“All right, I understand that, too. But still––”
“Still? Yes, then, still. Still there is the question of HBO. A series of interviews is about to take place this afternoon that may determine who is to be the next Jessica Fletcher!”
“The next who?”
“Never mind. Just believe me when I tell you that these interviews may well be worth thousands of dollars in television rights, millions if the series goes to a film version, and billions if it’s picked up by YouTube. These interviews cannot and will not be postponed. Ms. Duncan?”
Sylvia Duncan spoke up:
“Yes?”
“You’re going to be completing your plans for the coming season quite soon I understand?”
“Yes, next month.”
“And if a decision is not made very soon, even in the next few days, on the Cozy project––”
“Then we’ll have to cancel it. At least for the time being.”
A burst of jeering from the crowd:
“Boo! Never!”
“Keep the conference!”
“Out with the police!”
“Keep HBO!”
“I am Jessica!”
“No, I am Jessica!
“No, I am Jessica!”
Harriet Crossman took another step forward and said, almost desperately now:
“You can’t imagine what this means to us, Officer. You have a real profession. You have real criminals to deal with; we have to make ours up. And we have to give away kittens, and––”
“All right, all right, I understand. You do realize that I can make you leave?”
“And do what? Haul away thirty women—well, thirty eight and two men—well, one man now—by force?”
T. J. Wood, who, during the interim while the corpse was being removed, had oiled down her muscular torso and was now gleaming, rose, flexing, and said sternly:
“Try it.”
The officer looked at her only for a moment before he said:
“No. We won’t go locking up defenseless women.”
The body builder stepped into the aisle, moving menacingly toward the podium as she asked:
“What did you say? Locking up what kind of women?”
He shook his head, clearly more flustered now, and corrected himself:
“We won’t go locking up individuals who, despite coincidental differences in gender-related preference and diversity of muscular makeup, share equally a keen desire to defend their physical, mental, and emotional well-being.”
He had clearly been forced at some time in his life to take a sensitivity training course.
“Well,” said C.R. Wood, returning to her seat, “that’s better.”
“But, there’s one other thing I’ve got to tell all of you!”
“What is it?” asked Harriet Crossman.
“It has nothing to do with the murder. But it’s a vital issue all the same.”
“What is it?”
The officer was still wary of C.R. Wood. After she’d clearly seated herself and become less of a threat, he said:
“Clarence.”
Uh oh, thought Nina.
“Clarence.”
“Who is Clarence?”
“Clarence, ma’am, is a hurricane.”
A small voice from somewhere in the middle of the crowd said:
“That’s the most ridiculous name for a hurricane I’ve ever heard.”
The officer nodded but continued:
“That may be, but the storm itself is far from ridiculous. It was first projected to come ashore in Texas, but it’s changed course greatly during the last few hours, and landfall now may be somewhere between Louisiana and Mississippi.”
Bay St. Lucy, Nina found herself thinking.
My bungalow.
Furl.
But Furl was with Jackson Bennet’s family.
He would be okay.
Was Bay St. Lucy being evacuated?
Nothing to do about it now.
Just wait and see.
“What does this mean,” Harriet Crossman was asking, “for us up here in the north of the state?”
A shake of the head:
“Hard to say. But it could well mean heavy rains, even torrential winds. Possible flooding. Sometimes the storm spawns tornadoes. We’re a good distance from the Gulf but a hurricane is not to be taken lightly. Not even one named Clarence.”
Harriet Crossman to Margot, who was standing next to Nina:
“Ms. Gavin, I’d assume that the plantation has gone through hurricanes before?”
Margot nodded and said:
“Yes, it has.”
Nina whispered:
“Is that true?”
And Margot answered beneath her breath:
“How should I know? But we need these people’s money.”
“Margot! Someone murdered that man!”
“I would have murdered him if I could have. And so would you.”
“But I wouldn’t,” Nina said quietly, “have made such a mess of it.”
“You’re so picky.”
“And also, Ms. Gavin,” Harriet was saying, “I assume we have sufficient provisions here to last out a severe storm?”
This question Margot was certain about.
“We can feed an army for a month.”
“Excellent. Well then. The decision seems to be made, Officer Thompson. We thank you for your concerns. And we shall, of course, answer any questions that we can relating to the murder. But for now, let us proceed with the business of the convention.”
And they did.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE PERFECT MURDER
Things began to run so smoothly after that, that Nina almost forgot what had happened.
Or had anything happened?
Had she not, in fact, dreamed everything?
