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

by T'Gracie Reese

  “IT’S NOT RAYMONDO YOU CRETIN! IT’S EDGARDO! CAN’T YOU AT LEAST GET THE NAMES OF THE CHARACTERS STRAIGHT!”

  Margot stepped into the room and cleared her throat:

  “Ahem.”

  Both of the Hersheys turned their heads, apparently aware for the first time that they were not alone in the room.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Silence.

  Finally it was Jim who answered:

  “We were writing.”

  Everyone in the hallway had now made their way into the room and were looking around with horror.

  Pat Hershey, looking at Nina:

  “Which is a better name, Edgardo or Raymondo?”

  “Raymondo,” answered Nina immediately, having no idea why she said so.

  Pat glared at her husband and hissed:

  “I told you! I told you!”

  Then the two of them turned to the crowd and said, quietly:

  “Maybe we should finish the epilogue tomorrow.”

  Margot cleared her throat again and said, hesitantly:

  “Well, it does seem to be shaping up as a busy day.”

  “Yes,” the Hershey’s affirmed. “Yes, we’ll finish tomorrow. “Sorry if we disturbed anyone.”

  Many answers from the writers:

  “That’s all right.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Just the writing process.”

  “Love your cat.”

  “See you tomorrow!”

  “See both of you tomorrow!”

  “See you tomorrow!”

  “Good night!”

  “Good night!”

  “Good night!”

  “Good night.”

  And, after a time, the corridor was silent and empty.

  Margot saw Nina to her door.

  Nina went in and said:

  “This is the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

  But Margot only shook her head and said:

  “Not yet.”

  Then the two women went to their own rooms and to bed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: PROFESSOR BRIGHTON DUNBURY

  And so it came to pass that Nina Bannister awoke on the second morning of the AGCW conference—in a haunted room.

  So it came to pass that she slid from her bed, took stock of her reflection, threw on her Mississippi State Bulldog sweatshirt—for the morning was quite cool for the last day in August, and pondered what to do.

  It was early. The world was in half-light, the sun having not yet risen. She could see through the window on the south side of the room that there was no activity on the porch or in the yard, no movement anywhere that she could see, and no sound other than the crowing of a rooster from one of the barns.

  She knew where the breakfast room was; she could hope that some of the staff had already begun to prepare for the morning’s meal, had already put on a pot of coffee.

  She might meet Margot bustling about.

  On the other hand, she might meet some of the cozy writers.

  Not a pleasant prospect.

  So she decided to do something quite different.

  She would explore the forested part of The Candles’ grounds.

  Why not go into the woods and watch the sun come up through the thickly enmeshed branches of oaks and yellow pines?

  This proved to be a good idea.

  She had no idea where she was going, of course; but she had brought with her to Candles some good hiking boots. The air proved deliciously fresh and pine-scented, and the narrow paths seemed to beckon her, winding here and there, offering a new sight and a new smell every few turns.

  In fifteen minutes she was completely lost, enveloped in the forest primeval, but not caring very much, and certain that she would be able to retrace her steps when she needed to.

  Or would she need to?

  Would she have to go back at all?

  It had all seemed like such a good idea only a short time ago: she and her good friend merely hanging out in this marvelous old place, sipping coffee in the morning, wine or even cognac at night, chatting empty-headedly about this or that.

  Chilling out.

  And now this.

  Thirty insane people screaming at each other about Edgardo and Raymondo—whoever they were—or sniffing the air for the scent of demons, or locking themselves in their rooms, or getting worked into a frenzy about the horrors of self-publishing.

  All here, locked together, waiting for someone from the magic city of Los Angeles to come and make one of them famous.

  Did she really want to go back to that?

  Why should she not simply wander here forever in this forest? Perhaps she really had been transformed into a modern, though equally timeless, version of the Wizard of Oz, and these hard-packed Mississippi red dirt paths would soon turn to yellow brick roads and she’d never have to hear the word “cozy” again until she woke up where there’s no place like (that is ‘home’) and Toto-Furl would be there playfully licking her cheek or pooping on the deck?

  Why should she not be able to do that?

  She had about decided that there was, in fact, no reason for her to go back, when she broke into a clearing and saw the Wizard of Oz himself.

  He was seated beside a small emerald-like pond—at least the pond was emerald in color even if it was not a city—and he was fishing.

  He was also petting the plantation dog Borg, who lay calmly at his side.

  He was not the Wizard who appeared later in the film, but the old man who drove the Professor Miracle medicine show wagon earlier on, the one Dorothy stumbles upon after she and Toto run away.

  He sat quite still, his back to her, obviously oblivious to her presence. He was fishing with a cane pole. She could see better now, for a sliver of sun had just appeared in the Eastern sky, and the small red-white bobber appeared quite clearly, no more than fifteen or thirty feet out in the lake.

  Black frock coat, frumpy and equally black hat, graying hair falling in an unkempt way about and below his ears.

  Yes, he was Professor Miracle, no doubt, later to become the ALL-POWERFUL OZ, and later still to be revealed as a complete humbug-master.

