“Well, then. We’re a bit ahead of schedule, but I see no reason why I should not begin the interview process. I’m to begin, I think, with a Mr.––”
She did not finish.
The screams prevented her.
Screams from a young woman—Nina recognized her as one of the cleaning staff—who was standing on the stairwell and pointing upstairs.
She was, that is, pointing with her right hand. Her left hand was pressed tightly over her mouth.
It came away, almost involuntarily, to let out more screams.
Heart-wrenching screams.
She continued to point, her arm swaying like a tree branch in the wind.
“Marjorie!”
Margot was walking toward the young woman now.
“Marjorie, what is it?”
Marjorie’s reply:
“It’s—it’s up there! It’s awful!”
“What is?”
“In the room! The blood! The blood everywhere!”
Margot spun, looked at Nina, and said:
“Come on!”
Then she walk-ran to the stairwell, Nina close behind.
It took them no more than a few seconds to reach the second floor.
Silence in the hallway.
They looked at each other.
“Any idea––” began Margot.
Nina merely shook her head.
The corridor loomed before them, rooms on either side.
“Which room was she talking about?” Nina asked.
“Obviously we should have asked her.”
“Yes. Except for the fact that she’s too terrified to speak.”
“We may have to look in all the rooms,” said Margot, quietly.
“We could do that,” said Nina, quietly. “Or we could do it the easier way.”
“What is that?”
“Check the room halfway down the hall, where the pool of blood is running out onto the carpet.”
They both looked.
They saw the pool expanding, seeping under the door jamb, soaking the thin gray carpet.
“Oh my God,” whispered Nina. “Maybe we should get the police.”
“The police,” answered Margot, “are in Abbeyport. Whoever’s in there could be still alive.”
The blood had formed a lake now, and had extended to the far side of the corridor.
“Come on,” said Margot.
The world was silent.
Mid-morning. Early September.
Nothing moving in the deserted fields and outbuildings.
They stopped before the doorway.
The bottoms of their shoes were now soaked in blood.
“All right,” said Margot. “Whatever it is, let’s see.”
She pushed open the door.
And they did.
“Oh my God.”
“Oh my God.”
It hardly mattered which of them had spoken first.
CHAPTER TEN: END OF A PRODIGY
When they re-entered the hall below them, the audience appeared as nothing more than a carefully detailed painting.
No one seemed to have moved.
No one was speaking.
Palms were still securely clapped over mouths.
Harriet Crossman remained seated in the first row.
Sylvia Duncan remained standing at the podium.
She moved aside just enough to let Margot take her place, and speak into the slightly braying microphone.
Margot’s usually firm voice was breaking.
“I have—I have horrible news.”
No sound, no movement.
Not even breathing.
“One of your colleagues, Mr. Garth Amboise, has been murdered.”
Gasps from everyone.
“Ms. Bannister and I have just come from his room.”
A few people began moving slightly now, leaning slightly forward on the tables in front of them, as though the news itself were magnetized.
“I know that I could spare you this, but I think you all have the right to know. The scene inside, I must tell you, is simply ghastly. There is blood everywhere. The sheets of Mr. Amboise’ bed are drenched with it. The carpet of the room, the furniture. And his body––”
More leaning forward.
Everyone in the room breathing as one.
And finally Margot:
“His body is nude upon the bed. It has literally been ripped apart, his skin shredded.”
She paused to let this seep in.
Then she continued:
“I was able to call the police a few seconds ago. I know James Thompson the Chief. He’s a good man. He says help will be here in approximately fifteen minutes. He has asked me to advise you, all of you, simply for now to remain where––”
But it was too late.
The entire crowd of cozy writers had leapt to their feet simultaneously and were pouring into the aisles of the meeting room, stampeding toward the stairwell.
“Wait!” Margot screamed. “Stay here! You can’t go up there! We don’t know who did this! He might still be––”
But it was no use.
They were clawing at each other, tugging at each other, and forcing their way forward as fast as possible. Many of them were rummaging in large purses for their smart phones, ready to snap pictures to put on Facebook walls.
Some of them, Nina noted, had already begun to text.
“What is wrong with these people?” whispered Margot.
Nina could only shake her head:
“I don’t know.”
The stairway was now packed, and the clattering of feet could be heard upon the second floor corridor above.
One of the women who’d been forced to the back of the line bellowed to the crowd on the stairway:
“DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!”
This same woman, coming abreast of Nina, asked:
“Did you see a knife?”
Numb, Nina could only shake her head.
But the woman continued her interrogation:
“Exactly what color would you say the blood was?”
Automatically, Nina found herself replying:
“Kind of––dark. Purplish on the sheet. But brighter red on the body.”
The woman nodded.
“Good. That’s very good. Was the corpse twitching around a little bit or was it still?”
Margot intervened at this point, shouting:
“What are you doing?”
