Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) Page 8

  “So,” said Margot, “that’s the man who came to dinner.”

  “I don’t care what he’s accomplished,” said Nina. “I still hate him. I hate him so much that––”

  She was interrupted in what was certain to become a satisfactory stream of invectives by the entrance of Harriet Crossman, who crossed the small room quickly and embraced her, saying quietly but passionately:

  “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

  Nina allowed herself to be thus profusely thanked for a time, then finally pushed herself sufficiently free to ask:

  “Why?”

  “The litter! You got it here on time! No accidents, not one.”

  “Oh. Well, I do what I can.”

  “All of the authors have their own special blend of cat food, of course. But as for litter––”

  “I was just glad to help,” Nina repeated.

  “And help you did, my dear. I will say though, that otherwise, The Candles seems perfectly suited for the cats. It was, clearly, originally built by a cat lover—or a cat-loving wife.”

  “How,” asked Margot, “do you know that?”

  Harriet Crossman gestured toward the corner of the small office.

  “Look down there. That small board in the corner swings on hinges.”

  She took two steps, reached down, and pushed the panel, which did indeed swing open, then shut again.

  “I never even noticed that,” said Margot, quietly. “Are you saying there’s one of those in each room?”

  “As far as our writers have been able to tell. It’s a marvelous thing; now the pussies can go visit each other.”

  I’m not, Nina found herself thinking, completely sure that’s a good thing.

  “And otherwise,” Harriet continued, “I must tell you that you’ve done a splendid job in preparing for us. Every report I’ve gotten is favorable. The rooms are perfectly laid out, the pairings have been made, and all the writers are raving about the atmosphere of the place. We are so looking forward to the next few days!”

  “Well,” said Margot, “I’m glad to hear that. Unfortunately though, not everyone seems pleased.”

  “Not everyone?”

  “No. We’ve just had a rather difficult conversation with Mr. Amboise.”

  “Oh God. That––well, no, I shan’t allow myself to lose control.”

  “Nina and I have already lost control, so don’t worry about it. Mr. Amboise does seem—well, different from the rest of the group, I must say.”

  “Of course, he’s different! He’s not one of us! Not one of us at all!”

  “He has an impressive list of accomplishments.”

  “He has a massive ego, is what he has. And he’s not a cozy writer!”

  “Then what is he doing here?”

  “He’s here because we couldn’t stop him.”

  “Why not?”

  A frustrated shrug.

  “His agents are the most powerful in New York. They were able to find a publisher for his one cozy mystery, and, being a name publisher, they insisted on his being admitted to the guild. As for the cozy, it’s a dreadful thing, probably knocked off in a few days.”

  “But why,” Margot asked, “would he want to even be here? He clearly doesn’t like it here, nor does he seem to want to associate with any of the other writers.”

  “I think,” said Nina, anxious to become known for something other than the acquirer of cat litter, “that I know.”

  Margot looked at her:

  “All right, then why?”

  “The HBO contract.”

  Harriet Crossman nodded.

  “There you have it. Where there is prestige and money––big money––these types of sharks always show up.”

  “But still,” interjected Margot, “I can’t believe we’re going to have to pamper him this way for days to come. Meals in his room! My God, I can’t even imagine––”

  “HELLO ALL!”

  This greeting, dripping as it was with golden sunshine and wheat germ, came from a pair of plaid-shirted figures who were bursting in from the back porch, their arms laden with tins of something or other.

  “We hope we’re not disturbing you!” said the female of the pair.

  “Not at all,” replied Margot.

  Female:

  “We had to come down and tell you––”

  Male:

  “––that our room is just great. EVERYTHING, actually is just great!”

  “Well we’re glad to hear that.”

  “Please let me introduce to you,” said Harriet Crossman, “Jim and Pat Hershey. They’re rapidly becoming the best known husband and wife writing team in the cozy business.”

  “So happy to know you; glad you’ve come to stay at Candles.”

  Pat Hershey stepped forward, beaming––

  ––actually they both were beaming, but her beams seemed even brighter, more redolent of a noon-day sun to make up for the evening sun, which even now was disappearing.

  No problem. She could light a large portion of the house, certainly at least this small reception area, by nothing more than the radiant energy being poured forth by the fifth generation dynamo which was her personality.

  “We had to bring you these!” she exulted, holding forth her arms, upon which were cradled two-foot circular, plaid-designed tins.

  The plaid of the tins, Nina remarked, matched the plaid designs of the Hersheys’ matching long-sleeved shirts.

  Somewhere upstairs, she told herself, were waiting other tins that resembled the designer jeans the chocolate pair were wearing.

  Was she going to keep thinking of them as ‘the chocolate pair?’ Hopefully not.

  “We brought you some cookies that we baked a couple of days ago!”

  Or, maybe she was.