True, various police vehicles continued to come and go, and various uniformed officers kept going up and coming down the staircase.
But no one missed Garth Amboise in the least, and so there was no weeping loved one to console.
And the business that was being taken care of at various tables in the main hall and various plantation rooms and offices—this business seemed so important, that no one seemed to be able to think of anything else.
And then, of course, there were the HBO interviews.
These were taking place in the library.
Authors came and went, their books in briefcases or valises, along with pictures of the mythical heroines and seacoast New England towns that they wrote about.
She was, in fact, thinking about taking a nap, but she went to the reception office to check with Margot before doing so.
She found her friend looking down at a small pile of papers that lay on a table before her.
“Margot?”
“Yes?” came the answer, quietly.
“Things seem to be going on okay?”
Margot nodded but did not speak.
“I wondered if you needed me for anything. I thought I might take a nap.”
The same mechanical nodding.
“A nap. Yes. A nap.”
What was wrong with Margot?
“Margot?”
No answer.
The gaze was still fixed on the papers before her.
“Margot, what is it?”
Only then did Margot Gavin look up, take two long strides across the room, and hand Nina the letter that she’d been reading.
“This came in the early afternoon mail.”
“What is it?”
“A letter.”
“From?”
“Read it yourself.”
Nina took the small sheet of stationary and read:
“Dear Ms. Gavin,
It can be done!
I have shown you, and I have shown them all.
Now I will continue to show them until they believe me!
Molly Badger
(Author of The Perfect Murder)
“Margot, what in heaven’s name is this?”
But Margot merely shook her head.
“I don’t know any more about it than you do.”
“You think this is really from Molly Badger?”
“Who else?”
“But what does she mean, ‘It can be done’? What is she talking about?”
“The murder.”
“Garth Amboise’ murder?”
“That’s the only one we’ve had around here in a while.”
“But Molly Badger couldn’t have committed that murder!”
“I would tend to agree with you, since she’s been in a motel in Abbeyport since early this morning.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes. One of the boys just brought me this letter. He said he’d gotten a call from The Woodland Inn, which is the motel where I had Molly taken. A woman asked him to drive into Abbeyport. Said that it was very important. He did, and the woman gave him this letter, asking him to bring it out here and deliver it with the rest of the morning’s mail. I asked him to describe the woman. He did. And it could only be Molly Badger.”
“But––shouldn’t you tell the police?”
“I’ve sent for Thompson. In fact, he’s here now.”
And that was true. Police Officer Thompson had just crossed the porch and was knocking on the door of the reception room.
“Ms. Gavin?”
“Yes.”
“You sent for me?”
“I did.”
“What is it?”
“Come in. Read this.”
He did.
And he did.
He looked up, with precisely the same expression as Nina must have had upon reading it.
“What the hell is this about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did it come from?”
“A motel in Abbeyport.”
“And this woman? This Molly Badger?”
“It’s a complicated story. The main thing is that she wanted to stay out here and couldn’t. I got her a room at the Woodland Inn.”
“What’s this line, ‘It can be done!’? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Margot shook her head:
“I’m not certain. But she may be talking about Garth Amboise’ murder.”
“What could she have had to do with the murder?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t either. But I’m sure as hell going to find out.”
“You’re going into town to talk to her?”
“Of course I am!”
“Then you need to take me with you. And Nina, too.”
“Why?”
Margot was silent for a time, then said:
“Have you ever dealt with self-published authors before?”
He seemed taken aback.
He was silent for a time. Finally he said, pensively:
“She’s self-published?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Then maybe you better come along. But as for Ms. Bannister, why––”
“She needs to come, too.”
“Why?”
“She’s a calm––”
“Don’t say it!” interrupted Nina.
Within minutes, the three of them were in a police car, heading into Abbeyport.
The Woodland Inn sat on the south fringes of the town. It was unpretentious, clean, and well run.
There were several cabins, each painted bright green.
The motel clerk told them where to find Molly’s cabin, on the end of the row.
They walked to it and knocked.
Molly Badger opened the door.
She wore a black robe, but other than that, she was much as she’d appeared that morning.
“Good morning, Ms. Gavin.”
Margot nodded:
“Good morning, Molly.”
“I see you got my letter.”
“I did.”
“And I see you brought the police.”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. The police will, of course, have to be involved later on. As will various members of the media. I assume you haven’t told any of them yet.”
“Told them what, Molly?”
“Told them about Mr. Amboise’ murder.”
The police officer stepped forward:
“How do you know about that, Ms. Badger?”