  And his warm smile was exactly like the professor’s when, hearing her take a step toward the lake, he turned and beamed and shouted:

  “Well! Hello there, my dear! Another early riser, I see!”

  Suddenly there came a mournful but chilling kind of wail from somewhere far beyond the pond.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  He smiled:

  “It’s a panther actually. Almost certainly a black panther.”

  “A black panther? In Mississippi?”

  “Oh yes! One finds them in almost all areas of the country. Very rare, but very beautiful. Don’t worry about this one though. He’s miles away.”

  She continued to walk toward the pond, saying:

  “Well, then, panther or not, good morning!”

  “Yes, yes, it is definitely a good morning! Although I must say, there’s something about the sky that disturbs me!”

  She looked up and around.

  Something about the sky disturbed her, too.

  The dreadful yellow tinge had grown more pronounced, and it colored even the bright morning star that still hung in the West.

  “They say,” she said, “that a hurricane is heading toward East Texas.”

  He shook his head:

  “Well, they may say what they wish. That’s their prerogative.”

  “You don’t believe them?”

  “All I know, my child, is that ‘the seller of lightning rods arrived just before the storm.’ Lovely line, eh? Bradbury, of course. Something Wicked this Way Comes. And, of course, the original version of that title is in Macbeth. But wherever the line originates, it shows a startling amount of perception. I feel our lightning rod seller is just down the road a piece, and will be here before we realize it. Then will come the storm. Oh, let them blather about Texas if they wish. But the stor
m will come here, in one form or other. Please—come and sit beside me, and help me fish.”

  She was almost at the lake now, and there was a fallen tree trunk that seemed to have been made for a seat.

  She eased herself down on it, then reached out to take the hand that was extending toward her:

  “I’m Dr. Brighton Dunbury,” the hand’s owner said, cheerily.

  No you’re not! the shaker of the hand said mentally. You’re Professor Miracle!

  “Pleased to meet you!” said the shaker of the hand not mentally but audibly. “I’m Nina Bannister.”

  “Wonderful to meet you, wonderful indeed! Are you a writer of cozy mysteries? I don’t believe I know your heroine or your charming small quaint village?”

  Nina shook her head:

  “No. No, I’m a friend of Margot Gavin. Margot and her husband run Candles. I came up from Bay St. Lucy for a va—to help her during the conference.”

  She could, of course, have said, ‘I came for a vacation and ran smack dab into you loonies by accident––’

  But what would that have accomplished?

  And perhaps this man wasn’t a loony at all!

  “Are you a medical doctor?” she asked.

  He smiled and shook his head:

  “Veterinarian. My occupation has allowed me to calm our friend here.”

  “Borg?”

  “Oh, is that his name?”

  “That’s what I was told yesterday when I arrived. They also said he’d been upset for months, not wanting to be around people. I do wonder what might have caused that condition.”

  “Apparently there was a convention of writers here in June.”

  “Ah! Well, that explains it then!!”

  “Somehow you calmed him down though.”

  He nodded:

  “I and this small apparatus.”

  He lifted his palm off Borg’s head, where it had been resting.

  In the palm was a small piece of metal that resembled an amulet of some sort. It was glowing green, and she could hear it emitting a slight buzzing sound.

  “What is that?”

  “You’ve heard of dog whistles, have you not?”

  “Yes, they emit a kind of high-pitched tone. Dogs can hear them and we can’t. But they drive the dogs crazy.”

  “Yes, they do. Well this little device—it’s on the market you know, I didn’t invent it—this device has the opposite effect. It’s an anti-dog whistle. It calms dogs down. It actually––”

  He was interrupted by the disappearance of the bobber.

  “You’ve got a bite!” she said.

  “Yes, yes, I certainly do!”

  He jerked the pole, hooked whatever was at the other end of the line, and began to reel.

  “What do you imagine I’ve hooked my dear? Trout, bass, catfish, shark, whale?”

  “Or sunfish.”

  Which is what it was.

  He held it dangling before them, and she admired, as she always did, the remarkable colors of the thing, the reasons for its name, the yellows and reds and deep purples that made it look like nothing more than the sunrise itself.

  “What a thing of beauty, eh?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, let’s set about getting it back to its home!”

  He deftly removed the fish from the hook that protruded from its mouth, and a second later he was flipping it back into the pond.

  “That,” he said, grinning, “was exciting, wasn’t it?”

  Nina nodded and said:

  “For the fish, too.”

  He laughed:

  “For the fish too! I like that! For the fish too. Ha!”

  Then he re-baited the hook with a worm that he took from a red coffee can, re-cast his line, listened to the satisfying ‘plop’ sound, and asked:

  “And what do you do, Ms. Bannister, when you’re not helping your friend carry out her innkeeping business?”

  “I’m retired now. I was a teacher.”

  “How splendid! And whom did you teach?”

  “Mississippi high school students. I was an English teacher for a lot of years.”

  “Then I have met a colleague! I studied and taught classics for a time. I’m English, you know, born in London. I taught there for some years. But I tired of it. I had other loves––namely writing and, strangely, animals. I heard a kind of ‘call of the wild,’ as it were. I moved to Boston and studied veterinary medicine. And then I went further into the wilderness––namely the wilds of northern Michigan. I live in a small town there now, taking care of sick animals, and camping as much as possible.”

