“STOP!”
Suddenly there was silence in the dining room.
One of Margot’s staff was standing in the doorway, a horrified look on her face.
She attempted to speak for a second, but failed, her head shaking uselessly, an arm pointed downward.
Finally, she was able to stutter:
“C. R. Roberts, the body builder! She’s down in the exercise room! There’s a huge dumbbell on top of her!”
Shocked silence for a time.
Finally, Rebecca Thornwhipple piped up:
“Well, tell him to get off of her.”
But the aide, growing more desperate, shook her head, saying:
“No, it’s a weight! It’s a––”
But Margot interrupted her, shouting:
“Come on! Fast!”
And she ran toward the doorway, Nina following as fast as possible.
The two women reached the exercise room just steps ahead of James Thompson, who’d heard the staff member’s statement from a small room where he was seated.
“Don’t go in there!” he was shouting.
But it was too late.
Margot had already entered the small exercise room, Nina one step behind her.
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed.
For the scene was much as the earlier one had been.
Blood everywhere.
C. R. Roberts had been clad only in a tank top and shorts.
Those, and the gold AGCW medallion that still hung around her neck.
Now her body was soaked in blood, as was the bar of the huge weight that lay upon her.
Thompson moved on into the room, his firearm drawn and at his side.
Another officer followed, then another.
Margot and Nina stood rooted to the floor.
“It’s just like before!” Nina found herself whispering. “She didn’t even get to take off her neck ornament.”
Margot nodded:
“She’s ripped to pieces!”
“She didn’t have time to get out from under the weight!”
Several of the cozy writers had made their way into the room, and Nina could hear them complaining:
“I’ll have to add another chapter!”
“I can’t add any more; I’ve already emailed The Amputated Amboise to my publisher. This will have to be a whole second book.”
“But couldn’t you just write a––”
James Thompson however interrupted them:
“All right; that’s it! It’s over! I want everybody out of this plantation!”
Harriet Crossman had pushed through the crowd. She asked:
“What are you talking about?”
“This convention is over! We’re not going to take a chance on this happening again. I don’t know how these people are getting killed, but it’s got to stop!”
“What will you do with us? Where will we go?”
He merely shook his head:
“I’ve got two police vehicles parked outside now. More will be on the way. I’m taking you all into Abbeyport. We’ll find room for you at local motels and B&B’s.”
“But our business committees! Our publicity campaigns!”
“They’ll have to wait. You’ve got to go, all of you. And I mean now!”
“Can’t we even pack?”
“No. I’ll have some officers bring everything into town a little later on. The only thing important right now is getting you out of here. I have no idea what’s going on, but something savage is on the loose. From what I’ve heard, the woman lying there dead and mutilated was an expert in martial arts. But this thing, or this man, or this woman, or whatever is doing these murders—ripped her to shreds before she could even try to defend herself.”
“But, but––our cats?”
“The cats stay here for now. We can’t take the time to find them all and get them in the vehicles.”
“But we can’t go anywhere without our cats! We’re cozy writers!”
“I’m tired of arguing. Now––”
He was interrupted by another officer, a young man who came running into the room, open mouthed and wide eyed:
“Chief!”
Thompson straightened:
“What is it?”
“We just got a 911 call patched through to us!”
“That’s all we need. What is it?”
“The call came from a woman who says she lives just a couple of miles from here, out on the Abbeyport Road.”
“What’s her problem?”
The young officer could hardly get his breath:
“She says she’s just seen an animal!”
“What kind of an animal?”
“She doesn’t know, but she says a huge flash of lightening came, and she was able to see this thing running through the woods near her house.”
“And she doesn’t know what it is?”
“No, Chief. The woman sounded terrified. She says it’s like a wildcat but bigger, and black. It was roaring, and making these terrible noises. It was headed down toward Abbeyport, she thinks. She says––wait a minute!”
The officer put a walkie talkie to his ear and nodded:
“Yes, this is Abbeyport Police. No, go on, I can hear. What? You saw what? And it did what? Ok, where do you live? All right, we’ll be right there!”
“What was that?”
“Another woman, Chief. Probably lives just up the road from the first one. Saw what must have been the same animal. Only this time it’s worse.”
“How?”
“This woman and her husband raise cows. The thing apparently went into their pasture and slaughtered a steer. She said they saw the whole thing, also in a lightning flash, and that it was sickening.”
“All right. We’ve got no choice. We’ve got to try to find this thing and shoot it before it terrorizes anybody else. It’s already been responsible for two murders. Whatever it is, it’s dangerous as hell. We’ve got a lot of firepower in the vans. If we can find the thing, maybe we can bring it down! Now call into headquarters, tell them we’re on the case. But tell them to send out here any available men they’ve got!”
“All right, Chief!”