But the woman merely replied:
“You can’t get this kind of stuff from a library!”
Margot shouted even louder:
“A man has been murdered!”
“I know!”
Then, suspiciously:
“You aren’t just staging this, are you?”
“I’m not what?” asked Margot.
“Just staging it. I know last year at The Love is Murder Conference in Chicago––”
“Of course, we’re not just staging it! He’s dead! He’s in his bed and dead!”
“With his skin ripped off him you say?”
“Yes, yes, he’s torn to pieces!”
“Was the skin ripped off in big, inch-long strips or was it––”
“Stop it stop it stop it!”
And so screaming, she pulled Nina away, to the back of the room.
The last of the cozy writers had made their way into the stairwell now.
The faint sounds of sirens could be heard coming out of Abbeyport.
“These women,” said Nina, “are ghouls.”
But then she was aware of the presence of two other women standing beside them.
The Smathers sisters, Ruby and Lacy.
One short, one tall.
Still looking around, sniffing the air, suspicious of the floor and the ceiling, steering well clear of the walls.
Ruby, from on high:
“We told you.”
Lacy, from down low:
“You didn’t believe us, did you?”
Ruby:
“We told you about the demons.”
Lacy:
“But you did nothing! Now all this is on your heads. On both of your heads!”
Then the two sisters made their way toward the opposite door, saying, over their shoulders simultaneously:
“We don’t need to go up there. We know exactly what it looks like.”
And then they disappeared.
“They’re insane,” said Margot.
“Absolutely crazy,” concurred Nina.
They were silent for a time.
Some of the cozy writers, having viewed the crime scene, had now descended back into the main hall and were walking up and down the aisles between tables, notebooks or apps in their hands, either writing dialogue to themselves or trying to tap descriptions into smart phones.
They wandered here and there, heads upturned or bent toward the floor, muttering:
“The room was in shambles. Peter lay upon the blood-soaked sheets, his skin quivering. Macy Maplethorp’s mind raced: how had he come to be here? What was the mysterious phone call that he’d gotten?”
Or:
“Blood was everywhere, and, even in the half light of dawn, Starling Canterbury knew that the man’s death had been almost instantaneous. And brutal. But who could have done it? Certainly Roger Saintsford was hated around the village, and certainly any number of his spurned lovers might have––”
“I cannot believe,” Nina said, “that I’m hearing this.”
“They’re writing books about it.”
“Margot, we have to get them out of that room! It’s a crime scene!”
“And how are we going to do that? There are thirty of them!”
Margot shook her head:
“Besides, the police will be here soon. Come on, let’s sit down.”
They did so, at one of the tables in the center of the room.
“I can’t believe the insanity of all this,” Margot muttered. “I don’t know who’s worse: the insane Smathers sisters or the insane rest of the crowd.”
“And yet, and yet––” Nina muttered.
“And yet what?”
“Margot, this just doesn’t make sense.”
“So what does make sense? A demon?”
“I don’t know, I just—it’s crazy! I took him his breakfast not more than two hours ago. He was fine then. I know he was fine because I remember so distinctly wanting to kill him.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I’m fairly certain I would have remembered. My God, Margot, it’s like we’re in a cozy mystery ourselves.”
Margot stared at her, incredulously, saying finally:
“Now you are sounding crazy! Just what about any of this is ‘cozy?’ We have musclebound women castrating male chauvinists with karate chops, cats humping each other all over the place, weird sisters smelling the devil, ninety-year-old women fornicating in artificial breathing devices––”
“Okay, okay, you’re right.”
“Where’s the little village? Where are all the cute and eccentric characters?”
“All right, you’ve made your point already.”
“This whole fiasco is as close to a ‘cozy’ as World War II was!”
They sat for a time.
More writers ambled past them, and they heard more dialogue, more description:
“Although Cecilia Phillips had seen almost everything in her seventy years as a Seaside Cove nurse, she’d never quite…”
“Word spread like wildfire through the streets of the charming New England village of Port Mariner. Eton Bransworthy, heir to the huge fortune built by his enigmatic—and often hated—grandfather had been butchered. Ms. Eleanora Stapleworth could not wipe from her mind the image of the blood, purplish on the body, brighter red on the sheet––”
“It was,” Nina interrupted the writer who was passing by, “the other way around.”
A woman looked down at her.
“Oh, you mean purplish on––”
“––the sheet, brighter red on the body.”
“Well. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Finally the police arrived.
At least a dozen people entered the room, all dressed in various uniforms.
An older officer with white sideburns and a somewhat corpulent build, dressed in the light khaki and dark brown of a forest ranger, approached the table where Margot and Nina were seated.
“Ms. Gavin?”
“Yes, Officer Thompson. Thank you for coming. I’ve not seen you for a while.”
“Not since the writers were here. You’ve got another bunch of them out here I see.”
