Finally, he was able to smile wanly, shake his head, and be his old self/selves.
“But, success? People telling you how they live for every word you write? How much they love this character or that? And what will the next novel be about and how they can’t lead normal lives until it comes out and until they see the film of it and is it true that so and so is to play the starring role? No. Such success would be no more than a poison gas hovering inches above the typewriter. No writers could stand it. And most writers who do achieve it––well, you know, they attempt to commit suicide.”
“They try to kill themselves?”
“No, they try to kill their characters. But the public will not allow them to do so. Sherlock Holmes was wished dead a thousand times by his creator. But England would have none of it; and so poor Conan Doyle was sentenced to life as a parrot, simply repeating again and again what he’d already said.”
“And you don’t want that for Drusilla.”
“Of course not. My mysteries are published by a small house. I try various means to sell them and I fail. These failures enrage me, and I use this rage to write more books.”
He was silent for a time, then he turned to look at the sunrise:
“I suppose,” he said, “you must be sick indeed of hearing me ramble on.”
“No. I just never thought writing would be like that. I did have one more question, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Of course, I don’t mind!”
“How did you get published in the first place? And, if your books don’t sell, how have you gotten to be included in the AGCW, which only takes the top cozy writers?”
He smiled while he turned the bait can over and watched the worms crawl into ever deeper tufts of grass.
Finally, he said:
“Well, that was the influence of Harriet Crossman. I met her when I was living in Boston. I showed her my manuscripts. She found a publisher for them—she has many contacts, and called in a favor, I suppose. Then, since she was even at that time the most decisive force in the Guild, she used her influence to have me admitted.”
“She must love your work.”
He got to his feet, carefully wrapping the fishing line around the pole and securing the hook.
“That’s possible,” he said. “Or it might simply have been because for lo those many years we were sleeping together. So, ready? Let’s go back!”
And he walked away.
CHAPTER NINE: FAME COMES A- KNOCKING!
During the mile or so walk back from the lake to the plantation house, Nina said little to the professor who walked in front of her, and spent most of the time thinking that it would be good for her to spend the entire morning locked away in her room, if for no other purpose than to imagine where and when and IN GOD’S NAME HOW??? did Professor Brighton Dunbury and Harriet Crossman become lovers?
But she was not to be allowed this luxury.
Much had been happening at the Candles.
In the first place, the cats were proving to be a problem. Unfettered access to every room and every corridor, such access granted by the ubiquitous cat doors carefully carpentered into the place by its original, obviously cat-loving builders gave them equally unfettered access to each other,
And after a few hours of such access, it became painfully clear to their owners, and much more painfully clear to Margot, that they all either hated each other or loved each other.
In various rooms or corners, on various counter tops, behind various chairs and sofas, under various beds—they hurled themselves hissing and spitting and clawing and tearing and ripping and spewing and yowling.
Or, in much these same areas, they made passionate love, assuming positions and postures that Nina, accustomed only to the celibate life lived by the confirmed bachelor Furl, would never have thought conceivable, except that she saw an example of it taking place just in front of the refrigerator when she went into the kitchen looking for Margot.
The same Margot who, at just that moment, happened to be coming out of the dining room.
Both of the women stared at the spectacle for a time.
“Would you look at that?” asked Nina, quietly.
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“It’s kind of educational though.”
“What?”
“I mean, it’s kind of like watching the nature channel. I really would never have thought––”
“Do you know this is going on all over the house?”
“In just this same way? I mean, with the same––”
“I DON’T KNOW, NINA! I’M NOT TAKING NOTES!”
“I’m sorry.”
Margot was silent for a time.
They both were silent for the amount of time necessary for Hecubah and Driscoll (the two enamored animals in question) to consummate their relationship and wander woozily off in opposite directions, purring quietly and licking themselves.
“We are,” Margot said, when it was possible to speak again, “going to have to have the whole place sanitized. Top to bottom.”
“Well. You’ll be able to afford it.”
“It’s not worth it. All the money in the world wouldn’t be worth it. Just the cat hair alone––”
“I know. I’m a cat owner.”
“You own one cat! One! I’ve been sneezing ever since I got up this morning! And last night—it was three in the morning, actually—two of them got into my room!”
“Were they friends or enemies?”
Margot shook her head:
“I’m not sure. I was half asleep, it was all so dream-like. But they broke a lamp.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re going to be sorrier. I have a kind of difficult job for you; but you’re the only one I can trust to do it.”
“Is the litter gone? Because I’m not…”
“No, it’s worse.”
Nina was silent for a time, contemplating how this might be possible.
Finally she asked:
“What do you want me to do?”