Thompson turned to Harriet Crossman:
“We have to check this thing out. Maybe this creature, whatever it is, killed Amboise and this woman body builder.”
“How,” asked Nina, “could it have gotten into the house without anybody seeing? It clearly didn’t come through the escape tunnel.”
Thompson shook his head:
“I’ve been thinking about that. All I can say is, no, it didn’t come through the tunnel we found. Maybe there are others. All I know is, something huge and vicious got into this exercise room and killed this woman. A few hours before, it got into one of the rooms upstairs, and it killed Mr. Amboise. Now something huge and vicious is rampaging over the countryside. I’m not going to take time to sort out the finer details; I’m going to shoot this beast first, and figure out how it did these killings later.”
To Harriet Crossman:
“I’m sorry, Ms. Crossman, but we’re not going to be able to get you all out of here as fast as I’d originally thought we could. But until that beast is caught, no one is safe. My advice is to be sure everyone is packed. Then have everybody stay together in the main dining hall.”
She nodded:
“That’s what we were going to do anyway. Something unspeakable has happened, and we’ve got to try to work together as a group and come to grips with it.”
“I understand. I’m terribly sorry that these ghastly murders have happened, and that you ladies had to see these bodies. You’re right, it’s unspeakable.”
“What is?”
He looked at her:
“The murders.”
“What murders?”
“Why, the murders of Amboise and C.R. Roberts!”
“Oh that’s not what I’m talking about at all.”
“Then what are you talking about, for God’s sakes?”<
br />
Harriet Crossman merely folded her arms and said, sternly:
“I’m talking about the choice of Ms. Bannister as the next Jessica Fletcher. It’s unspeakable. Clearly nothing about her fits into the ‘cozy’ genre. If we allow this to happen, then all out work will be––”
But Thompson merely turned away in disgust, saying:
“You deal with that any way you want. But just keep these people together. And have them ready to leave as soon as possible.”
Then, to the two officers who now were standing just inside the doorway:
“Come on, you two. We’ll go out and rendezvous with the others. Then we’ll go find this thing and kill it.”
So saying, they left the room.
Nina whispered to Margot:
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere to hide. Where’s a place where these writers won’t ever go?”
Margot thought for a time, then said:
“The library.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. All they’re interested in is writing books; they don’t care about reading them. Now come on.”
Nina followed, and in short order, they found themselves in the library, listening to the howling of the storm and the howling of the cozy writers who were bellowing horrible insults concerning HBO.
“Poor Sylvia,” whispered Margot, who was trying to keep as quiet as possible, so that neither she nor Nina would be found.
“That’s all right,” said an equally frightened voice.
Both Margot and Nina whirled.
Sylvia Duncan was crawling out from under a table in the middle of the small room.
“Sylvia!” shouted Margot.
“What,” chimed in Nina, “are you doing here?”
“I’m hiding. If I go out there, they’ll rip me to pieces. Just like the other two were ripped to pieces.”
That, thought Nina, was probably true.
She also thought back some hours, and remembered the glasses of wine the three women had drunk, when the world seemed still to make some sense, since only one person had been murdered and she herself was not hated by thirty cozy writers and Sylvia was not the devil.
“I’m still certain,” said the devil quietly to Nina, “that you’re the best choice to be our new heroine.”
“Who would play me? Jennifer Anniston?”
“Betty White.”
“Damn.”
“Of course, I’m not certain it will happen now. If all of these writers are so dead set against it, then it may not make sense to proceed. I know I’m right though. Your adventures may go beyond the conventional cozy framework just a bit. But they have true social significance. They say important things about communities, and how communities work together.”
“Maybe,” said Margot, quietly, “you could tell them that.”
Sylvia nodded, resolutely.
“You’re right. I’m going to make one last effort. If they hate me, they hate me.”
“That’s the spirit! I’ll even go with you. Maybe I can help.”
“I would deeply appreciate it.”
“Well, it’s my B&B. I’m responsible for the safety of everyone here. Although I haven’t been doing such a great job so far. Want to come with us, Nina?”
But Nina merely shook her head:
“I don’t think so.”
“Coward.”
Another shake of the head:
“It’s not that.”
“You’re not afraid of them?”
“I’m afraid of something. Just not them. They’re not our problem. Not the biggest one, anyway.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just––I’ve got to talk to somebody. And here in the library is the best place to do it.”
“Who do you have to talk to?”
“An old friend. One who always helps me.”
“You’re sounding crazy.”
“No. For the first time, I’m sounding something other than crazy. Now go on out there, you two. Do the best you can. I’ll be along in a little bit.”
So saying, she turned and walked farther into the library, while Margot and Sylvia went to face the pack of angry writers.
And so, for a time, she tried to clear her mind.
The sound of the storm.
