Sea Change (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 1)

by T'Gracie Reese

  And with that she too was gone, disappeared into yellow and purple tulip smoke exactly the way Allana had vanished into reptile blue smoke.

  “People come and go,” she found herself whispering down at the table, “so quickly here.”

  She apologized for half an hour or so, then left the building, and drove her Vespa home, astonished that Tom Broussard was still making her life miserable.

  She was just taking her helmet off when she became aware of a letter protruding from the mailbox just beside her door at the top of the stairs.

  “This cannot be good news,” she whispered to herself

  She did not know why she felt that way.

  It’s just that there are good news days and bad news day, and this was one of the latter.

  She climbed the stairs, wishing they would collapse.

  Four steps away from the mailbox.

  Two steps away from the mailbox.

  And, just beside her hand now, there it was.

  The mailbox itself.

  It was one of the kind of letters she hated the most: small, slender, official, white, and deadly.

  She sighed and took it gently between thumb and forefinger.

  “What in heaven’s name is this?”

  She unlocked the door, turned on the light, walked to the deck window, slid it open, ordered:

  “Unfurl!”

  She watched as her cat sauntered out; then she took a seat at the kitchen table.

  She looked at the letter. It was hand addressed to her. The upper right hand corner bore the words.

  ASHCROFT, BENNETT, AND SEALY: ATTORNEYS AT LAW

  She slipped an index finger into the corner of the envelope, and, gently, ripped it open.

  Then she opened the sheet of paper and saw two sentences, hand written:

  NINA,

  PLEASE COME BY THE OFFICE TOMORROW MORNING AS EARLY AS POSSIBLE.

  ARTHUR ROBINSON IS DEAD.

  SINCERELY,

  JACKSON BENNETT

  Then she took from her windbreaker pocket the letter that Allana Delafosse had given her, tore it up, and sprinkled the remnants in the wastebasket.

  “Oh damn,” she whispered to the blank table top before her. “And I thought tonight was bad.”

  Then she went to bed.

  CHAPTER THREE: EXORCISM

  “Honest and peace loving people shun the courts and are prepared to suffer loss rather than fall into a lawyer’s clutches.”

  Peter de Noronka

  Downtown Bay St. Lucy was as nondescript as she had remembered it. A few white limestone buildings, none over two stories high. Traffic lights at the junction of First and Main, the small and seldom used city park, a few coffee shops which seemed to change signs and owners every few years.

  So hard to believe she’d come down here frequently, always looking forward to it.

  Not that she dreaded it now; but there was simply no need, no reason.

  She stood in front of the old building, which had not changed at all. There was the sign, hanging where it had always been, swinging slightly in the ocean breeze.

  ASHCROFT, BENNETT AND SEALY

  They had offered to keep Frank’s name on it, and she could almost imagine the BANNISTER tacked on at the end.

  It was only right of them to offer to keep the name up there, of course, since Frank had founded the firm.

  And it was more than simple charity that made them offer: the name Bannister was known around town, and, if the citizenry was well aware of the demise of the company’s founder, it still might keep memories of Frank’s integrity, his resourcefulness, his dependability.

  Keeping the name, in short, would be good for business.

  But she had declined.

  As Frank would have.

  She stood before the door, reached for the handle, and thought of Marley’s ghost appearing before Scrooge.

  “Marley was dead all right.”

  But Frank’s ghost did not appear, and she pushed open the door and walked up the same narrow stairway she had climbed all those years, when, home from teaching, she had bicycled downtown, swung by whatever coffee shop had stood on the corner, and taken two cups up to a struggling young attorney whose prospects seemed, at times, bleak indeed.

  The attorney she now visited had struggled, too, in his early years.

  Jackson Bennett. Who had learned in those first days that All-American football stardom did not necessarily translate into legal clients, and who might well have starved himself, a completely inexperienced African American attorney, had not Frank persuaded his two partners to take the young man in.

  The door opened at the top of the stairs.

  The figure towering above her—six foot three of him plus four stair steps still to be climbed—broadcast a smile much as a lighthouse emits a beam.

  “Nina!”

  “Hello, Jackson.”

  She continued to climb until his arms encircled her and lifted her up the final two steps.

  “Nina, it’s so good to see you.”

  “You too, Jackson. You too.”

  And it was good to see him. She’d always liked him, always enjoyed the mutual dinners together, Jackson and LaToya, then their child Alyssha scampering around, Fridays at one home, Sundays at the other.

  The two men talking cases, she and LaToya talking whatever else in the world remained.

  A bit of slight sadness at each parting as she and Frank realized there would not be children for them.

  But no matter…there had been so many good things to make up for that one lack.

  “It seems like a year since we’ve seen each other,” he said, ushering her into the office.

  It had hardly changed. The same leather sofa beside the receptionist’s desk.

  A different receptionist of course.