“We’re serving breakfast, you know.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Take Garth Amboise his food.”
“No.”
“Someone has to do it. He refuses to eat with the other writers.”
“No.”
“I can’t trust any of the staff.”
“No, I hate him.”
“And I can’t do it.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Nina, you know me. You know my temper. And you know how strong I am. I’d strangle him to death and then I’d rub grits in his hair.”
“I have a temper too!”
“But you’re weak! You’re little and weak! He’d have at least a fifty-fifty chance against you!”
“So you’re saying I can’t kill him?”
“I’d really rather you didn’t.”
To this Nina had no answer.
She merely waited a while until Margot finally said:
“Listen: you’ve got to do this. I’ll send someone up with you, one of the boys. No, two of the boys. One can carry the platter of food and the other can carry the box of stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“All kinds of stuff has been coming in from publishers. Sweatshirts that say AGCW on them; commemorative plaques; there are even matching pendants and cat-collar attachments.”
“There are what?”
“Little necklaces that go around your neck, and that have a gold charm or something that has AGCW engraved on them. Then there are cat collars to match with the same charms on them.”
“And the publishers are contributing these gifts why?”
“Bribes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“For post publication.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“It’s the HBO thing, Nina.”
“Isn’t it always?”
“Well, yes, I suppose you’re
right there. But anyway, once the TV series is made, every publisher and his dog…”
“––or cat.”
“––or cat, is going to want to come out with a series of books based on the character. The writer will almost certainly get to choose who gets to publish the books. So all the publishing houses that put out cozies are trying to win loyalty. Anyway, there’s like a Christmas tree of presents for every writer, and you might as well take Amboise his when you go up.”
“All right. I’ll do it, but I won’t like it.”
“Then, when you get back down, there’s something else you have to help me do.”
“What is it?”
“Somehow Harriet Crossman found out that Molly Badger is still here.”
“How did she find that out?”
“I don’t know. But she did, and she called me an hour ago. She’s fit to be tied.”
“What can I do about this?”
“Talk to her with me.”
“Why?”
“You’re a calming influence.”
Nina looked at her for a time, then said:
“I’m boring, you mean.”
“I did not mean that.”
“What else is ‘a calming influence’ then?”
“I don’t know, I just––”
“All right all right. Just point me in the direction of that, that––person of low esteem’s room. I’ll go up and wait outside the door until the boys arrive with the rest of the cr––stuff.”
“All right. Oh, and there’s one more thing.”
“WILL YOU STOP SAYING THAT?”
“Well, there is.”
“What is it?”
“Sylvia Duncan, the HBO representative.”
“God, you mean.”
“Goddess.”
“Whatever.”
“She’s going to arrive around ten thirty. The first AGCW business session will last until ten. Then there will be a break, and we’ll all be out in the yard to meet her limo when it arrives.”
“And then everyone will surround her and kiss––”
“The ground she walks upon.”
“That wasn’t what I was about to say.”
“I know what you were about to say, Nina. And shame on you for even thinking it.”
“I’ve been around a lot of bad influences. So where do I go?”
“Up those stairs, turn left, and go two doors down. It’s room 284.”
“All right. And by the way––”
“Yes?”
“How are the Hersheys?”
Margot merely shook her head:
“Showed up bright and early this morning, first in line for breakfast, smiling, patting everybody on the back. Matching plaid shirts. I talked to Harriet Crossman about them. It seems it’s common knowledge among cozy writers. They fight like cats and dogs when they’re actually in the process of writing; but once the book is finished they’re proud as punch of each other. Each one believes the other is as talented as Shakespeare. They can’t stop heaping praise on each other.”
“That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Don’t even think it. Now good luck with Amboise.”
So saying, Margot turned and walked away, sneezing as she did so.
In five minutes, Nina found herself standing just outside of Garth Amboise’ room.
She held a breakfast platter.
At her feet was a second silver platter, this one with a pitcher of steaming coffee on it.
Beside this platter was a cardboard box, approximately three feet high that held the presents Margot had mentioned.
These things had been left behind by the two boys, one of whom had asked Nina:
“Do you want us to stay?”
“No.”
“We can, if you need us.”
“You’re minors. You don’t need to see this.”
“You’re sure?”
“You have fine and productive lives ahead of you. Go now and live them.”
The boys disappeared down the corridor.
Nina knocked on the door.
Silence.
No response from inside the room.
She knocked again.
A few sounds.
She waited, then knocked again.
Footsteps approaching the door.
She could run.
She could leave the damned presents and the damned food and the damned pitcher of coffee and just run.
But at that time she heard a key rattle in the lock.
The door opened.
Garth Amboise stood there, dressed in a black robe.
