The Pit and the Passion Page 2

  “No, it’s a new genre for him, and he’ll need some guidance on finding anecdotes and interviewing people. That’s where a journalist can be of assistance.”

  She looked through the glass wall at the newly minted bane of her life. “But will he let me guide him?”

  George raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I think so. He finds you very attractive.”

  “Me?” Charity cast an eye over her trim figure dressed in a dove-gray linen sheath that matched her eyes and set off her slim legs. She’d always felt that, at five feet two, she was way too short to be beautiful. Her last boyfriend, a lanky basketball player, had to squat to kiss her. When his knees gave out, he dumped her and married the women’s volleyball coach. Only her hair gave men pause. A deep ocher—the color of Georgia clay or maple leaves in autumn—it fell in a thick braid down to her waist. “He yelled at me.”

  “Ah, yes.” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “You be careful with him.”

  Charity shrugged. “So what’s next?”

  “The three of us will meet here tomorrow at ten. Rancor wants to interview me first.”

  “You? Why?”

  “Because, dear one, I happen to be familiar with at least ninety-five percent of the alleged paranormal sightings on the islands, as was my father before me.”

  “That makes sense.” George’s father had founded the Planet and was the sole reporter for its first thirty years. He had covered every event on Longboat Key and Anna Maria Island for the past half a century. “All right, at least you can run interference.”

  “Will do. Now shoo.” He pushed her out the door. Charity checked her watch. Three o’clock. If she hurried, she could get her shopping done before the five o’clock rush of beachgoers. She drove down to Publix.

  Rounding a corner a little too quickly, she rammed another shopping cart. “I am so sorry! I…Oh, it’s you, Jane. Why aren’t you at the shop?”

  The woman she addressed—about sixty, slightly stooped, with a curly mop of white hair and a wry smile—pushed her cart to one side of the aisle. “Closed early. It’s still pretty quiet.” She pretended to scan the shelf of cereal boxes. “Um, Darryl is coming over tonight. I…um…thought I’d cook him dinner.” Her cheeks turned a light pink.

  Charity pretended not to notice her discomfort. “That’s nice. So you two are back together?”

  Jane had released the first few notes of a tortured wail when she noticed an older couple staring at her and lowered her voice. “I wish I knew. He’s driving me nuts. We have a fabulous time, then he doesn’t call for a month. I think he just waits ’til he’s so horny he can’t stand it.”

  “Well, he’s sixty-eight after all. The man needs his rest.”

  She cracked a smile. “He sure does after one of our dates.” The couple picked up speed and trotted past the women, faces averted. “So, what’s going on with you? Have you heard from that fellow you met at the online dating site?”

  “All the time. So far I’ve successfully avoided giving him my phone number.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Charity—you shouldn’t start these things if you’re not going to follow through. It’s not fair to the guys.”

  “I know.” She didn’t want to admit she just didn’t have the energy to date right now. She’d gone out a few times in the last few years, but she still waited in vain for the little words to ring in her head—he’s the one. “Oh, by the way, I have a new assignment.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I’ll be working with Rancor Bass on a book.”

  “What? The hunk who wrote Shades of Yellow and Murder Cuts Both Ways?”

  “The very one. Only he’s not a hunk. Well, he is a hunk. But he’s a bastard. Very rude and arrogant. This is not going to be fun.”

  Jane plucked a grape from the bag in her cart. “I’ll be glad to take him off your hands, just give me the word. So…what’s the book?”

  “Ghost stories of the Gulf Coast. He’s doing a series.”

  “Hmm. Different. Well, you should be talking to George.”

  “We start with him tomorrow.”

  “Have fun.”

  ****

  The renowned author showed up an hour late for their meeting the next day. From the rumpled condition of his clothes, Charity guessed he’d slept in them. Or spent the night in a bar. The white button-down shirt sported a red splotch—pizza?—and she noticed the cuffs of his suede jacket were frayed and grimy. He wore sneakers without socks.

  “There you are, Bass. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  The man offered no excuse but poured himself a cup of coffee from the office urn. He sat down at the table, pulled out a tablet, and held a stylus poised above it. The publisher nodded at Charity. “Okay, hon. Let’s get started.”

  For the next two hours, George told story after story of ghostly activities in the Tampa Bay area. “And last, but not least, tourists have claimed to see a woman in a long, red dress wandering through the Pullman car the Ringlings used on their trips between Sarasota and New York.”

  “A Pullman car! Is it still at the railroad station?”

  “No, it’s on exhibit at the Ringling Museum.”

  Bass rolled his eyes. “So, some family from Yonkers with sticky-fingered rug rats and sweaty necks claimed to see a ghost in a museum exhibit?”

  George gave him an odd look. “As far as I know, ghosts are not restricted to areas marked ‘Apparition Materialization Zone.’ ”

  Bass opened his mouth, but Charity jumped in. “You didn’t mention the Ghost Hotel. There must have been all sorts of incidents there.”