  “Maya, this is Nina Bannister.”

  “How do you do.”

  A slender and attractive woman, secretarial and bespectacled.

  How long had Frank been in this office before he could afford a receptionist? Two years?

  More?

  “Maya, Nina’s husband was Frank Bannister. We all owe him our jobs. Our careers, for that matter.”

  “Oh my.”

  There was nothing for her to say to that, of course, and Nina was relieved when, pleasantries over, she was seated in Jackson’s office, and the business at hand could be dealt with.

  “So,” she found herself saying, “he’s finally gone.”

  Jackson’s face, like a blue-black moon, darkened, and his voice rumbled over the desk as solemnly as the news it transported.

  “Yesterday morning. Eight forty five A.M.”

  “In New Orleans?”

  “Yes. That’s where he’d been for some time. In private care.”

  “There were physical problems? And some mental?”

  “So I understand. I’ve dealt, you understand, only with the man’s attorneys for the past years.”

  Nina nodded. There was silence in the room for a time.

  It seemed appropriate; a life halted in middle age, a life wasted in institutions. She sighed.

  Finally Jackson Bennett continued:

  “This is, of course, a very big thing. Big for Bay St. Lucy.”

  “I know. Have you told anyone?”

  He shook his head.

  “Only Peter and Marvin,” he said, referring to the two other partners. “And they’ve kept it to themselves. We’ll be having a press conference this afternoon.”

  “All hell will break loose.”

  He smiled.

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “It’s strange. I guess fate may be operating here. You know Margot Gavin?”

  “From Chicago—runs the shop on Eighth Street?”

  “Yes. She and I have kind of bonded in the last few months. Only yesterday morning she was talking about buying the Robinson place.”

  “She didn’t know?”

  “No.”

  “I thought ev
eryone in town did.”

  “Well, she’s not that social. But anyway, it’s as though the subject came up in her shop at the precise moment that Mr. Robinson was––”

  She found it hard to say the word “dying,” but “passing” seemed somehow overly formal, and so what had happened to Arthur Robinson the previous morning simply hung there over the desk, a wordless concept.

  “I’m sure that was only a coincidence.”

  “I hope,” she said, “that you’re right. And yet, so many bizarre things have happened in connection with that house, that family. I told Margot about it being haunted; but the truth is more strange. It’s not that ghosts have been haunting the house; it’s that the house has been haunting the town.”

  “Yes. And for two decades. But now that’s over.”

  “Hard to believe. How much money is involved, do you know?”

  He shrugged:

  “I really don’t. Of course there’s the house and the two acres surrounding it, land that no one has been able to claim or build on. But the Robinson’s were such—well, entrepreneurs––”

  “Gangsters, you mean.”

  Another smile, this one somewhat broader.

  “Some would say that. Attorneys have to be more cautious.”

  “And attorneys’ wives.”

  “We’ll pretend you didn’t say it. But there is property all over Bay St. Lucy, property that is now being rented––”

  “Like my little house by the ocean.”

  “Yes. You’re paying rent to a kind of holding company, but that company in turn…”

  “Is a part of the Robinson estate.”

  “Precisely.”

  “We’ve all been held hostage by that family for decades.”

  “But that will change now. I’ve been assured that, with the sister already dead, the youngest heir dying intestate, the property involved will revert to the city, which we can claim in lieu of back taxes. The taxes involved are rather minor; but the loophole will allow the city to take over all the family’s holdings.”

  “So we’re talking––”

  “Millions of dollars, Nina.”

  “It’s surreal.”

  “Everything involved with the Robinsons was surreal. Your husband had just hired me, just taken a chance on an ignorant black boy––”

  “You weren’t ignorant.”

  “I was desperate though. Anyway, I remember my first days at work. I was sitting in that adjoining office, going through some old files when I heard what had happened the previous evening.”

  “A horror movie.”

  He nodded.

  “I suppose that every little town—at least every little town in the south—has its Gothic mansion.”

  “Yes. And now—heavens, the impact that this news is going to have.”

  “Well, as I say, I have no idea of estimating the windfall that will be coming to Bay St. Lucy; but you and the rest of the City Council will have some tough decisions before it. We’ll have the funds to build an entirely new school system, elementary right up through high school.”

  She smiled.

  “Old Dell Mason Dees Hall could be torn down.”

  “Very possibly.”

  “And just in time. Before it collapses.”

  “We can replace the library––”

  “—and, if Margot Gavin wishes, she can buy and renovate the house itself.”

  “What does she want to do with it?”

  “Make it into an elegant bed and breakfast. With me to help run it.”

  “Are you interested?”

  “Maybe. I’m pretty happy now just puttering around, but—it would be something new.”

  “If it happens, you know I’ll handle the legal work, deeds, zoning regulations—for free.”

  “We wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “No discussion. It’s done”

  “So. What happens now?”

