The Pit and the Passion Read online

  “It is. Supposed to reopen in March. Why?”

  “No reason.” She went to her desk.

  By six o’clock, she’d given up on hearing from the police. “I’m going up to Milton’s for a drink. I may stop in at the police station on the way home—see if they’ll give me an update.”

  Milton’s stood at the end of Broadway in the Village, the oldest community on the island. The restaurant looked south across the bay toward Sarasota, flanked on one side by Longboat Key and on the other by Jewfish Key. She walked through the dining room to the bar. “Hey, Wilma, gimme a gin and tonic please.”

  “Sure. Say, Charity, did you hear about the body in the sinkhole?”

  “I was there.” She peered at the bartender. “Who told you about it?”

  The woman plopped her elbows on the bar. “You asking as a reporter?”

  “Of course.”

  She looked around and leaned in. “Okay, but I want my name in the article. Carl came in an hour ago all in a tizzy.”

  “Oh right, he was at the pit. Isn’t he substituting for Joe, the new paramedic?”

  “Yeah. Joe broke a finger helping old Mrs. Goldberg catch her cat. Anyway, Carl’s only been on the job a day, and this happens. Poor slob had to down a draft before he could spit out the news. He says it’s only a partial skeleton. Rest eaten by rats or insects or somethin’. Said it was all yellow and rotten, but they know it was a woman. Beautiful, tall like a model…or maybe a movie star.” She wiped the bar enthusiastically. “Murdered by her jilted lover in the Ghost Hotel. Say, isn’t Susan Sarandon doing a movie over on Siesta Key? Or is it Diane Keaton?” She shrugged. “Could be her.”

  “Um.” Charity, faced with such a formidable demonstration of deductive prowess, took a sip of her drink and considered how to be tactful. “I think…um…maybe Carl was exaggerating a teensy bit. You know how he gets.” The town snitch had a well-deserved reputation for hyperbole.

  Wilma shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough. Prolly that little punk Kevin Corcoran planted it—it’ll turn out to be a fake, mark my words.”

  Charity marveled at her friend’s ability to leap blindly from one theory to the next without even a net.

  The woman continued to brood. “Unusual to find a person at the bottom of a sinkhole—wonder if it was an old graveyard. Or maybe”—her eyes lit up—“maybe it was one of those Indian sacrifices—you know, where they slit the victim’s throat and drink his blood.”

  “Er, Wilma, I think those were the Incas or the Aztecs. Not our Seminoles.”

  “Ah well, then, it must’ve washed ashore in a storm.” She picked up a glass and rinsed it out.

  Charity finished her drink. “I think I’ll take a walk on the beach before I head back.”

  “You be careful, Charity. There may be a murderer out there. Or a masher.” Wilma winked.

  “Yeah, right. You know this is the safest island on the Gulf Coast.” Too bad. I could use a masher. Three years was way too long to go without romance. Or sex. At the thought, she felt her lower regions pulse. The last boyfriend—the basketball player—wasn’t much of a lover. Of course, it’s hard when your parts are so far apart. She drove across the Drive, parking in the lot by the beach, then walked down the boardwalk and through the dunes to the shore.

  The Milky Way spread a swath of cream overhead. One small cloud trundled across the sky. Behind it peeped a gibbous moon. The beach was wide here, sweeping south in a twelve-mile-long arc but ending only a few yards north of her at a severely eroded cliff. Not a soul stirred on the sand, except for a couple of willets picking their way along the edge of the water. She turned and headed toward the cliff.

  Someone had left a beach chair out. She sat and watched the waves, listening to the chittering of the sandpipers and the putt-putt of a trawler far out. She assumed the rustle behind her was a ghost crab and kept quiet, hoping to catch a glimpse of it. She loved the way they would stop, half in and half out of their holes, their eyestalks waving. They’re so sure they’re invisible.

  “Charity?”

  She jumped straight up, knocking the chair backward.

  “What th—?” Her heart pounding, she turned. At that moment, the cloud shrouded the moon, and in the sudden darkness she could only make out a form. “Who…who’s there?”