The sound of the shouting coziests.
The soft, not quite audible but always tangible, muttering of books.
Voices coming from the books.
She walked along the shelves.
Fine books.
Homer.
Shakespeare,
And of course Jane.
Jane Austen.
Her Jessica Fletcher.
“Listen, Nina, listen,” Jane was whispering.
“You always forget. You’re so caught up in the outer turmoil, that you always forget the most important lines of all.”
“I know, Jane. Just tell them to me one more time.”
“All right. They’re from Emma, of course, my greatest mystery. And they go, ‘A mind lively and at ease can do with seeing nothing. And can see nothing that does not answer.’”
“Yes. Yes, of course. And my lively little mind tends to be at ease when it should be working.”
“Then put it to work, Nina. Put it to work like you always do. Those people out there need you.”
And so saying, Jane Austen’s voice disappeared.
It had to, so that Nina could formulate her own thoughts.
Ask her own questions.
A beast at large in the countryside?
Possible, but not likely.
Nothing about all of this was ‘likely.’
It was all impossible.
Two mutilated bodies.
Perhaps someone could have come in and surprised C. R. Roberts, but that was not likely.
And Garth Amboise?
Still a mystery.
Nothing was making sense.
All right, then—forgetting Janet Evanovich and P. D. James and going right to Sherlock Holmes, eliminate what was impossible.
The trouble was though, all of it was impossible.
These murders couldn’t have happened.
And yet they had happened.
All right, then if––
She was interrupted by the sound of the library door opening.
“Aha! I find here the next great celebrity! Congratulations, dear lady!”
She turned to see Professor Brighton Dunbury bowing low, his black flop hat almost touching the floor.
He straightened, and, smiling broadly, pronounced:
“So YOU are Jessica!”
She hardly knew what to say.
Finally, she did say:
“That doesn’t seem very important right now.”
“Really? Fame, riches, Hollywood, stardom?”
“No. I keep remembering what you said at the pond this morning.”
“Ah, yes. You mean about the panther.”
“No. About success. How it would keep you from writing.”
“Certainly it would! But that is hardly a problem for you, is it?”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t write! The only person who can ever be sure of avoiding writer’s block is someone who’s never written to begin with!”
She thought about that for a while.
“Well, I suppose––”
Then she thought about other things.
The scene at the pond.
Everything that happened at the pond.
“You seem lost in thought, my dear Ms. Bannister.”
“Yes. I guess I am.”
“Much as I myself am, when I commune with Athena.”
“Yes. Except I have another Athena.”
“And that would be…”
But Nina did not say ‘Jane Austen.’
Because her mind was still at the pond.
A mind lively, working at being not at ease.
“Professor,
out at the pond this morning. So much happened.”
“Oh, not so much, actually. We heard the panther--”
“Yes. The panther.”
“And I caught a lovely little sunfish.”
“Yes, there was that, but––but there was something else. Something that we’re forgetting.”
“We talked. I told you of my past. I spoke of Drusilla of Sestos. Of weaving and unweaving.”
“Professor, you know that I’m a literature teacher myself. For years and years.”
“I do know that. You told me. I was delighted to find that I had a colleague!”
“You talked earlier about The Odyssey, and about Odysseus, lying.”
“And being loved for it by Athena!”
“Yes, but––I’m thinking about the other group of plays you mentioned. The House of Atreus plays.”
“Ah, yes, wonderful works!” Dunbury shouted. “Clytemnestra murders her husband Agamemnon in his bath! She hacks him to pieces!”
“It seems a little like what’s been going on here.”
“You think one of the lady writers may be a vengeful Clytemnestra?”
“No. No, that’s not quite it,” said Nina. “It’s not that easy. Clytemnestra may have stopped being human for a while—but she didn’t turn into an animal either. Professor, you said the gods order Orestes and his sister Electra to murder their mother Clytemnestra in revenge for their father’s death?”
“Yes, they did. And the pair obeyed their orders. Also in a very bloody fashion!”
“But then they were hounded,” Nina asked, “by the Furies?”
“Yes, precisely. Until Athena herself intervened, and forgave them, and made the Furies harmless.”
“Yes, I remember now. But Professor Dunbury, I don’t think a panther killed those people. I don’t know how I know that. But I do. Something far more deadly killed those people. But it all goes back to the pond. Something else that happened at the pond.”
“But nothing else did happen! Nothing that I remember, anyway!”
“Yes, one other thing happened. The dog, Borg.”
“The plantation dog?”
“That’s the one. You calmed him down, remember?”
“Of course! He’d been upset by the writers some months ago. Poor fellow.”
“You used a device on him.”
“Yes, I did. But surely you don’t think poor Borg did this!”
“You could make a device that would make him want to do it, though, couldn’t you?”
Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) Page 21