He stared at her.
It was the same stare Margot had trained only a few minutes earlier on the copulating cats.
It was a vicious stare, a disgusted stare, as though Garth Amboise were contemplating all of the evil in the world condensed into one small Bannister.
“Brought your food,” she said.
He continued to stare.
“Here.”
He took the platter.
“The white things are grits,” she said. “If you’re from The North , then you may not––”
“I know what grits are. I hate them.”
“Sorry.”
“What is this box?”
“Gifts. From publishers.”
“Oh crap.”
“Probably. But there’s a collar in there for your cat.”
“I don’t have a cat.”
“Forgot that. But you might want to put the pendant on, the gold one that says AGCW. It might impress Sylvia Duncan.”
“All right. I’ll put it on and wear it. When is Duncan coming?”
“I think Margot said ten thirty.”
“Come and tell me when she arrives. My agents just called me; I’m first to be interviewed. After that I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“I’ll be up to get you.”
He said nothing more but merely took the coffee inside, took the box inside, and closed the door, locking it from the inside.
Nina stared at the door for a few seconds, then whispered:
“Oh let it be poisoned.”
Then she turned and left.
When she got downstairs, she saw Margot sitting in the far corner of the dining room, speaking very earnestly with Harriet Crossman, who seemed not at all pleased.
The dining room had been cleared of all culinary accoutrements and now served primarily for business reasons. Small groups were meeting in various areas, three and four cozy writers per group.
A large projector had been brought downstairs, and a light beamed from it.
On the opposite wall a huge, smiling, face was gleaming down on the participants of the meeting.
Nina stared at the face for a time, and then was aware of white-haired Rebeccah Thornwhipple, she of the erotic iron lung and the ninety-three year old protagonist, standing close by her side.
“Who is that?” she asked.
Rebeccah Thornwhipple answered with reverence:
“Oh, it’s Jessica.”
“It’s who?”
“Jessica. Jessica Fletcher. From Murder She Wrote.”
“What is she doing here?”
A shake of the white-haired head:
“Every culture,” she whispered, “worships its own deity.”
Then she toddled away.
By the time Nina had crossed the room, the conversation between Margot and Harriet Crossman had become quite intense:
“I thought I made our position concerning this matter quite clear last night.”
“I know, Ms. Crossman, but it’s simply not our policy––”
“Not your policy to what?”
“To turn people away!”
“Well you’re about to turn more than thirty of them away! There’s such a thing as principle, you know! We do not want to share accommodations with this woman. Or her kind!”
“But what harm is Molly Badger doing simply by being here?”
&
nbsp; Several deep breaths.
For patience.
Finally:
“Ms. Gavin, you may or may not be aware of this. But both Publishers Weekly and The New York Times project, that by the year 2020, if current trends persist, more than a third of all Americans over the age of thirty-one will have published at least one novel.”
“That does seem a lot, but––”
“One hundred million novels, Ms. Gavin. In a country in which fewer and fewer people are actually reading novels.”
“But, if fewer people are reading them, then why are so many people writing them?”
“Because, given the quality of prose that is now being produced, it’s so much easier to write a book than actually to read one! Don’t you see that? And worse still, from our point of view: a huge proportion of these works will be murder mysteries.”
“But why is that so bad?”
Frustration.
“Because, my dear Ms. Gavin, there are a strictly and tightly limited number of ways in which to murder someone. We try, as artists, to find more all the time, as God is my witness we do. We are always on the cutting edge; we are striving just as mightily as medical science only in reverse. But after a while, the supply of means simply runs out. People are killing other people by stuffing Christmas trees down their throats and, of course, that’s just ridiculous—and CHAOS REIGNS! All because of the Molly Badgers of the world!”
Silence for a time.
Finally Margot:
“All right. All right. I guess I didn’t realize the gravity of the situation.”
“I guess you didn’t.”
“We’ll go get Molly from her room and tell her she has to go.”
“Thank you! Now perhaps we can get on about the business of the conference!”
And so saying, Harriet Crossman rose and left the table.
Molly Badger had been consigned to a small hidden room on the third floor of Candles (a floor seldom used except for the storage of unwanted furniture). It was almost invisible to one not already aware of its existence, its door blending into the paint of the walls and making it a better place for hiding than for living.
“Do you think she’s in there?” asked Nina, as she and Margot approached.
“She would almost have to be. She’s too frightened to come out and expose herself to the Published Cozy Writers during the day.”
“Do you have a key?”
“Yes. We almost never go in here. It was supposedly used to hide escaping Confederate soldiers from the advancing Union armies. I can open the lock if I need to; but let’s try calling out to her first.”
Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) Page 12