  “It’s me. Rancor. Rancor Bass.”

  She held out a hand and encountered a broad chest, lightly furred. She pulled it back quickly. “Are you…are you…”

  He snickered. “Naked? As a matter of fact, yes.”

  She backed up. A splash told her that her brand-new sandals were likely ruined. She vaulted out of the water and landed between two bare arms.

  “Easy there, Charity. I hardly know you.”

  “Stop it, Mr. Bass. And let me go. If I were you I’d drop that conceited tone. I wouldn’t be caught dead in your arms.”

  His voice came low, laughter licking at its edges. “You don’t feel dead to me. In fact”—she tensed at the touch of a finger on the inside of her elbow—“you feel very much alive. And quite…fresh. Call me Rancor.”

  “Rancor Bass, you leave me alone.” She tried to walk around the shadow, but an arm snaked out and caught her. She opened her mouth to scream and found two lips smothering hers. She stood quite still, fear and…something else…oh my God, desire?…taking over her senses.

  He let her go. “Couldn’t resist. Wanted to see if those defensive walls could be breached.” He sat down in the chair. The moon came out from behind the cloud and cast a pale glow on his hair. “You’re a tough cookie, Charity.”

  She wanted to deny it, to tell him how vulnerable she could be, but knew that would be very stupid. She wanted to kiss him again but knew that would be even more stupid. So she settled for a grunt and walked away.

  He didn’t follow, and as she reached the dunes, she felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. Could this man be the one? Nah. Still, preoccupied by this novel notion, she decided to skip the police station and go straight home. As she turned into her condominium parking lot, the obvious question finally occurred to her. What the hell is Rancor Bass doing naked on the beach in the middle of the night?

  ****

  “Is Captain Kelly busy, Frank?”

  “Are you kidding, Charity?” The sergeant grinned. “Yeah, he slept in, went out for a leisurely brunch, and has a tee time at two. Of course he’s busy.”

  Charity adopted her best kitten-in-distress manner. “It’s just that George is on my case to come up with something on the body they found. I’m under a hard deadline.” Just because it’s next Monday doesn’t make it any less hard.

  The chief of police, a tall man with a military bearing and very shiny shoes, came out of his office. “Frank, get me the Sarasota County ME on the double. I’ve got a physical anthropologist from the University of Florida on the line.”

  “Edwards is at the morgue, sir.”

  “Shit. That’s all the way down on Siesta Drive. Okay, see if you can set up a conference call.” He noticed Charity. “I don’t have to ask what you’re doing here.” He hesitated, then crooked a finger at her. “You might as well come in and listen. I’d rather you reported facts than rumors.”

  She skipped after him. Kelly sat down and pressed a button on the speaker phone. “Professor Standish? Are you there?”

  A nasal voice with an Ivy League accent lisped, “What?”

  The captain raised his voice. “Can you hear me? This is Captain Kelly of the Longboat Key police.”

  The voice grumbled, “No need to shout, Kelly. I understand from Dean Brown that you need a forensic examination of a skeleton?”

  “Yes—” Charity heard a loud click, and a second voice filled the office.

  “Edwards here. I’m in the middle of an autopsy, Kelly. This had better be good.”

  The captain grimaced. “Keep a lid on it, Edwards. It’s about the skeleton EMT brought in last night. Have you had a chance to look at it?”

  “God d
amn it, who do you think I am? Quincy? We’re short-staffed here, and I have my hands full with that five-car pileup on I-75 from yesterday. I’ll get to it when I get to it.”

  The professor apparently thought this was directed at him. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, young man. I’ve been a physical anthropologist since before you were a pint-sized tot playing Operation.”

  “Who’s that speaking? Professor Standish? Professor Cornell Standish? Is that you?”

  The captain interjected, “Yes, it is, Vernon. I’ve called him in on this case because it appears to be a very old corpse. Construction workers found it under the parking lot of the Chart House restaurant.”

  Edwards’ tone altered dramatically. “It would be my honor to assist you, Professor Standish. You won’t remember me, but I took your class on forensic pathology eight years ago as a first-year graduate student.”