“Yes. We thought these would be different. But they’re worse.”
“We just got your call. Is the body––”
“Upstairs. Room 284.”
“And the victim?”
“His name is––was––Garth Amboise.”
“And how was he killed, Ms. Gavin?”
Margot shook her head:
“He was torn to pieces.”
“Ma’am?”
“You heard me. He was torn to pieces.”
“What tore him to pieces?”
“A demon,” Nina found herself saying.
The officer stared at both of them, then asked Margot:
“Is she joking?”
But Margot merely shook her head and answered:
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
Within thirty minutes, most of the necessary work concerning the crime scene and the mutilated corpse had been taken care of. The body was now on its way to the Abbeyport morgue, and policemen had replaced the cozy writers in Garth Amboise’ room. Whatever could be found in the way of fingerprints, murder weapons, ways in and out of the room—evidence of any kind—would be found, at least according to James Thompson.
Whom Nina found herself doubting, even as he stood behind the same podium where only a short time ago Harriet Crossman and then Sylvia Duncan had addressed the crowd of cozy writers.
Now he was addressing this same crowd.
“All of you know by now,” he said with a gravelly voice, “that a crime has been committed here in The Candles.”
Of course they know about it, Nina found herself thinking. They’ve already written the first four chapters of it.
The officer went on:
“One of your colleagues, I believe a Mr. Amboise, has been brutally murdered. We don’t know precisely how he was murdered. But the body was—well, it was mutilated. We don’t have any suspects as of now. Our men are going over Mr. Amboise’ room even as we speak, and whatever evidence is there, we will find it.”
He paused to let this sink in, and he looked carefully at the faces spread across the room before him. Was he thinking this soft and grave pronouncement would force an admission from one of them?
No such admission was forthcoming, and so he went on:
“Given the nature of the crime, and the fact that the killer is obviously still at large—and may still be hiding in or around the plantation house itself––it would seem more prudent, I’m sure you all agree, that this conference be cancelled. We can take all of you into Abbeyport in police vehicles. Our department will work with you to get you all back to Chicago, where I’m told you departed to come down here. Once back in Abbeyport we’ll have to interview each of you and get statements. None of you are suspects as such, but we want to know what you may have seen or heard in the hours before the crime, or whether any of you had talked to Mr. Amboise. It may be possible to get you all on a flight out before tonight. If that is not possible, we will try to find motel space to accommodate you until something goes out tomorrow.”
He paused.
Harriet Crossman, who’d taken a seat in the front row, stood up and spoke:
“Officer, we thank you for your advice, and we appreciate the gravity of your task. But what you ask––and I assume all our coziests are in agreement with me on this point—is quit
e impossible.”
He stared down at her, then at the other people in the room, all of whom were nodding in agreement with their leader.
“Hear hear!”
“No leaving! No leaving!”
“On with the conference!”
Officer Thomson could only shake his head:
“But Ms. Crossman, this is a crime scene.”
To which she shook her head in return:
“No, Sir. Mr. Amboise’ room is a crime scene. This is a hotel.”
“I know, but––”
“When a crime is committed in a hotel, is the hotel closed? The entire hotel? Even if the crime is murder?”
“No, but––but you’re all so isolated out here––”
“Would we be safer in New York City? Is anyone safe in New York City?”
Laughter at this and a few catcalls, a few shouts:
“Down with New York City!”
“Crime capital of the world!”
The officer’s face was flushed now.
He continued, shaking his head:
“But you all must understand, we’re going to have people here, going in and out, running tests—”
“Very well, then run your tests.”
“But ma’am––”
She took a step closer to the podium:
“And there is almost certainly something that you, my dear officer, do not understand. And that is of the utmost importance to this conference. This is not just any literary conference, not ‘Murder or Mayhem’ or ‘Love and Murder,’ or any of those fun gatherings. No. Writing mysteries is not a game to us. Crime-Coziness is our life. Most of us may have had another profession earlier on in our lives, but by now we have almost certainly forgotten what it was, and without our cozies we would have no way at all of making a living in the real world.”
The officer looked around the room, examined the faces of all the conference participants, then nodded reluctantly:
“All right, I can see that. I can believe that. But still––”
“There is vital work to be done here in the following days. Decisions to be made as to which of thousands of manuscripts and digital files may be awarded the coveted AGCW Medallion, signifying membership in our organization; publicity campaigns to plan and co-ordinate; kitten giveaways––”
The officer leaned forward as though he had not understood.
“Kitten giveaways?”
“Yes, most assuredly! Book giveaways stopped working for many of us long ago due to the deluge of self-published books on the market. So most of us have begun giving kittens to anyone who will also agree to take a book. And this requires a great deal of work and planning. There are shots to consider, methods of transporting the little animals––but animal husbandry has now become a part of the writing process, and we must all of us accept that.”
Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) Page 14