A delighted smile exploded across Molly Badger’s face, and she exulted:
“Why, I did it!”
Silence for a time.
Then:
“Ma’am, I’m James Thompson. I’m Chief of Police here in Abbeyport.”
“So happy to know you, Sir!”
“Ma’am, I have to tell you, you shouldn’t be saying such things lightly. This is a very serious matter.”
“I know! I’m a very serious person!”
“But what I mean is––were you here in this motel room all morning?”
“Yes! It’s a delightful room. Won’t you come in?”
They did.
Molly Badger asked them to sit down. Two sat on chairs, and one sat on the neatly-made bed.
There was also a desk in the room. On it sat a laptop computer.
“I’ve made some tea; would you like some?”
They each accepted a cup of tea, which Molly poured, saying:
“Isn’t this nice? I’m a cozy murderess!”
James Thompson took a sip of tea, then shook his head and said:
“Again, Ms. Badger”
“Oh, you can call me Molly! The whole world will be calling me Molly after the book comes out!”
Margot:
“Which book, Molly?”
“Why, The Perfect Murder, the one that I’m writing now. Well, ‘dramatizing,’ is perhaps a better word!”
“All right then, Molly,” said James Thompson. “Molly, you need to be careful how you talk about these things.”
“Oh, I’m always careful. I’m nothing if not careful.”
“What do you mean by saying that you committed the murder?”
“I mean that I did commit it. That’s what I mean by saying that I did commit it.”
Nina had meant to keep silent through all of this, especially since no calming influence seemed to be needed at the moment.
She could not, though, and so, leaning forward, she asked:
“Molly, have you been here in the motel all morning?”
“Yes! I got here just after dawn. The nice boy dropped me off and the people in the motel office were waiting for me. You were so nice in making these arrangements, Ms. Gavin. I do thank you so.”
“Nothing to thank me for, Molly.”
“Oh, there definitely is. Most definitely!”
Then, to James Thompson:
“The other writers wouldn’t let me stay in the plantation house with them. I’m self-published you know.”
He nodded, and said quietly:
“I know that, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s all right. It’s only a temporary condition, being self-published.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“And now it will all be different. For I’ve committed the perfect murder. Oh, I wrote perfect murders for years. And the publishers continued to reject my submissions, saying the murder methods were ‘incredible’ and ’unbelievable.’ They even said that I was crazy.”
Then, looking at Margot, she asked:
“Why will they say that I am mad?”
“That,” said Nina quietly, “is a line from a Boris Karloff movie.”
“Oh. Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not mad; I’m just cozy.”
“Is there,” Margot asked, “that much difference between the two of them?”
“What?”
“Nothing, Molly.”
“And they will all realize that I’m a great writer, with wonderful murder methods that have never been written about before, not even by Agatha and Jessica and Janet and, well, not any of them. And they will publish my murders and, as God is my witness,
I’ll never be self-published again!”
Now I’m definitely going to be sick, thought Nina.
But she said nothing.
It was James Thompson who spoke, saying:
“The point is, Ms. Badger––”
“Molly, remember?”
“All right, the point is, Molly, the murder occurred at around ten o’clock this morning.”
“I know.”
“In Garth Amboise’ room.”
“I know.”
“His skin was shredded, and his body mutilated.”
“I know.”
“How do you know, Molly?”
“Because I’m smart. I’m a genius, actually. I understand all about electronic devices. I was an electronics engineer, you know, before God came to me in a vision and told me that I was to become a Cozy Writer. That’s the highest thing a person can be, you know––a Cozy Writer.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Molly, but the question is: how could you have committed this terrible, ghastly, bloody murder, if you were here all morning?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am. How did you do it?”
But Molly Badger merely shook her head:
“Won’t tell, won’t tell!”
Silence for a time, then Molly Badger held her index finger in front of her sealed lips and whispered:
“It’s my secret. That’s why it’s the perfect murder method. No one can figure it out. Not ever. It’s never been done before.”
“Molly––”
“But if I told you now, then you’d simply take me away. And you would tell no one. You’d simply say that I was crazy. But none of the cameras would come. And I wouldn’t be published, after all. And that would be so sad. All of those people would have died for nothing.”
Something about this sentence froze Nina, who asked:
“What people?”
And Molly Badger looked at her:
“Why, the rest of them.”
“The rest of whom?”
“The rest of those people out at The Candles. The writers. The ones who didn’t want me. Oh, I’m not that vindictive. I’m not planning to kill them just because they rejected me. No, it’s still sad, them having to die. And with so much blood.”
Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) Page 15