  “What do you write?”

  He smiled:

  “My mystery writing reflects my earlier classical training. Never lost that love completely, you know! I write the Drusilla of Sestos Mysteries.”

  “Drusilla of––”

  “Sestos.”

  “I’m sorry, I––”

  “I know, you’ve probably not heard of it. Possibly because it isn’t very large. And also because it no longer exists.”

  “Where was it when it did exist?”

  “About forty miles south of Rome. But it was destroyed by a volcano in 234 AD.”

  “I thought that was Pompeii.”

  “No, Pompeii’s destruction came half a century later. And that wretched city got all the publicity. The tragedy of Sestos though was equally compelling. Wiped out completely. Dear Drusilla too. But I made quite a complete study of the lady earlier in my career. And finally, when I could no longer resist the urge to write fiction—something that someone might actually read, you know—I thought, why Drusilla is the perfect cozy heroine! She lives in a small coastal town––”

  “With a volcano.”

  “Of course with a volcano, but also some charming sea vistas to look at…and she is the perfect person to solve mysteries, simply by dint of her occupation.”

  “Which is?”

  “Drusilla is a seamstress! One of the few occupations open to Roman ladies of high rank and acute intelligence.”

  “She weaves.”

  “Yes, she weaves! But to the Romans, and to the Greeks, from whom they stole the imagery, weaving is also the ultimate mark of intelligence and artistry. One weaves cloth, of course, but one also weaves stories and tales. Homer’s Penelope deceives suitors for years by weaving and then unweaving the burial shroud for Odysseus. Athena herself, the goddess of wisdom, is, as she tells Odysseus, the greatest of all weavers. Wisdom and lying are one and the same for the Greeks, and for the Romans after them––and for my Drusilla and––I suppose if we get right down to it—for me.”

  “Is Athena a character in your stories?”

  “Of course she is! And she is my muse! I have a small image of her—actually a shrine one might say—and I pray to it daily before beginning to write. I also pray to the muse of course: Oh, sing in me, muse—which is what the Greek singer chanted before beginning his songs of Troy and the great battles and the great wanderings.”

  “You have a cat?”

  “Of course, I have a cat! We all have cats. Mine is back in the room now, sleeping.”

  “His name?”

  “Clawdius.”

  “That would fit.”

  The sun had risen now. They could hear bullfrogs croaking in the moss around the edges of the pond, and Nina found herself imagining them to be the incarnation of all the long dead singers and poets and cozy writers, chanting to the muse so that they could sing of Troy and Penelope and Odysseus and Miss Marple.

  “Are you hoping,” she asked, “to win an HBO contract and put Drusilla on weekly television?”

  He merely smiled and shook his head:

  “Oh no, that would spoil everything.”

  She looked at him and asked:

  “Why?”

  “Because it would mean success! And that would destroy my ability to write!”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, it would take the fuel away!”

  “Wh
at fuel?”

  “The, the…”

  He shook his head, then thought for a time, and said quietly:

  “I’m not sure about the other writers of fiction, my dear. Perhaps some do write for money. But there’s so little of that commodity lying around, and so many writers trying to get it—that anyone who chooses the drudgery of fiction writing as an avenue for financial success, is surely an idiot.”

  “So why write? Do you want fame?”

  An even more pronounced shake of the head:

  “Fame is even in shorter supply than lucre.”

  “Then why write? What motivates you?”

  “The same thing that motivates all fiction writers I imagine. Even though most do not realize it.”

  “And that is?”

  “Spite, of course!”

  “What?”

  “Spite! I write out of pure spite! And had I not this wellspring of churning, spewing, bubbling, boiling, ever-regenerating, perfectly pure spite raging deep within me—why, I could never write a word. My fiction would be completely dead.”

  “I still don’t––I mean––”

  “I know it must be difficult for those of you in the outside world. But every time one of us receives a rejection letter—and we receive hundreds of them before we ever gain even the slightest glimmer of success—a grain of spite gets sown in the furrows of our little mental fields. Finally, there are rows of such spite seeds, and then more rows, and then complete fields, and then blossoming crops, golden in the sunlight, all bushels and bushels and bushels of complete spite, all of it dedicated to—to no one! To faceless people, editors who do not answer queries, agents who do not accept un-agented submissions, website entries that say, “We are no longer accepting submissions.” We rage against all of these evil forces, and our rage generates power, and it’s this power we harness in order to write. Reject me, huh! Well, I’ll write another novel! I’ll write a novel with one hand behind my baaack! And another one and another one after that. JUST TO SHOW YOU, TO SHOW ALL OF YOU! I’LL WRITE A HUNDRED NOVELS AND YOU CAN’T STOP ME!”

  He had changed momentarily, Nina noted, from Professor Miracle/Wizard of Oz to the cowardly lion, raging and shouting, ‘Put ‘em uuup! ‘Put ‘em uuup!’

  He was quite animated by this time, and he was forced to pause for a few seconds.