whipped out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Michael? Meet us at the forensics lab now. Address?” He twirled a finger at Charity. She wrote the address down and held it up before his face. “Two thousand one Siesta Drive. Second floor.” He hung up. “We’ll have to figure out a way to get Hagen’s DNA.”
“Wait! Hedda would have the same DNA as her brother, wouldn’t she?”
He stopped. “Or close enough. I wonder if she was cremated?”
“At any rate, there must be something of hers at Cà d’Zan that would still have her DNA on it.”
“Deirdre doesn’t work on Mondays. We can’t just barge in there on our own.”
“I’ll call her on the way. Maybe she can figure something out.”
Charity let Rancor drive, knowing that, despite the risks, they would get there faster. Michael waited for them in the lab parking lot. “Why are we here?”
“Lab found DNA of two people on the knife.”
“Oh?
Do they know who it belongs to?”
Rancor started to talk, but Charity put a hand on his arm. “Wait…” She nodded at Michael. “Why couldn’t the blood be Edgar’s? If he in fact was there that night?”
He gaped at her. “That would mean…”
“It could mean any number of things. He could have grabbed the knife away from Hagen. He could have been the one who hid the knife in the armor. He―”
Michael’s mouth dropped open. “Are you accusing my grandfather of conspiring to cover up a murder?”
Rancor patted his shoulder. “No, of course not. But, just to be sure, would you let them take a DNA sample?”
“No!”
Charity said soothingly, “As soon as we eliminate Edgar, we can go to Cà d’Zan and find something with Hedda’s DNA.”
Michael looked puzzled. “Why would you want that?”
“Because Rancor thinks Calvin Hagen, Hedda’s brother, was the murderer. If the blood is a close match to Hedda’s DNA, it’s likely Calvin’s.”
Rancor declared, “And we have our villain. And we can all go home.”
The little man hesitated. Charity quickly took his hand and led him into the building.
The same young woman swabbed Michael’s cheek and took it to the lab. “It’s been very quiet, so we should have results fairly quickly.”
Four hours later, they waited impatiently in the reception area. Dr. Jefferson appeared, wreathed in smiles. “Well, I must say today is a banner day for our new rapid DNA-testing equipment. Used to take up to six days, but with this new automated system we’ve brought it down to a few hours.”
“Fantastic.” Rancor was increasingly agitated. “But what’s the verdict?”
“It’s a match. Whose DNA did we use?”
They all turned to face a trembling, red-faced Michael. Before anyone could speak, the young woman came bustling out. “Dr. Jefferson? Could you come back to the lab? Ernie wants to talk to you.”
Jefferson excused himself and followed her. A few minutes later he rushed back out. “The plot thickens, folks. Ernie—he’s our forensic serologist—says he found the DNA of a third person on the knife. Did you only find the one skeleton? Could it have been a double murder? Murder suicide? Murder, murder, suicide?” He flapped his arms excitedly, then sat down at his desk and picked up his phone. “I’ve got to call Fred—he’ll want in on this.”
The Pit and the Passion Page 30
