Oil Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 4)

by T'Gracie Reese

“The story in The Times, the entire scandal…it masked completely the operations of the smugglers, who, some two weeks ago, must have felt that they were on the verge of being discovered.”

  “They were on the verge. Edgar had discovered them.”

  ‘Unfortunately, he seems to have trusted the wrong man.”

  They sat for a time. Finally Nina said:

  “But you now know who these people are?”

  “We are closing in. That is all I can say at this time.”

  “Annette Richoux…”

  “There is almost certainly no such person. Nor is there any actual professor of geology resembling the small goatee-wearing man you met in the lecture hall.”

  “But do you know who they are?”

  “Again, I am not at liberty to say at this time. Still, there is one question that I must put to you, dear Nina. And I must do so with your safety in mind. Forgive me if I seem distrustful.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is there even the slightest possibility that you and young Hector Ramirez might have made a copy of that disk?”

  She shook her head:

  “No. I didn’t. And Hector never really had it. He couldn’t have.”

  Dale seemed to sigh.

  “That is very good news. Because if the smugglers thought there was such a disk, and that you still had it…”

  “I understand. No. No, there isn’t.”

  “Then all I can advise you to do is wait patiently. I and my colleagues may work slowly, but we are not inefficient. I believe I can promise you that Mr. Ramirez’ family will receive justice. The murderer of their son will be located, and probably within the next few weeks. The entire deception perpetrated against you—and against Ms. Cohen—will be unraveled.”

  Nina breathed deeply and said:

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. But I do have one or two further bits of what I hope will be good news for you.”

  “All right.”

  “The first concerns your, well, partner in crime, Ms. Cohen.”

  “Yes?”

  “You may have heard that she was released from The New York Times.”

  “Yes.”

  “This was a decision made by the newspaper. It was not done because of any pressure brought by Louisiana Petroleum.”

  “All right. But the problem is, she’s still fired.”

  “No. She is not.”

  “What?”

  Dale smiled:

  “We are not a vindictive corporation, Nina. We hold no grudges for what has happened. We are, however, led by certain executives who wield a good bit of persuasive power. People who belong to golf clubs, etc., and who collect favors, so that they may give favors in return.”

  “Are you saying…”

  “One of the ‘favors’ we have called in—from a retired but still influential managing editor of the newspaper, is the re-hiring of Ms. Cohen. She is, we have been able to ascertain, a first-rate journalist with an impeccable record. She was taken in, as were you. As were, when one thinks of it, all of us. This thing needs to be put behind us; and there is no need for her to remain the victim.”

  This called, Nina felt, for another glass of Chardonnay, which she happily poured herself, while saying:

  “That is excellent news! We seem to keep wanting to villainize you folks out at Aquatica; and you keep on making it impossible.”

  “I hope that is true, and that it remains true. But in order for us to make absolutely certain that it does remain true, there is one more urgent request that I must make of you, on behalf of Aquatica, and of Louisiana Petroleum.”

  “What? What request?”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card.

  It was postcard size, laminated, and gold-embossed.

  It read:

  “To Nina Bannister:

  Louisiana Petroleum requests your presence at a gala celebration to be held on board the vessel Aquatica, on the evening of Saturday, June 28, at eight PM. Transportation to and from Aquatica will be provided. Formal attire, please. RSVP”

  For a time she could only stare at the card.

  Then she said:

  “I would have thought myself the last person you would have wanted.”

  He shook his head.

  “Precisely the opposite is true. I believe you remember Ms. Cousins?”

  “Sandy? Of course!”

  “She was instrumental in planning this gala. And as the guest list was being prepared, with all of its film stars and athletes and celebrities, she remained insistent: the first name on the list will be, must be, that of Nina Bannister.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Indeed you should and must believe it. We want you to be our guest, Nina. Both you and Ms. Cohen. This nightmare, is over.”

  She was speechless.

  Liz was rehired.

  She herself, would be undisgraced.

  Champagne would be flowing.

  The world was beginning to make sense again.

  And Cinderella was going to the ball!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: PREPARATIONS

  The week preceding June 28 was a memorable one in Bay St. Lucy.

  The tourists talked about the same things they always talked about: swimming in the surf and crabbing on the jetty and fishing from the pier.

  But the residents talked about the upcoming great and wonderful Aquatica party, which, much like the great and wonderful Oz, was hard to imagine and harder still not to think about.

  Every edition of The Bay City Gazette contained a new addition to the guest list. Monday a rock star agreed to come, Tuesday the star running back of The New Orleans Saints, Wednesday, three members of the Mississippi legislature (they did not generate as much interest as the musicians or the athlete), Wednesday evening…

  …etc., etc., etc.

  And as interest in the party grew, so did Nina’s activity list.

  She spent Monday afternoon at a tea held by Alanna Delafosse in the rose garden of the Auberge des Arts.

  Tuesday morning she went shopping, trying to find something appropriate for a fairy tale evening.

