“Well, aren’t you sweet. Maybe I shall reconsider complaining to Clara about your manners. Despite some youthful transgressions, you’ve become quite a courteous child. Why—”
“I’m so sorry, I must go, Auntie. Give my love to Mother and Uncle Orville.” Before she could start in again, he hung up and whooped. “Who, what, where, and now why.”
“What are you talking about?” said Charity crossly. “All we know is that Deirdre was right—Edgar had a crush on Hedda.”
“Don’t you see? He pledged his troth the night before she went to meet Robert at the Ghost Hotel.”
Deirdre said slowly, “And she rebuffed him.”
“He was angry, hurt.”
“He wanted to lash out.”
Michael spoke for the first time. “Then why didn’t he kill Hedda?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Confessions and Proposals
No one seemed to have an answer to the question. Finally Deirdre said, “I don’t know about you people, but I’m dog tired. I’m going home.”
Charity gave a relieved sigh. “A fresh start would be good.”
The two men looked at the women, amazed. “How can you stop now? We’re so close.”
“Are we? We have the means and opportunity, but still no motive for Bass’s killing. We need more information.” Deirdre marched out the door. “Michael, are you coming?”
The little man sprinted after her. Rancor watched them leave, his face puckered like a toddler about to have a tantrum. Charity patted his head. “Don’t make me call Aunt Gertrude.”
He blew out his cheeks. “All right. I suppose one more night won’t matter. Grandfather has been waiting more than eighty years for his exoneration. Shall we?”
The clock said two a.m. when Charity sat bolt upright in bed. She threw her arms out, whapping Rancor’s temple.
“Wha—? Ow!”
“I’ve got it! Hedda killed Robert, and Edgar—because he was in love with her—helped her hush it up. That’s got to be it. That’s why she promised to keep him financially afloat—it was a form of voluntary blackmail.”
Rancor rubbed his head. “We still have no motive. Hedda was trying to sell the hotel to Robert—what could he have done to make her want to kill him?”
“Come on to her?”
“Nonsense—she must have been twenty years his senior. On the other hand…” He stopped. “Maybe…hmm.”
“You have an idea?”
“I have to sleep on it. Good night.”
“Rancor!”
“What? You were the one who wanted a fresh start in the morning.”
“Hmmph.”
Rancor apparently took that as acquiescence and turned over. Within a minute, she heard a loud snore.
He refused to talk at breakfast, saying merely, “I have to run over to the newspaper office to check something. I’ll meet the three of you for lunch at one.”
“What are you going to check?”
“I just want to tie up a loose end.”
“Hmmph.”
“Your vocabulary used to be richer.”
“Hmmph.”
“See you later.”
Michael, Deirdre, and Charity waited at the Blue Dolphin as the minutes ticked by. Finally, Rancor ambled in. “Hey, folks. Did you order me a beer?”
Charity spoke for them all. “No. Where have you been?”
“I told you—the Planet office. Studying the archives. George was very helpful. Apparently, you have not been keeping him updated on our adventures, and he’s planning to transfer that raise he was going to give you to me. As a bonus. Also, you’re supposed to cover the Longboat Ladies Beer and Marching Society dance next week. You’ll have to rent a tux.”
Charity waded through the verbiage to the far bank. “What were you looking up? Oh, thanks, Tilda.” She accepted the beer and took a long pull.
Rancor gazed longingly at the bottle. “That looks awfully good. Will you share?”
“No.” At his bearish expression, she relented. “Tilda, could you get Mr. Bass a beer too? Bud Light.”
Tilda uncapped the bottle and set it down reverently before Rancor, but Michael grabbed it, holding it just out of reach. “All right, we’ve waited long enough.”
“Well, you know I’ve maintained all along that Calvin Hagen was the murderer.”
“Except there’s no DNA evidence for that.”
“I know, but being the thorough researcher that I am, I wanted to eliminate that angle before I presented my new theory. We knew from Hedda’s letter to Mistinguett that Calvin had arranged the meeting, but she also said something about a hitch in their plans. I thought to myself, hmm. Perhaps Hagen had bowed out. Could that explain why she wanted Finney to accompany her—because otherwise she’d have to go alone? Hoping to erase the stain of impropriety you’ve been so quick to ascribe to her—”
“Me!” Charity dropped her fork.
