The Pit and the Passion Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  The Pit and the Passion:

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  The police officer—a husky man

  of about forty with the hard, brown skin of a fisherman—greeted her. “Oh, hi, Charity. Construction crew reported skeletal remains.”

  “Really? In the Chart House?”

  “Nope.” He gestured at a pile of broken asphalt. “Parking lot. Backhoe started breaking up the pavement in the southeast section, and a sinkhole opened up. The foreman found bones at the bottom. Called a halt and us.”

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “Nah.”

  Two medics were working on something in a deep pit. One of them looked up. “Hey, Pete, I think we’re gonna need a specialist.” His face was tinged an unattractive green.

  “You okay, Carl? What kind of specialist?”

  “Forensics.” He turned away. They heard gagging.

  The other EMT added, “And maybe one of those physical anthropologists. Or a dentist.” He helped Carl up and they climbed out of the pit.

  “How come?”

  He laughed. “’Cause from the looks of this joker, he’s been around a looonnnng time.”

  Charity ached to get a look at the thing but knew Pete wouldn’t let her until they’d secured the scene.

  Rancor apparently felt no such compunction. He marched past the policemen and peered into the hole. Turning to Charity, he yelled, “I think we’ve found our ghost.”

  The Pit and

  the Passion:

  Murder

  at the Ghost Hotel

  by

  M. S. Spencer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Pit and the Passion: Murder at the Ghost Hotel

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Meredith Ellsworth

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by RJ Morris

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1841-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1842-4

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my friend, consultant, and dentist,

  Michael O’Neil,

  who guided me through the mysteries of teeth,

  roots, and gums while I wrote this book.

  Cast of Characters

  Charity Snow, reporter, Longboat Key Planet

  Rancor Bass, author

  Rancor’s family:

  Robert Bass Jr., great-grandfather

  —Robert Bass III, grandfather

  —Gertrude Bass (known as Trudy), grandmother

  ——Rupert Bass, father

  ——Gertrude Bass Culver, aunt (Rupert’s sister)

  ——Clara Bass, mother

  ———Rebecca, Rothschild, Rory, Rupert Jr., and Rose, siblings

  George Fletcher, publisher, Longboat Key Planet

  Arlo Mickenbacker, owner, Planet newspapers

  Jane, Charity’s friend

  Darryl, Jane’s boyfriend

  HHR Press:

  Edgar Finney, founder HHR Press

  Michael Finney, publisher (Edgar’s grandson)

  Isabella Voleuse, editor-in-chief

  Atalanta l’Amour, author

  Bernard Guttersnipe, author

  Holdridge K. Wheelock, author

  Jemimah Heartsleeve, author

  Tommy T, ghost

  Police and investigators:

  Nick Kelly, chief, Longboat Key police

  Frank Ingersoll, sergeant, Longboat Key police

  Vernon Edwards, Sarasota County medical examiner

  Dr. Cornell Standish, forensic anthropologist

  Dr. Boynton Nash, forensic dentist

  Bill Jefferson, forensic biologist, Sarasota County crime lab

  Beatrice da Lima e Silva Abernethy, haunted house resident

  Lindsay and Sylvester Taylor, naughty boys

  Deirdre Penney, Cà d’Zan docent

  Chapter One

  Ghost Stories

  “It’s a shame they’re going to tear it down.” The old man stared out the window. His companion followed his gaze. The New Pass Bridge was raised, and she could just make out the mast of a sailboat as it passed under. A line of traffic had backed up past the entrance to the Longboat Key Club. Drivers craned their necks out of their car windows, waiting for the gates to go up.

  “What did you say, George? They want to tear the bridge down?” The young woman’s gray eyes widened. “Who? The town? No, wait, it’s owned by the state of Florida I think, but…” She paused when she realized that George had been paying more attention to his wine than to her. “Hello? Why are they going to knock the bridge down?”

  He swiveled to face her. “What? What are you talking about? Raze the bridge? Why would they do that? I mean, sure, it’s acquired a certain patina of age, but it fits the ambience. It’s the only bridge I don’t mind slowing down on. Did I tell you I saw an eagle sitting on the tender house roof once? He had a fish…a big fish…” George lapsed into reverie, a reminiscent smile on his lips.

  She pinched his arm. “So what are they going to tear down?”

  “The Chart House. Remember when they passed the referendum allowing Longboat Key Club to build five hundred more hotel rooms and a conference center?” He tapped the table. “This building is on Club property. Those rooms have to go somewhere, Charity.”

  She gazed at the people crowded into the dining room and spilling out onto the patio. “So do the patrons.”

  “Not a problem.” He pointed. The glass-paneled room allowed an unobstructed view of the inlet separating St. Armand’s Key from Longboat. Pencil-thin coconut palms nodded over the white sand beach and turquoise waters. As kayaks and bow riders glided under the bridge, men in T-shirts and ball caps stood on the breakwater, casting their fishing lines into the choppy sea. “It’s only a hop, skip, and a jump to St. Armands Circle from here. Plenty of places to eat there.”