  George shook his head. “Strangely enough, no, although over the years eight people died falling either from the unfinished main staircase or the crumbling balconies. There have been reports of phantom shapes or sighs coming from under the New Pass Bridge and at several spots on Quick Point, but nary a peep from the hotel while it stood.” He avoided Charity’s gaze. She knew he feared his words would remind her of her parents’ accident.

  “Not true.” Rancor’s air of self-importance struck an unpleasant chord.

  The other two gaped at him. “What did you say?”

  “I said, you’re wrong. There has been a sighting there.”

  “In the Ghost Hotel?”

  “N…no. Not exactly.” He seemed reluctant to admit it. “In the Chart House. It’s built on the site of Ringling’s Ritz-Carlton, isn’t it?”

  George put down his cup. “I can’t believe it. I thought between me and my father we’d heard of every event here on the key.”

  Charity leaned forward. “What else do you know about it?”

  Rancor looked past her to George. “Got the skinny from the bartender. It’s a little boy, about seven years old. Kid shows up in the men’s room fairly regularly. Plays with a toy or just sits there.”

  “But who is he?”

  Bass heaved a sigh, as though her questions were too, too exhausting. “Should make you wait for the book.”

  “Oh, really?”

  After a tense pause, he grunted, “Waiters call him Tommy T. Consensus is that he was the son of a carpenter working at the hotel. Fell down an elevator shaft.”

  “When?”

  “How do I know? Isn’t that your job? To research and authenticate these stories? I just happened to hear about it at happy hour.”

  Charity couldn’t help herself. “And what exactly is your job then?”

  “To put the crap you draft into proper English. I’m assuming you’re incapable of decent prose, being a reporter and all.”

  She rose an inch, but George put a hand on her knee. “Easy now.” He gave Bass a warning look. “Charity is here to help you, yes. However, you are perfectly free to contribute to the research, provided you have at least two sources for every item. The way a professional journalist would.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So, what’s next?”

  Charity reflected that she had never disliked a person quite so thoroughly—not even that first boss who loved
to put her down in front of the staff—but she understood that George’s reference to professionalism extended not just to Bass but to her. “I want to interview the Chart House staff.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  She kept her eyes on George. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Bass.”

  “Well, I want to.” He rose and dusted something minuscule from his faded jeans. “I need a drink. And besides, I can worm more information out of the waitresses than you can.”

  Hateful. Absolutely, positively hateful.

  Before she could come up with a crushing retort, George broke in. “Yes, take him along, Charity. We’d better get the story quickly—I don’t know when they’re planning to start demolition.”

  Charity retrieved her cell phone and purse and led the way to her car. Bass regarded it with dismay. “Are you nuts? I can’t fit in a Mini Cooper.”

  She looked him up and down. “What are you, six one?”

  “And a half.”

  Such a child. “You’ll fit.” She got in and started the engine. After a minute, his feet appeared, then his torso, and finally his head. He threw his jacket in the back and settled on the seat, his knees just grazing his nose.

  “At least open the window so an extraneous appendage or two can stretch out.”

  “All right.”

  As they neared the entrance to the Longboat Key Club, a siren started up behind them. Charity pulled over to let two police cars and an ambulance go by. They turned into the club drive. She followed them.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to see where they’re going.”

  “What are you—an ambulance chaser?”

  “No…a professional journalist.”

  The ambulance made a left and headed toward the building that housed the restaurant, but instead of pulling up to the entrance, it stopped in a corner of the parking lot. Charity drove past and parked in another section. By the time Rancor had unfolded himself from the seat, she had reached the first squad car. “Hey, Pete. What’s up?”

  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 policeman and peered into the hole. Turning to Charity, he yelled, “I think we’ve found our ghost.”

  Chapter Two

  The Beach Bum

  “Whoa, sir, I don’t know who you think you are, but this is potentially a crime scene, and I’ll thank you to back off.”

  Charity silently applauded Pete’s words, at the same time admiring Rancor’s ability to take over a set. He’s obviously used to being treated like a VIP. Prick. She checked out the way his jeans clung to his butt and how his shoulders strained at the oxford cloth of his shirt. Okay, sure, an extremely handsome prick, but a prick nonetheless.

  Rather than moving, Rancor beckoned Charity. “Come and see this.”

  Charity glanced at Pete, who rolled his eyes and said, “Just keep the asshole from contaminating the evidence.”

  She stepped toward the pit and, whipping out her phone, took a photograph before she even looked down. When she saw what the backhoe had uncovered, she gulped, desperately trying to hold back the vomit. “What…what is it, Matt?”

  The EMT grinned. “Skeleton, ma’am.”

  She looked helplessly at Rancor, who growled, “We know that, buddy. What the lady wants to know is, what kind of skeleton. I mean, it’s pretty grisly. What are those—maggot holes?”

  The medic followed his pointing finger. “Could be. Nothing left to eat though. No flesh left.” He called to Pete. “Can you get the medical examiner’s office on the horn? We need the crime scene techs to take a look before we move it.”