  “Well, Nina, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  He leaned across the desk, which groaned with his weight.

  “We may need to ask you a favor.”

  “Of course. How may I help?”

  “You’re still on the city council I assume.”

  “Last time I checked.”

  “You like New Orleans?”

  “Love it.”

  “Want to go?”

  “I always want to go to New Orleans and I never can afford it.”

  “The trip will be paid for by the city.”

  “What would I be doing there?”

  “Since it’s almost certain that there is no will, there will be documents to sign following a formal announcement in the offices of Arthur Robinson’s attorney. Someone from Bay St. Lucy needs to be there. It is somewhat like the reading of a will. There are legal differences, but you won’t need to worry about them. You just need to be there, and sign as a legal representative for the town.”

  “You don’t want to do this yourself?”

  “I have to be in court tomorrow. And as for the other council members––”

  “They’ve all got jobs.”

  He smiled:

  “Yes. But somehow, you seem to be the most appropriate person. You’ve taught everybody in town; now it’s only right that you should represent us in taking back what’s rightfully ours.”

  “Thank you, Jackson. It’s very gratifying that you should say that.”

  “I only wish Frank could be going with you.”

  “Yes. He’d want to stay at the Monteleone, of course.”

  Jackson Bennett’s smile became a grin:

  “And have a beer at Napoleon House.”

  “Yes. With all their old opera records.”

  “So. Will you go for us?”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “The reading will take place in attorney’s chambers tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. We can fly you over tomorrow morning. Will that work for you?”

  “Of course.”

  “If you wanted to stay over a night, enjoy the city––”

  She shook her head:

  “No. That’s all right. I have a cat to feed tomorrow night. But Jackson––”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know why but—it just seems that one of us should...I mean, someone from Bay St. Lucy should––”

  “Should what, Nina?”

  “Should pay last respects. It just seems right.”

  He was silent for a time. Then:

  “Most people here wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “I know. But I do.”

  “And that’s probably why you’re the one to go to New Orleans.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Ok. I’ll find out where the body can be viewed.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  “Glad to do it.”

  Silence for a time.

  Then Jackson Bennett, getting to his feet, said:

  “After all those years, the town is free.”

  She nodded:

  “And that mansion. Standing there, eroding, little by little––”

  “With the town powerless to tear it down; powerless to fix it up.”

  “A cancer, right in our middle.”

  “That’s all over now.”

  “I hope so, Jackson.”

  “Like I say, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  She herself stood, and walked in front of him to the office door, leading the way by a step, just as she always did with Frank.

  Frank, who seemed to be there with them now, smiling, but holding out two palms in a cautionary way, shaking his head, and saying:

  There is always something to worry about.

  So thinking, she said good bye, descended the stairs, and headed off to her ten o’clock appointment with Macy’s Beowulf class.

  CHAPTER FOUR: THE HIGH SCHOOL AND THE JETTY

  “Love interest nearly always weakens a mystery because it introduces a type of suspense that is antagonistic to t
he detective’s struggle to solve a problem.”

  Raymond Chandler

  “In literature, as in love, we are astonished at what is chosen by others.”

  Andres Maurois

  She reached the high school at precisely ten o’clock, entering to find the normal scene of bedlam that occurs in any high school at the hourly bell that sends the students storming into the hallways.

  “Darn,” she muttered to herself, miffed that she, a veteran teacher, had let herself be trapped this way.

  The first rule of teaching—at least high school teaching—was:

  Never be trapped in the hallway with the students.

  Frequently, she’d told herself that Tolstoy, and only in the most violent and dramatic portions of War and Peace (perhaps the beginning lines of the Battle of Borodino) could do justice to what actually transpired; the football players hurling themselves against the lockers, bald-shaven coaches grabbing players, placing them in headlocks and, knuckles rubbing on their crew-cuts, shouting over and over again:

  “Whaddya think, Suggs? Whaddya think, Suggs?”

  ––this, whether the player’s name actually was “Suggs” or not.

  She stood as clear from the mélange as possible, secreting herself in a niche she’d discovered years ago between the trophy case and a large paper mache anchor, which told the world that Bay St. Lucy’s denizens were “The Mariners.”

  “Nina!”

  Paul Cox, far handsomer and more efficient than any of the principals she’d ever worked for (all of whom either hid in their offices, or prowled the building getting in everyone’s way) approached like a vapor through the French and Russian troops dying on The Battlefield of High School Hallway and took her hand, smiling as he said:

  “Macy tells me you’re talking to one of her classes!”

  She shouted something as loud as she could, but couldn’t hear herself over the tumult of what seemed to be dozens of identical girls screaming into each other’s faces at the same time.

  He nodded.

  “Good. Good. Thank you so much for doing this!”

  “–––––––––––––––––––,” she screamed.

  “Yes, I think so too!”