  There was a slight pause. “Edwards. Vernon Edwards?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As I recall, I gave you a C minus.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed this announcement. “You…er…taught me a great deal, sir. I did go on to graduate top of my class.”

  The professor harrumphed. “I have written the dean on several occasions concerning the liberal granting of high grades for what I consider mediocre work. He has yet to respond.”

  Charity’s smile matched the police chief’s. The medical examiner’s over-sized ego was notorious. This is fun.

  “Professor Standish, while I am a great admirer of your work, I must—”

  Kelly apparently decided it was time to step in. He coughed loudly. “At any rate, Professor, when will you be able to come to Sarasota and take a look at the evidence?”

  “Let me see. Just a minute.” His voice faded. They heard him call, “Sheila, did we cancel the Saturday seminar? We did? Good.” His voice suddenly rang out, making Charity jump. “I am free tomorrow. How do you propose to transport me?”

  The chief’s eyebrows shot up. Charity could tell he was thinking mean thoughts about academics. “I can send a squad car. What time is convenient for you?”

  “I rise at six.”

  “We’ll be there at ten. It’s a three-hour drive.”

  A whiffling noise came through the speaker. “Um…I have a golf game at one.”

  Kelly and Standish spoke in unison. “No, you don’t.”

  Edwards sighed. “I’ll cancel it.”

  “Great.” The policeman cut across both doctors. “We’ll meet at the Chart House at one-thirty tomorrow before proceeding to the morgue.” He hung up quickly.

  “Can I come?” Charity almost batted her eyelashes but thought better of it.

  Kelly looked about to refuse, then smiled. “Sure, I can use an intermediary. Maybe they’ll hesitate to come to actual blows in the presence of a pretty woman.”

  “Or a reporter.” They grinned at each other.

  Charity made her way up the road to the Planet.

  Rancor sat at the table, swiping at the screen of his tablet. He wore the same blue suede jacket but sported a new pair of jeans. “There you are. Waddya, keep banker’s hours?”

  Charity ignored him and went into George’s office. “Guess what?” She told him about Professor Standish and the meeting.

  “Good work. Say, why don’t you take Bass with you? He could make it a coda to his ghost stories—‘Ghost Hotel Ghost Uncovered’—something like that.” His eyes shifted, and he spoke to his coffee mug. “Er…Maybe he’d be willing to write the copy.”

  “What?”

  George glanced over her shoulder at the man outside. “Listen, I think Bass may be hurting for money right now—between books and all. Otherwise, why take on this job? Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but his clothes seem more…”

  “Filene’s Basement than Rodeo Drive? Yeah, but he’s got a new pair of jeans on.”

  He nodded. “He told me the other ones literally fell apart. I happen to know Fred Nickel donated the pair he’s wearing to the Lord’s Warehouse last week.” He added, “I’m sure it’s only temporary—you know the publishing world. Royalties fluctuate with the seasons, or whatever.”

  She studied Bass. He tapped away on the tablet, pencil between his teeth. “More likely he’s one of those profligate types who spend and spend until they’re broke.”

  “Whatever. We can utilize his talents and do him a favor at the same time. What do you say?”

  Just then Rancor looked up and caught Charity staring at him. His raptor eyes glittered, and a slight, self-deprecating smile lit up his face. Charity felt a tug somewhere in her chest. Must be that cheese omelet I had for breakfast. “I guess so.” And just maybe I can find out what he was doing on the beach last night. She went out and stood behind him.

  He paused, finger hovering over the screen. “So why were you ogling me?”

  Sigh. “We’re invited to the morgue tomorrow afternoon to meet the corpse.”

  “Wow. You must have some influence in these parts.”

  She checked for a sneer but found none. “It’s a small island. The captain understands that factual reporting is a must to counteract the steady stream of creative embellishment.”

  “A lot of bored retirees?”

  “You could say that.”

  He cast a glance at his watch. “It’s almost three. You want to take a drive down to the Chart House now? Snoop around?”

  She picked up her keys. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Bass stooped and wiggled into the Mini Cooper. His jeans crackled. “Had to dig into my portmanteau after you wrecked my only other pair of pants.”