  The policeman pulled out his radio, and Rancor helped Charity back to her car. She sat, panting, while he patted her hand awkwardly. “I’m…er…sorry, Snow. I figured you for a hard-boiled hack. Didn’t think you’d react this way. Uh…you all right?”

  When she’d recovered enough to avail herself of the anger, she hissed, “I don’t usually do the crime beat, okay?”

  He had the insensitivity to laugh. “I’m guessing the most serious infraction here is skinny-dipping after dark anyway. So what do you usually cover? Spelling bees? Middle-school field trips? Casino nights?”

  Despite her irritation, she almost giggled. “More often pickleball matches and bridge tournaments. Longboaters aren’t into betting—they can’t take it with them, but they want to hang onto it while they’re still around. And we don’t hold spelling bees since it wouldn’t be much of a contest.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we have a grand total of five residents under the age of twelve on the island.”

  “So it’s true what they say—Sarasota is God’s waiting room.” He slumped on the seat. “No games of chance either. Too bad.”

  Curious, she asked, “Why too bad?” She took note of his nimble, manicured fingers and had a sudden intuition. “Are you a gambler, Mr. Bass?”

  “Me?” He blinked twice. She could have sworn a nictitating membrane flicked across the cornea. “You could say so. I can play any game—baccarat, backgammon, even Texas hold ’em. And win.” He looked pensive for a minute. “I wonder…”

  Charity lifted her chin. “I will not have you preying on my people, Mr. Bass.”

  He fastened his seat belt. She took the hint and started the car, but instead of returning to the office, she pulled in at the police station. Rancor trailed after her.

  “Frank, what can you tell me about the skeleton they just found under the Chart House parking lot?”

  The desk sergeant dropped his pen. “The what?”

  “Hasn’t Pete called it in?”

  “Uh uh.”

  Rancor whispered loudly, “He’s probably still trying to find the number.”

  Just then the phone buzzed, and Frank answered it. “Ingersoll here. Yeah, Pete. Yeah. I’ll get right on it.” He hung up and turned to Charity. “They want a forensics unit. Apparently the wrecking crew uncovered a skeleton under the restaurant.”

  Rancor interrupted impatiently. “We just told you that.”

  Frank did not take kindly to the stranger’s tone. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Charity appealed to the sergeant. “We’ll go, but could you keep me posted on the investigation? I want to get an article in this week’s edition.”

  “All right, all right. Check back with me in a couple of hours. And do me a favor.” He cast a baleful look at Rancor. “Don’t bring him with you.”

  “I promise you, I won’t.”

  “Hey!”

  She marched out.

  “Hey!”

  She swung around angrily and bumped into his chest. “Look, Mr. Bass. I’ll help you when I can, but I have to cover this story. And your attitude isn’t helping me in my job.”

  He slid onto the seat next to her. As
his knees bent, they broke through the worn material of his jeans. Still angry, she snapped, “Is this the new fashion statement for famous writers? If so, it fails to impress.”

  “No.” He sat quietly until they reached the newspaper offices. George’s beat-up old Volvo sat alone in the parking lot.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “I…uh…left it at my place.”

  She had by now calmed down and felt rather badly about her outburst. “Do you want me to drop you anywhere?”

  He kept his eyes on the ground. “No, it’s not far.”

  I refuse to feel guilty. “Tell you what—why don’t I ring you when I have a break in the case?”

  “I…er…don’t have a phone.” He pulled a shabby wallet out of his back pocket and handed her a card. “You can email me at that address.” The card read,

  Rancor Bass Author

  RancorBassAuthor@RancorBass.com

  There was no other information on it. “By the way”—his tone was a touch too easy—“where’s the closest Starbucks?”

  “Off the island. Why?”

  “I…uh…let my Internet subscription lapse. While I’m traveling. Need a place that has Wi-Fi.”

  Her reporter’s sense kicked in. There’s something fishy going on.

  “So…any place I can try that’s nearer?”

  “We have it in the office. And about a mile up the road is a lunch place—they’ve been advertising free Wi-Fi.”

  “Great!” He jumped out. “Stay in touch.” He loped out of the parking lot and turned right. On an impulse, she kept her eyes on him. A block farther on, he crossed Gulf of Mexico into a small beach resort and disappeared. Rubbing her temple, she climbed the building stairs and knocked on George’s door.

  He looked up. “Hey, I just heard about the discovery on police dispatch. Are you on it?”

  “Yes—we were there when the cops came. Saw it. Talked to Frank. EMTs think a specialist should inspect the remains.”

  “You mean the skeleton. Matt said it’s pretty old. You thinking what I’m thinking? That it might be Bass’s ghost?”

  “Ghost? Oh, you mean could it be the body of the little boy who died at the hotel? No idea. Frank said he’d let me know when they had anything new.” She remained standing. “George, I thought the Sandlot—you know, the resort up across from Jungle Queen Way? Isn’t it closed for renovation?”