  Tuesday afternoon she went to Bay St. Lucy’s AT&T store to buy a new cell phone.

  Wednesday morning she had brunch at Gerard Park, under a gazebo, with Paul and Macy Cox, back for a week’s visit from their new home in Jackson.

  Wednesday evening she had dinner with several people at Edie Towler’s beautiful house on the north side of town.

  All of these events were designed as part of kind of a ‘let’s forgive Nina’ for making a fool of herself’ week, but also as a genuine celebration. For the town had tolerated bearded activists and marijuana smokers; but it more badly needed Aquatica.

  Aquatica supplied residents.

  And money.

  A great deal of money.

  Bay St. Lucy needed big oil, as did the entire states of Mississippi and Louisiana.

  And big oil was not sufficient in and of itself.

  What was needed was SAFE big oil.

  The coming gala seemed to promise every assurance of that.

  The two hundred or so celebrities planning to attend might just as well, in the words of Brewster Dale, have been spending an evening at The Peabody in Memphis, or The Monteleone in New Orleans, or on The Queen Elizabeth.

  …or, Nina occasionally mused despite herself, on The Titanic.

  But that was ridiculous.

  Why think things like that?

  And so things rocked on until Saturday morning, the big day.

  She tried to go through her weekend routine as best as possible, but somehow she could not avoid feeling excited. She bought a black, bejeweled gown, for which she had paid decidedly too much at Sarah’s Fine Fashions. She could feel cold champagne on her taste buds. And the helicopter ride!

  How often did one get to look at the sea from a state of the art helicopter?

  And, of course, there wer
e the celebrities.

  Movie stars!

  Running backs!

  Politicians!

  (Well, forget them for the moment and go back to thinking of:

  Movie stars!

  Running backs!)

  And it was in this sort of mind set she found herself in, when, at 3 PM (she was to be at the airport at six thirty, all dressed and sparkling and ready) her new cell phone rang.

  She flipped it open and heard:

  “I’m at the long pier.”

  “Good,” she replied.

  “Where do I get bait?”

  “Turn around and look behind you. About fifty yards from the pier entrance, there’s a shop that says ‘Kate’s Baits.’ There are several bait shops near the pier, but that’s probably the best one. It’s where I go when I fish off the pier.”

  “What do I use for bait?”

  “What are you trying to catch?”

  “Fish.”

  “Squid.”

  “What?”

  “Squid.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me—that’s disgusting!”

  “Well, you could use chocolate cake if it sounds better, but you won’t catch anything. Oh and by the way…”

  “Yes?”

  “Who are you?”

  “What?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Liz of course. Who the hell did you think I was?”

  “Wasn’t sure.”

  “Well who else would be calling you?”

  “Now that I think about it, nobody. Not a soul in the world, other than Elizabeth Cohen.”

  “So why don’t you come down here to the pier and join me? You can teach me how to fish. Then we can go out to the Aquatica party together. Oh and you don’t have any whiskey do you?”

  “No, I gave it all to a security guard.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know, but it seemed the thing to do at the time.”

  “Well, no matter. There’s somewhere in town that sells whiskey isn’t there?”

  “There’s no place in town that doesn’t.”

  “Sounds like my kind of place. Anyway, I’m supposed to write a story about this shindig, and I want to be good and drunk when I do it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. The philosophy here is “Pouring out whiskey is like burning books.”

  “I love it. Who said that, besides you?”

  “Faulkner, in Intrud..no, in Light in August. Why did I think Intruder in the Dust?”

  “Damned if I know. But we don’t have too much time for this fishing, or for the getting drunk. So get your ass down here!”

  And Nina did.

  She drove to the pier, parked her Vespa, and looked out. Sure enough, there was Liz Cohen as far out as possible, waving and smiling.

  One minute later, the two women were embracing, a flock of seagulls screeching over them, and long green waves of ocean washing around the pier posts beneath them.

  “Hey girl!” said Liz, finally, as the embrace loosened.

  “Hey yourself.”

  Liz wore only a white t-shirt and jeans. She had accumulated a store of various fishing supplies that lay harmlessly (at least to the fish) at her feet.

  “Liz, when did you get to Bay St. Lucy?”

  “Late this morning.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Some B&B. I don’t remember the name of it.”

  “Why didn’t you call me? You could have stayed with me.”

  “Are you kidding? The last time I had anything to do with you, I got fired.”

  “Yes, but you’re rehired now, aren’t you?”

  “Damned straight How’d you know?”

  “A guy from LP told me. Apparently the corporation doesn’t want any hard feelings. This guy said that they hired you back because a retired managing editor spoke up for you, as kind of payback for a favor LP had done him.”

  Liz nodded:

  “A managing editor did speak up for me. Old fart. And it might have had something to do with encouragement from LP.”

  She shrugged:

  “Or it might have been because I’ve been sleeping with the guy, off and on, for a couple of years.”

  “Well,” said Nina, thoughtfully, “if you want to take the cynical view.”