  “Still, it’s a shame. I love this restaurant, even if it has gone a bit downhill in the last few years. It feels like it’s been here forever.”

  “Downhill? You want downhill, Charity? You should have seen the Ghost Hotel.” George closed his eyes. “That place was amazing.”

  “
Thanks, Sarah.” Charity accepted the sizzling plate from the waitress and waited for her to refill her glass. “Ghost Hotel? What are you talking about?”

  “You never heard of the Ghost Hotel? You are so young.”

  “Come on, George, I’m twenty-eight. I’ve been on my own for five years now.”

  “Indeed you have. And you’ve grown into a stellar reporter.”

  “Thanks to you. If you hadn’t taken me on when Dad and Mother died…”

  “It’s been worth a lot to me to have you on the Planet staff. You filled your father’s shoes admirably.” He chucked her under the chin. “Now, shut up and eat your steak.”

  Charity cut a small piece but left it on the plate. She had thought she was hungry when they drove down from the newspaper offices, but now…Why did I have to remember that this is the anniversary of the crash? She could still hear the voice of Officer Brown, speaking clearly and gently into the phone. “Miss Snow? I regret to inform you that your parents were killed in a boating accident last night. If you can come down to the station, we would like you to confirm their identities.”

  Not that there had been much to identify. They were riding in a Baja 23 fast boat when her father lost control and hit the concrete pier of the New Pass Bridge. The impact threw them onto the jagged riprap that lined the bank, where they were torn to pieces. The boat itself shot under the bridge, finally grinding to a halt on the beach at Quick Point. Dad loved speed. If only Mother hadn’t given him that preposterous boat for his birthday.

  George laid a brown-spotted hand over hers. “You’re thinking about that night, aren’t you?”

  She pushed an errant auburn tendril back off her forehead and blinked twice to dispel the tears. “I’ll be okay. Tell me…tell me about the Ghost Hotel.”

  He put his napkin down. “Ah, one of the last and most remarkable projects John Ringling undertook. You know he and his brother were the main promoters of the Sun Coast. At one point, they owned more than twenty-five percent of this part of Florida, including two thousand acres on Longboat Key.”

  “Didn’t he design St. Armands Circle?”

  “Uh huh—he even donated the statues.” George sipped his wine. “It was supposed to be called Harding Circle because Ringling expected the then president to use Bird Key as his winter residence.”

  “And when that fell through?”

  “It added to the downturn in Ringling’s fortunes. His dream of Sarasota as a playground for the wealthy with palm-lined boulevards and pink sidewalks had to wait ’til the 1950s, long after his death.”

  “Still, the keys do look pretty much as he envisioned them.” She gestured at the row of white-washed beach mansions swathed in bougainvillea and oleander that lined the far shore.

  George nodded unwillingly, loath to give an inch. “Maybe so, but if he hadn’t built the causeway connecting the mainland to the islands, they never would have been developed.”

  Charity leaned forward, her delicate features animated. “Maybe that dream didn’t pan out, but he did build Cà d’Zan and the art gallery, and the circus museum and—”

  He held up a restraining hand. “True, but the Ritz-Carlton was going to be his pièce de résistance—the grandest, most luxurious hotel on the Gulf Coast. He broke ground for it in 1926.”

  “Was? As far as I know, the Ritz-Carlton over on Bayfront is still there.”

  “Not that one. Ringling’s hotel sat right here, right on this spot.”

  Charity put down her fork and pointed to the floor. “Here?”

  George nodded. “In fact, it remained standing until 1964, when Arvida finally bulldozed it. They built the Longboat Key Club and the Chart House a few years later.”

  Charity’s mouth dropped open. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “There’s nothing left of it now—although an archaeologist might be able to uncover its foundations. They had to stop work only a few months after they started.”

  “How come?”

  “Money woes. First the bottom fell out of the Florida land boom, and then the Depression hit. After his wife Mable died in 1929, Ringling could never secure the funds to restart construction.” He poured more wine into her glass. “Still, he refused to acknowledge that he might never finish it. Even after his death, his heir, John Ringling North, insisted the hotel would open.”

  Intrigued, Charity forgot entirely about eating. The steak lay forlornly on her plate next to the barely touched salad. “So how far along was it when Ringling suspended work?”

  “The outer walls were complete but none of the interior. Staircases but no railings. From a distance, it looked like a magnificent castle, but once you got close you could see it was only a shell.” George signaled for the check. He glanced at what was left of Charity’s meal. “And a box for the lady, please.” He rose. “We’d better get back to the paper.”