“Well, someone did. Anyway, I examined past issues for any news articles that mentioned Hagen. I found the series reporting on the disappearance of our friend Biddlesworth, which speculated on Hagen’s involvement. He was never charged, so the rumors eventually died down, and the Planet went back to its normal hyperbolic coverage of bridge tournaments and bingo parties.”
“Ahem. Do you mind?”
“Oh, sorry, Charity, forgot you worked there. So did George. Maybe because you haven’t shown up for a while. Now…where was I?”
“Hagen.”
“Well, I had about given up when George asked if I wanted to go through the police blotters. The paper uses them to write up the weekly column on petty crimes. Did you know that Longboat Key isn’t even included in the map of the Manatee County incident reports? The worst infraction committed here in the last ten years was when old Mrs. Hinckley took a frying pan to her neighbor’s head because she refused to give her her recipe for gumbo. Anyhoo,” he added hastily as the others rose like angry villagers, “I checked the Sarasota files and guess what? A Calvin Hagen had been arrested for public drunkenness in the wee hours of February 9, 1933. He was not bailed out—by his brother-in-law John Ringling—until the afternoon of February 11. He was therefore incarcerated during the events in question.”
The other three nursed their drinks. Tilda brought sandwiches for everyone but Rancor. “You didn’t order lunch for me either?”
Tilda gave him an adoring smile. “I’ll get you something right away, Mr. Bass. What would you like?”
“Why thank you, Tilda. I’ll have that scrumptious sandwich—the one with turkey.”
“The Rachael?”
“That’s the one. Oh wait!” He signed his name on a napkin with a great number of flourishes. “Perhaps your sister would like my autograph.”
“Oh, Mr. Bass, thank you! I’ll…uh…make sure she gets it.” She ran off to the kitchen clutching the napkin. Rancor watched her go, his eyes on her shapely rear.
Charity stepped hard on his foot, bringing his attention back to the conversation. “So, Calvin Hagen is off the hook. Are we then working on the assumption that Hedda offed Mr. Bass?”
“Not at all.”
Tilda appeared with a plate piled high with French fries and a sandwich six inches thick. She dropped it in front of Rancor and said breathlessly, “Another beer, Mr. Bass? It’s on me…I mean, my sister.”
“Sure, thanks.” He gave her a brilliant smile, dwelling for a minute too long on her ample bosom, before continuing. “Okay, here’s the thing. Deirdre gave me the idea—”
This prompted a quizzical stare from that lady. “What idea?”
“Shh. That Edgar had a crush on Hedda. The letter Beatrice sent confirmed it.”
“Doesn’t that point to his wanting to protect her?”
“Or to a ferocious possessiveness.” At this, everyone looked at Michael. He went pale—or rather, paler.
“I can’t see it,” said Charity.
“It doesn’t have to run in the family. Are you going to let me fi
nish?” He took a large bite of sandwich and chewed slowly.
“Rancor…”
“Okay, Hedda went to meet Robert Bass the night of February 10. Evidently, the hussy had no compunction after all about wandering the streets in the dead of night.”
“Now you condemn her.” Charity’s tone was growing increasingly restive.
Rancor ignored her. “On the other hand, it was the Roaring Twenties…Oh wait, we’d moved on to the muffled thirties. Anyway, Hedda appears to have flouted the conventions and set up a rendezvous on her own.”
Deirdre interrupted. “Perhaps she was forced to because her brother was hors de combat.”
“Good point. I’m glad to see you women are coming around. I always say, give the filly the benefit of the doubt. She—”
At this, Charity made a sound deep in her throat which terrified not only her companions but the couple in the next booth, who grabbed their boxes of leftovers and made for the exit.