  “How thoughtful of you!” said Margot, taking the containers that had been offered to her, then putting them on the counter behind her and taking two more from the male part of the pair.

  Jim:

  “We thought you might be so busy cooking for other people that you might appreciate it if somebody baked for you!”

  “And we do! We certainly do! What did you bring us?”

  Pat:

  “Sugar cookies, chocolate chip cookies, ginger snaps––”

  Jim:

  ––and teacakes. Our personal favorites!”

  “We’ll serve them for everyone along with dinner tonight!”

  “Whatever you want to do,” chimed in both of the writers in near unison.

  How can they talk together like that? Nina found herself wondering.

  This thought mysteriously transmogrified itself into an audible question, which came blurting out from her almost against her will:

  “How can you write together? Isn’t writing kind of a solitary, lonely thing?”

  Their smiles, almost incredibly, broadened.

  They both took one step forward and began answering, first one, then the other, in such a well-orchestrated back and forth rattattat that Nina forgot for a time to note which of the two was actually speaking at any given time.

  “Our minds just seem to––”

  “––think alike and when one of us has an––”

  “––idea why the other senses it and types it––”

  “––down on the paper even before the other one has––”

  “––had a chance to tell the other one about––”

  “––it but really that’s the way it’s always been in our––”

  “––marriage and so why should it be any different when––”

  “––we write?”

  And for a second they just stood there beaming.

  “That’s amazing,” said Nina, who actually was amazed and who’d never heard such a thing before.

  “Jim and Pat,” said Harriet Crossman, “write the Nancy Westmorland Mysteries. Their heroine is a retired librarian who lives in a small New England coastal village of around two thousand people. There is a curm
udgeon of a police chief and half a dozen or so genuinely eccentric and lovable characters. Nancy loves to cook, the books are filled with yummy recipes. Murders begin around page sixteen––”

  “Page eighteen in The Crab-Claw Conundrum!” interjected Pat.

  “Yes, I’d forgotten about that one. But they usually begin to happen around page sixteen so that the readers don’t get bored. After that, there’s always one murder per chapter, and the killer is always a surprise-detestable villain who deserves to be imprisoned.”

  “Or executed,” said Jim. “Many of our killers, at least when we project their futures, “are probably given lethal injections or, if they are originally from Utah, shot. But we don’t take the stories that far and so no one really minds.”

  “The works are,” said Harriet, smiling, “absolutely perfect cozy mysteries. We put them on the guild’s website as examples to follow for young would-be cozyists just starting out in the business.”

  “You’re so kind,” said Pat, taking a step back. “Well, Jim and I should probably be running along now. We’re up to chapter sixteen in our latest; we want to get this last murder committed before dinner, and write the final wrap-up on the fishing trawler.”

  Jim, in mock horror, held a finger up to his lips:

  “Oops! Mustn’t give it away now, Pat!”

  She clapped both palms to her mouth and then took them down, laughing as she said:

  “Oh, I did, didn’t I? Now don’t any of you tell!”

  “We won’t,” said Harriet, still beaming.

  “Well, at any rate, we hope to have the killer revealed a little later in the evening, and the epilogue done by bedtime.”

  “You should,” said Margot, “have a quiet evening to work. I don’t think anyone will bother you.”

  “Wish us luck then!” said the pair in unison as they exited the room waving.

  “Good -bye for now!”

  “Good luck!”

  “Thank you, thank you!”

  “Happy writing!”

  “Happy…”

  Etc. etc. etc.

  Finally Harriet said, shaking her head:

  “They are just so cute together.”

  To which Nina and Margot could only answer:

  “Yes they are. Yes they are.”

  And the three of them continued to watch as Jim and Pat Hershey, arm in arm, made their way across the back yard.

  Across the back yard, into the far south entrance, and gone from view.

  “Frank and I had a wonderful marriage,” Nina found herself whispering, “but even we didn’t seem to think in unison like that.”

  “It’s a gift,” said Harriet. “I’ve been married twice, and––well, it’s a gift. I just really don’t understand how two people can––”

  But she was interrupted by the opening of the entranceway door.

  Tingle tingle tingle little bell.

  And there, in the doorway, stood a figure of very different mien.

  Sunshine replaced by darkness.

  Exuberance replaced by gloom.

  Health replaced by sickness.

  It was a sad woman of indeterminate age, indeterminate hair, and indeterminate position in the world. A woman, actually, who seemed to deserve no position in the world. A short and mousy woman, bent slightly forward, overdressed in a trench coat which protected her from the rain that was not falling, but did not protect her from Harriet’s rather cold stare.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “I’m Molly.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t seem to be able to––”

  “Molly Badger.”

  Upon saying which, she shrank back an inch or so and bent an inch closer to the ground, as though she were a poorly skilled but deeply driven boxer who had no choice but to remain eternally in the ring that was life, being pummeled, and watching helplessly as the blows landed.