  They drove the five miles up Gulf of Mexico Drive to the building that housed the Longboat Key Planet. Mark, the distributor, was filling the boxes in front of the building with the Wednesday edition. Charity grabbed one and riffled through it. “So you put Fred’s photo of the sunset in? That’s the second time this month. He’ll be insufferable.”

  “Couldn’t be helped. There weren’t enough other entries this early in January.” George glanced at the photo, a burst of orange and red cumulus clouds over the midnight blue Gulf. “It is a good one.”

  Charity turned a page. “I see the welcome-back parties filled the entire second section this week.” She looked over her shoulder.

  On the road behind them, cars crept along bumper to bumper, swerving like over-cautious slugs around the idling tractor trailers racked with the town cars and SUVs of returning snowbirds. Elderly drivers clutched their steering wheels with hands that trembled in fear whenever the speedometer registered more than twenty miles per hour. Which—happily for their hearts—occurred rarely, what with the minivans teeming with large Ohio families slowing down every few feet to crane their necks at the sabal palms and herds of grazing ibis. She sighed. The season on Longboat Key had become one long nightmare of traffic and crowds. She prayed that soon it would reach a tipping point, and all those armies of lily-white Teutons from Toronto and Chicago would decide to go elsewhere and she could have her beautiful barrier island back. “Did you cut my story?”

  “No—it’s there on page two.”

  She turned the page. “What’s with the headline?”

  He chuckled. “You mean, ‘Vet to Bird: Stay Out of the Gene Pool’? I couldn’t help it. That pathetic osprey needed a tracheotomy to pry the sand shark out of his throat.”

  “Poor little thing. He was so proud of his catch.”

  They walked up the outside stairs to the second floor. Except for George’s office, the rest was an open floor littered with desks and filing cabinets. A couple of young interns waved at them, then went back to their computer screens. At a long wooden table under the windows, an unfamiliar figure bent over a tray of back issues, reading intently. Charity nudged George. “Who’s that?”

  “Him?” George gave her a sidelong glance and said casually, “Fellow by the name of Rancor Bass.”

  “Rancor Bass? The famous writer?” Charity looked with renewed interest at the man who was one of her favorite authors. His thick, glossy, espresso-colored hair was pulled straight back in a ponytail that tumbled down over a broad back. He wore jeans and a blue suede jacket with patches on the elbows.

  “Yeah. He’s collecting ghost stories of the Gulf Coast for a book. We’ve been tasked with assisting him.” He waved a hand. “Go say hello.”

  Suddenly shy, Charity edged nearer the man. She had come within a foot of him when he leapt up and spun around. “What are you, some kind of stalker?” He glared around Charity at George. “Didn’t I ask to be left alone? I’m on a deadline here.”

  The publisher scratched his grizzled head. “Then I guess you don’t want to meet the person I’ve assigned to help you with your research.”

  A
t this, Bass lowered his eyes to Charity’s face, and his reading glasses fell off. He bent down to pick them up but dropped them twice before he got a good grip. Mixed emotions greeted this display. Charity, awestruck by luminous brown eyes and golden tan skin, couldn’t help but be amused at his awkwardness. He must have heard her choke of laughter, for he snarled, “Sure, make fun of the disabled. Real friendly. Who the fuck are you?”

  George interrupted. “Rancor Bass, I’d like you to meet Charity Snow. She’s my best reporter.”

  He looked her up and down. She held her gaze steady, mainly so she could delve deep, deep into those chocolate eyes. Together with his sharp, angular nose and intense, almost predatory, expression, he reminded her of a peregrine falcon on the hunt. She caught herself just before she pitched into him. Bass gave a contemptuous snort. “Charity. Execrable name. Wouldn’t use it for any of my heroines.” And with that he flopped down at the table again.

  She stared at his rigid shoulders for a second before stammering, “Enchanted to meet you too, Mister Bass.” She swung on an unruffled George and whispered fiercely, “No way in hell. No way in hell.”

  The old man beckoned her into his office. He closed the door and said, “So he’s a jerk. But he’s here as a guest of the chairman, and we have to play nice.”

  “He’s a friend of Arlo Mickenbacker’s? I don’t believe it. Arlo is way too decent a guy to cater to a creep like Bass.” It galled her to insult the man whose novels kept her up most nights fantasizing about romance and unsolved mysteries, but it had to be done. “I’m not working with him.”

  “My dear Charity, Arlo Mickenbacker did not become the billionaire entrepreneur he is today by treating celebrities as they actually deserve. Bass just signed a contract for three books with Arlo’s new acquisition, Kumquat House. If you want to be in the acknowledgements, you will help him.” The specter of other, more financially objectionable, consequences should she resist hovered in the air.

  Recognizing defeat, Charity grudgingly sat down. “What’s the deal?”

  “I told you—he’s compiling Florida ghost stories. Book One covers the Gulf Coast from Tampa south to Fort Myers.”

  “That doesn’t sound like his shtick.”