“Moving on…” Rancor picked up the pace. “So, John Ringling gets wind of her plan somehow and sends Edgar to stop her. Whether he knew of the deal or thought Hedda was having an affair, we’ll never know.” He took a swig of beer. “Now, Edgar is still smarting from Hedda’s rejection. He goes to the hotel. It’s dark—there would have been no street lights in that area then.” He shot a glance at the smoldering Charity. “Plus it may have been overcast.”
She cheered up. “So…starless?”
“Possibly. He sees Hedda huddling with a stranger and immediately assumes the worst. Maddened by jealousy, he stabs Robert to death.”
“That would explain the number and severity of the wounds.”
“Yes. Hedda is horrified. She grabs the knife from Edgar and puts it in her purse.”
“Aha. That’s why Hedda’s DNA was only on the knife handle.”
“Yes.”
Michael put his mug down. “So who knocked Robert’s teeth out? It couldn’t have been Hedda.”
“No, but it was probably her idea. Remember, CSI found some shards of oak with the skeleton. Edgar must have picked up a stake—”
“Or retrieved it from the pit—remember, Tommy was killed by a falling beam.”
Rancor nodded approvingly at Charity. “He used it, then threw it back down on the body.”
Deirdre leaned forward, her sandwich untouched. “Then what happened?”
“They go back to Cà d’Zan. Hedda is about to call the police, but then she realizes that her secret negotiations will have to come to light, and Ringling will be furious. He’s already served her with divorce papers once. She knows he’ll do it again if he finds out. So she makes a deal with Edgar.”
“But what about Robert? How did they know no one would come looking for him?”
“She must have told my grandfather that she wanted to keep the deal under wraps, and he went along with it. He was probably thrilled at the prospect of springing the completed transaction on his father.”
“Thereby mitigating the well-deserved reprisals for flouting his father’s orders to go to Nebraska.” Charity clapped her hands.
“So, you see? It all makes sense.”
Michael pushed the food around on his plate. “So, to sum up. Edgar kills Robert. He and Hedda drop the body down the elevator shaft. They return to Cà d’Zan and hide the knife in the suit of armor. That’s the deed.”
“Here comes the oath and the promise,” said Deirdre eagerly.
“Yes. Edgar swears he’ll leave town and never return. Hedda promises to set him up in business and keep him financially secure.”
“That’s what Michael’s mother said.”
“Yes, and I think if you confront her with my description of the events, she’ll have to confirm it.”
“I don’t know…” Michael stared at his plate. “She gets so upset. Do we really have to bring it up again?”
Deirdre lifted his chin. “My dear, we need to settle this. I know it’s hard to accept that your grandfather was capable of murder, but think of it more as a crime of passion. And contrary to what some people think”—she looked pointedly at Rancor—“passion is in the Finney blood. Look at how you fought to regain HHR Press.” She blushed ever so slightly. “Not to mention your…er…enthusiasm in other pursuits.”
Rancor stared at her, and Charity held a hand over her mouth to stop the giggle. Michael didn’t seem to notice them. He straightened and slapped a determined expression on his wishy-washy face. “I’ll do it. Then we can get on with our lives.”
They returned to Charity’s apartment. After a few hems and haws, Michael dialed his mother’s number. “Mummy? It’s Mikey again….Oh you were?” He put a hand over the receiver and whispered, “She says she’s been expecting my call.”
Rancor waved at him. “Go ahead.”
“Mummy, we found the knife.” He listened intently for a full five minutes, his face alternately shocked and frightened. He finally said, “Thank you for telling me…No, of course not. It was a long time ago. All right, I love you too. I’ll be home soon.”
No one said a word. Michael sat quietly, hands in his lap, his eyes closed. Not until Deirdre coughed softly did he speak. “My grandfather, Edgar Finney, murdered Robert Bass III and threw his body down an elevator shaft at the Ghost Hotel on February 10, 1933. He confessed it to his son on his deathbed. It was supposed to end there, but my mother listened at the door and heard his confession. Father died without telling anyone, and my mother intended to do the same, until I lost HHR Press. She decided she had to explain, so I would understand why I had to get it back.”
Deirdre sat down next to him and took his hand. “And you did, my dear. You righted the wrong.”
A tear coursed down Michael’s cheek. “But my grandfather…a murderer!”