  “I wrote you,” she said, almost inaudibly.

  Harriet nodded, but the aloofness in her voice remained.

  “Oh, yes. I do remember now.”

  “About coming. Taking part in the convention.”

  “I remember your writing, and I also remember quite clearly my answers.”

  Molly Badger continued to shrink, saying even more timidly:

  “I know. I got the letters. I just thought if I actually came, if you saw how much I wanted to be here and to be one of you—to be a real Cozy Writer––”

  Harriet shook her head:

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Badger, but I must tell you that you have wasted your trip.”

  “Isn’t there––”

  “No. I’m sorry there isn’t. It’s as I expressed clearly in my letter: we simply do not have space to accommodate people in your—well, in your category.”

  “But I just want to learn.”

  “And that is an admirable goal. But it’s not our job to teach you. There are courses that one can take––”

  “I know, and I’ve taken them. Several of them. But they don’t seem to do any good.”

  “Then I am deeply saddened. But that does not change the fact that the AGCW is not an instructional institution. We realize, of course, that there are any number of people in precisely your situation who would love to be members of The Guild, and to enjoy the privileges such membership affords. But the fact is that we cannot begin to accept all of you. If we did, our standards would––well, in short, it’s simply impossible.”

  Helplessly, the woman turned and spoke to Margot:

  “Isn’t there––isn’t there some place for me here? I won’t be any trouble. I just want to listen, to soak in what I can. Ma’am, if you are the head of this Bed and Breakfast, don’t you have some corner for Molly Badger to sleep in? I’ll pay whatever you want. And I can help out! I can clean!”

  Margot, almost mute, seemed to have nothing to say. She merely shook her head while Harriet continued to address the woman cowering before her:

  “I’m sorry but this is not a decision for Ms. Gavin to make. I truly regret that you have been put to an inconvenience, and that you did not choose to believe my letters. But if we begin making exceptions for one of you, then we shall have to make similar exceptions for you all. And the standing of our Guild would plummet. Now I don’t mean to appear rude, but I have a great deal of work to do, and I must ask you to leave.”

  “Yes. Yes, I understand. I’ll go.”

  And, so saying, the woman made her way out through the doorway, across the broad, blue porch, and out into the yard.

  When she was well out of earshot, Margot asked Harriet Crossman:

  “Who is that woman?”

  A shake of the head:

  “Her name is Molly Badger. She began writing letters to me several months ago. I finally answered in terms that I hoped would make our position clear—for we get hundreds, even thousands, of such inquiries—but apparently she is simply more persistent than the others of her kind. It’s very sad, actually.”

  “What does she want?”

  “To be accepted as a member of The Guild, of course. And, of course, that’s quite impossible. As is her remaining here at The Candles and being part of the convention.”

  “But we do have an extra room or so.”

  A violent shake of the head:

  “No, that’s not the issue. The issue is that she simply does not belong here. She’s not one of us!”

  “Why not?”

  Harriet Crossman was silent for a time and then said, quietly but clearly:

  “She is self-published.”

  Silence for a time.

  “I’m sorry,” Margot whispered, finally. “I didn’t know.”

  “That’s all right, Ms. Gavin. There’s no way you could have known. But I suppose it’s now time for me to be fully honest with you. The Molly Badgers of the world are one of the reasons that the Guild is meeting here at The Candles.”

  “How so?”

  “Because, when we meet in the larger metropolitan hotels, it’s very dif
ficult to keep such people away. And the costs for security alone––”

  “I understand.”

  “We thought, coming here, with the forests and the isolation—we thought we could use Nature itself as a buffer against self-publication. Obviously, we were wrong. But this is not a matter over which you should concern yourself further. If Ms. Badger should fail to take our warnings and leave immediately—we have ways of dealing with her.”

  The sentence, Nina thought, had an ominous ring to it.

  But it was followed by a bright smile, a change in Harriet Crossman’s demeanor, and the words: “Well, let’s all try to put that behind us, and get on with more important matters. I shall see you, Ms. Gavin, and you, Ms. Bannister, for dinner!”

  So saying, she turned and left the room.

  In half a minute, she had disappeared into the plantation.

  Margo hesitated for a time, to be sure she was out of earshot.

  Then she whispered:

  “Come on.”

  “Come on where?” asked Nina.

  “Come on with me. We’re going to talk to that poor woman.”

  “Why? What can we possibly say to her?”

  “Just come on. You’ll see. I think I saw our Ms. Badger go out and sit down by the old well in the back yard.”

  They left the office together, made their way across the porch, and headed out into the yard.

  When they reached the well, Molly Badger was kneeling on the ground beside it, her forehead pressed against the moist, ragged bricks.

  Nina could hear her sobbing.

  Margot knelt and put her arms out; the woman hurled herself into the embrace, glad to have cloth and flesh to press against rather than masonry.