  “I’m a reporter. I’m paid to do that. So how do you fish?”

  “Let’s take a look. What have you got here?”

  “Pole and stuff.”

  “That’s a rod and reel.”

  “Yeah, like I said.”

  “Come on. Let me help you fix up this rig. Where’s the bait?”

  “I think it’s in this sack.”

  “You think?”

  “I didn’t have the guts to look at it.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be a hardened journalist? Don’t you cover combat, and all of that?”

  “Yeah, but that’s just war. This is squid.”

  “Here. Watch.”

  In some minutes, Nina had found the end of the fishing line, attached bobber, sinker, and hook, and opened the package of squid.

  “That is,” said Liz, “the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Ok, I’ll bait it for you.”

  “I can’t believe you’re not throwing up.”

  “I’m a child of the coast.”

  “I’m a child of the Bronx, and I couldn’t do what you’re doing.”

  “There, it’s ready. Now pick up the rod.”

  “Like this?”

  “Perfect. There, see that little curved metal rod just above the reel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s the bail.”

  “The what?”

  “The bail.”

  “Bail is to get prisoners out of jail.”

  “This bail is to catch fish. Flip it.”

  Liz did so.

  “All right, now put your finger on the reel, so that you’re pressing down on the line.”

  “Like this?”

  “Exactly like that. Rear back and cast. When the rod is sticking straight up, let up on your finger.”

  “Okay, here goes!”

  Swish.

  “Perfect!”

  “Hey, I did it.”

  And she had done it.

  The tall red bobber was jerking in the waves, some thirty feet from the end of the pier.

  They watched it for a time as, caught in the slow incoming tidal currents, it gradually worked its way toward them.

  “So how long,” asked Liz, “do we have to do this?”

  Nina looked at her, noting almost complete misery.

  “As long as it takes, Liz.”

  “Until what?”

  “You catch a fish.”

  “Oh.”

  “And by the way, I wanted to tell you…I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Almost getting you fired.”

  Liz shrugged.

  “Wasn’t’ your fault. I’ve been a reporter for a lot of years. Good reputation, all that crap. I fell for that scam like a midway rube.”

  “Well, I did too.”

  “You’re a school teacher. People lie to you all the time and you can’t do anything about it. But me—I’m supposed to know better.”

  “Thanks.”

  ‘You’re welcome. By the way, what does it mean when it goes under like that?”

  “It means you’ve got a bite.”

  “Oh hell.”

  “It’s not too bad. It happens sometime when you go fishing.”

  “You didn’t warn me.”

  “Slipped my mind.”

  “So what do I…”

  “Jerk hard on the rod.”

  “Like this? I…oh my god it’s pulling back at the other end!”

  “Yes; it’s trained to do that.”

  “Maybe I should just let go of the rod.”

  “That would solve the problem. The other option though is to start reeling in.”

>   “Like this?”

  “Hey, you’re a natural.”

  “So what do you think we’ve caught?”

  “Shark, maybe.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “People catch sharks.”

  “Maybe if I just let go of the rod…”

  “No!”

  The fish, whatever it was, was getting closer.

  “So, how big are the sharks around here? Like twenty feet, like the one in Jaws?”

  “The sharks around this pier are maybe three feet, like the one in Finding Nemo. Now, out at Aquatica—there you might get some big ones.”

  “Great whites?”

  “They’re rare in the gulf. But from what I can understand, there are the occasional sightings.”

  “I just don’t want to…hey, there he is!”

  “Keep reeling. Hold the rod pointed higher!”

  “What is that?”

  “Whitefish. Maybe a foot long. Nice fish, Liz!”

  Liz, giddy as a school girl, hauled the flipping fish over the rail of the pier and let it land at their feet.

  “What will we do with it?”

  “Are you kidding? We’ll take it back to my place and put it in the fridge. Tomorrow we’ll have it for dinner. We would have it tonight, but we’re eating out in style.”

  “Damned straight we are! Tomorrow though I’m supposed to be flying back to New York.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it, Liz. One night at least you’ve got to spend with me.”

  “You got room.”

  “No, but I’ll get scotch.”

  “You’re beginning to tempt me.”

  “And somebody’s got to show you Bay St. Lucy.”

  “Well…”

  “Beside, they’re not going to fire you; you’re sleeping with the damned ex-managing editor.”

  “There is that.”

  And so, fish dangling between them, the two women walked back off the pier, toward Nina’s Vespa.

  Within fifteen minutes—the drive would only have taken five minutes, but they had stopped at a liquor store to buy Scotch—they were back at Nina’s, the whitefish dutifully stored in the refrigerator, the glasses of Chardonnay and Scotch sitting before them, and the ocean sky in the East turning a strange lemon color.

  “What does that mean?”

  Nina shook her head.

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe a line of squalls though. We might have rain tonight on good old Aquatica.”

  “Oh great.”

  “It probably won’t be anything that bad.”