  “Speaking of”—Charity kept her voice neutral—“I can give you a ride to Beall’s if you need some clothes.”

  She felt him stiffen beside her. “What kind of crack is that? Who the hell do you think you are, my mother?”

  Reminded painfully of why she disliked him, she said nothing. They followed the curving road into the Chart House parking lot. It was empty except for a skid loader with a jackhammer attachment and a backhoe, both idle. Crime-scene tape had been strung across the entire section of the parking lot.

  He pointed. “Is the restaurant open?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you go see? I’ll park over by the pit.”

  He got out, climbed the stairs, and peered through the double doors. Turning, he called to Charity. “I don’t see…wait. Someone’s inside.” He rapped on the glass. “It’s Nathan, the assistant manager.”

  She followed him up. “Will he let us in?”

  “Let’s see. Nathan! It’s me, Rancor Bass.”

  A chubby, balding young man pushed open the door. “Hey, Mr. Bass.”

  “Can we come in for a minute?”

  “Sure. I’m just setting up for happy hour.”

  Charity gestured at the yellow tape. “The police are letting you stay open?”

  “Yeah. It’s only that bit of parking lot that’s off limits.” He led the way to the bar. “Can I get you something, Mr. B.?”

  “How about a beer?”

  “Stella okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Nathan raised an eyebrow at Charity.

  “Me too, thanks.”

  The manager filled two mugs and handed them over. “What can I do for you?”

  “You know they found a skeleton in the sinkhole.”

  “Yeah, gave us all a bit of a shiver.”

  “I wanted to ask you a few more questions about your ghost.”

  “Little Tommy T? You think maybe it’s him?”

  “Possibly.” Rancor sipped his beer. “You told me you’ve seen Tommy in the men’s room. How many times?”

  Nathan stared off into space, his brow wrinkled. “Me? Mebbe twice. Walter—he’s the manager. Been here twenty, thirty years. He claims he’s seen the boy ten or more times.”

  “How old would you say Tommy is?”

  “Hard to tell—he’s always kinda blurry. Maybe six or seven.”r />
  “And what’s he doing?”

  “Mostly he just sits on the floor. Sometimes he’s playing with a shiny object.”

  “Shiny? Like what?”

  “Dunno. It’s small—maybe a matchbox car or a coin. Can’t really make it out.”

  Charity spoke up. “Why do you call him Tommy T?”

  The man chuckled. “Not sure. Walter took to calling him that—name stuck.”

  “Do you think he’s the ghost of the little boy who died when they were building the hotel?”

  “Couldn’t be anyone else.” His eyes widened. “Wow. If it’s his skeleton they found in the sinkhole, that would be awesome.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t get your knickers in a twist just yet. It’s early days. Thanks for the drink.” Rancor walked out, leaving Charity to pay for their beers. He strode toward the roped-off area.

  She ran after him. “What are you doing? We’re not supposed to cross the police line.”

  He looked back. “And your point?” He shrugged off his jacket and scrambled down into the pit. “I just want to take a quick look.” He pulled a folding garden fork out of his pocket and opened it. Raking through the gravel and sand, he started at one end and methodically sifted from one side to the other and back. Charity watched him, unable to keep from staring at the sinews rippling along his biceps. With his eyes focused on the ground, she could roam over his physique without fear of reprisal. His lithe body moved with an animal grace. The thick, brown ponytail only made him more masculine. She shut her eyes.

  “Found something.”

  She leaned over him. His scent wafted into her nostrils—a salty mixture of ginger and seaweed. She took a deep breath. “Show me.”

  He held up a shiny object. “Tommy T’s toy?”

  She took it from him and rubbed off the tarnish, revealing a large gold ring inset with a green stone. “It’s heavy.”

  “Yes. Looks like a college ring. I wonder how it got here.”

  “I wonder whose it was.”

  “Good question. Couldn’t have been Tommy T’s.” He pocketed it.

  “Hey, that’s evidence. Captain Kelly will have my head if he learns we took something from the crime scene.”