She spoke decisively but gently. “Not a murderer. A lover. I’m sure he thought he was protecting Hedda. Remember, she said he was her knight in shining armor.”
Rancor muttered so low only Charity could hear. “More like Bad Sir Brian Botany.”
Deirdre raised Michael to his feet and led him out to the balcony. When they were out of earshot, Charity turned to Rancor. “Bad Sir Brian Botany?”
He grinned. “A. A. Milne.
‘Sir Brian had a battleaxe with great big knobs on;
He went among the villagers and blipped them on the head.’ ”
He mimicked someone whapping another with a stick. “Take that and that and that!”
Charity decided that to respond would only encourage the man. After a minute, she said slowly, “So…all the threads were connected after all. The skeleton, the publishing firm, the Ghost Hotel. Even Tommy T. It’s funny…”
“Funny ha-ha or funny weird?”
“Both. If it weren’t for Isabella—”
“I knew you two would eventually hit it off.”
“Er, sorry to disappoint.” She smiled at Finney as he and Deirdre came in. “I’m very much looking forward to reading Michael’s exposé.” She tapped her lips with a finger. “I wonder if Frank has a mug shot of her. I could frame it and put it on my bureau.”
Rancor pinched her. “So? What about Isabella?”
“I mean the manuscripts. If she hadn’t stolen them, we wouldn’t know about Edgar or Hedda or Calvin…” She looked at Rancor. “You wouldn’t have been broke and accepted Arlo Mickenbacker’s offer. You wouldn’t have come to Longboat Key…”
“And we never would have met.” They gazed at each other, dismay intermingled with a tentative joy on both faces.
Behind them, Deirdre cleared her throat. “There’s one more question to be answered.” She turned to Michael. “Did your mother say why Edgar killed Mr. Bass?”
Michael made a sound halfway between a chuckle and a groan. “It wasn’t out of a jealousy after all. Edgar didn’t know it was Bass. He believed it was Calvin Hagen.”
“But…Robert’s card?”
“Edgar didn’t know about the card.”
“He didn’t see Ringling
’s note?”
“Mother says he didn’t know about either one.”
Charity threw up her hands. “So why did he go to the Ghost Hotel that night?”
Rancor jumped up. “I’ve got it. Ringling found the card with the rendezvous details on it, figured out what Hedda was planning and wanted Edgar to stop it. He was going to give the note to his friend, but instead just told him to go to the hotel that night. Then he hid the papers in his desk.”
“Right. So my grandfather knew that Hedda would be at the Ritz at eleven that night, but he didn’t know why.” He paused. “I should perhaps explain that Hagen had been blackmailing his sister, which she had confessed to Edgar.”
Rancor whistled. Deirdre put a hand on his arm. “Go on, Michael.”
“She had something in her past that couldn’t come out—Mother isn’t sure what it was but thought perhaps she was still married to someone else. When Edgar arrived at the hotel, he spied Hedda, but before he could approach her, he saw a second figure. In the dark, he could only make out his silhouette and took it into his head that she was meeting her brother to deliver a payment. He flew into a rage and stabbed the man—to protect her, his darling. When he learned the truth, he realized that—for all the reasons you gave, Rancor—they had to keep it quiet.”
Charity stirred. “What about John Ringling? Did he know about the murder?”
“No. Neither Hedda nor Edgar told him. Naturally, he wouldn’t ask Hedda directly about the affair, preferring to let the matter rest. Edgar packed his stuff and left the next day.”
Deirdre said, “It was fairly soon after that that Ringling served Hedda with the final set of divorce papers. She said on several occasions—”
“Including in her letter to Mistinguett.”
“That she was shocked and surprised to be served. She thought she’d gotten away with it.”
“She did keep her oath to support HHR Press.”
“That’s why he named it that—to enshrine his love for her.”
Michael said, “Mother told me one more thing. Mrs. Ringling set up a trust from which funds are disbursed on a regular basis to HHR Press. That’s where the latest check came from.”
“And why it was deposited to HHR Press and not to you.”
The Pit and the Passion Page 32
