Set Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries)

by T'Gracie Reese

  Edie, half standing:

  “Mr. Tomlinson…”

  “…no no, let me finish here! And everybody in this building needs to hear this. He was viciously attacked by some deranged woman, and nothing at all was done about it. Now this man, who I can tell you all because I’ve been for some time his personal attorney, has never had any history of heart disease, is found dead in his bed. He routinely took an over the counter pain suppressant and a mild sedative. But he had been following this routine for years with no problems. And now all you can say is, ‘his heart stopped’? That’s all you know about the exact cause of death?”

  “Sir, we will ascertain the cause of death.”

  “When?”

  “I’m sorry but I can’t say more at this time.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are things—that’s really all I can say.”

  “You haven’t said anything. May I ask a question of Officer Rivard?”

  Moon Rivard rose.

  “I’m here.”

  “Are the police looking into the prospect that there may have been foul play involved here?”

  “When a death is sudden, and unexpected, we always have to make a report.”

  “Make a report?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “That’s all you’re doing?”

  “At this time.”

  “You’ve not arrested anybody?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Not any reason to, at this time.”

  “All right, then, I’ll ask the Doctor again,” bellowed Tomlinson. “Doctor, is there a possibility that Clifton Barrett may have been poisoned?”

  At this Edie Towler stood, and gestured for the coroner to stand.

  “This concludes the press conference.”

  So saying, she strode out of the gymnasium, leading Paul Dawkins and Moon Rivard out through the visitors exit.

  For the rest of the morning, Bay St. Lucy found itself plagued by small cancers that kept breaking out in the form of press conferences. This was probably natural, since the city airport was jammed to capacity by private jets flying in carrying more and more reporters, and these reporters had to file stories. Every citizen, every shop owner, seemed fair game.

  “Did you know Clifton Barrett?”

  “Do you have any comment on an alleged assault that took place some nights ago?”

  “Did Mr. Barrett abuse his wife?”

  “To the best of your knowledge, was the Barrett’s marriage in trouble of some sort?”

  “Did Mr. Barrett use drugs?”

  “We’re from People Magazine, and….”

  “I’m from The New York Times, and…”

  On and on and on.

  Nina found herself drawn here and there by these abscesses, watching them grow, smiling inwardly at the stupidity of the questions, feeling a bit of pity for the townspeople who struggled vainly to provide answers—for the whole thing was impossible to make sense of—and feeling an equal amount of contempt for people who seemed to enjoy themselves simply because they wanted to be on national TV.

  Finally it was ten o’clock in the morning. The sun had climbed halfway up a sky that no longer had anything to do with hurricanes coming or going, and was just blue-shimmering and hot.

  The hospital drew her like a magnet. Word was that Helen and Hope Reddington had been taken there for observation, and that both were about to be released (They could not stay in a small private room forever) and she wanted to be there when they were.

  She had no idea why she wanted to be there.

  She could not invite them to stay in her one room shack.

  (And, as she had earlier told John Giusti, every family in Bay St. Lucy had already made such an offer.)

  She could not help them with any kind of advice.

  The simple truth was, she finally found herself admitting mentally, that she was motivated by morbid curiosity.

  So she arrived at ten and waited, standing around, overhearing bits of gossip.

  “How is Helen holding up?”

  “I don’t know. The minister is in there now.”

  Another voice.

  “I heard she’s just being real…you know, quiet. Marge Peterson had gone in with flowers and was just out in the hall. She said Helen was just real quiet, and asked to be left alone for a little while.”

  This kind of talk made Nina face a question she’d been avoiding.

  What did Helen Reddington think about the death of her husband?

  She could remember Helen lying there on the deck, cigarette smoldering, her dark and enigmatic eyes focused on the horizon—talking about the hell her life had become.

  Made so by this man.

  “Somebody needs to kill him,” Helen had said.

  Now he was dead.

  But how?

  “She was just real quiet…”

  I’ll bet, thought Nina, that she was.

  By ten thirty, the people-tumor that was spreading in front of Bay St. Lucy’s hospital had metathesized alarmingly, so that ambulances would have been blocked from approaching emergency rooms, had there been any ambulances out at this particular time, which there apparently weren’t, the town having during the past ten hours exhausted the daily supply of emergencies it was allowed to have.

  “Ms. Bannister?”

  This from a whispered voice close behind her.

  “Ms. Bannister?”

  She turned and saw a short and sandy-haired young woman whom she did not recognize, but who, to judge from her starched white uniform, appeared to be a hospital orderly of some sort.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re Nina Bannister?”

  “I am.”

  The young woman leaned closer.

  Her whisper was barely audible.

  “Would you mind to follow me?”

  “What…”

  “They’re going to be releasing the Reddingtons.”

  Nina still did not comprehend what role she was to play in this, but the woman took her arm gently and began to pull.

  They had begun to make their way through the crowd.

  The whispers continued, over the woman’s shoulder.

  “There are too many people out here at the front entrance; they’re taking them out at the rear of the hospital. All these reporters…”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “But…well, Ms. Helen is asking for you.”

  “Why?”

  “I think she wants you to do some things for her, ma’am.”

  And so Nina followed obediently as they left the main part of the crowd, made their way around a corner of the building, and came to a halt behind a nondescript pale blue door which sat in the middle of a nondescript not-quite yellow wall.

  The words “Do Not Enter” were stenciled in white on the door.

  Which immediately opened.

  Standing within it, frozen, motionless for an instant, were Helen and Hope Reddington, dressed as if for church (where, Nina wondered, had the dress clothes come from?…then she remembered the fifty or so lady church members standing at the other side of the hospital and she began to get some idea)—and ringed by one or two doctors, one or two policemen, and one or two of those people who never seem to have a real function but who always pop up at important events.

  It took a millisecond for Helen to recognize Nina.

  Then she dove out of the doorway and tackled her as though sacking a quarterback.

  Neither she nor Nina fell down, but the embrace was so strong, the capture so complete, that the play would have been called dead, and Nina would have lost five yards.

  Helen was sobbing.

  After a few seconds, Nina realized that she was sobbing, too.

  “Nina…”

  “It’s all right.”

  Finally Hope was standing beside them. She beamed up at Nina.

  Yes, it was Hope, the real Hope, because once again she was looking up and out from under something.

  “Nina, dear!”


  “How are you Hope?”

  “I’m fine, dear. They’re taking such good care of us!”

  “I know, Hope!”

  Then Hope, turning to Helen:

  “Can we go home now, Helen?”

  “No, Grandmamma, not quite yet.”

  “I’m just a bit tired.”

  “I know, Grandmamma.”

  “I’d like to lie down in my own room.”

  “It won’t be long now. But…”

  She pulled Nina away a foot or so and whispered:

  “Things are going to be very difficult for a time.”

  “I know, Helen. Whatever I can do…”

  “There’s a crowd on the other side of the building.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be here, and soon. I know reporters. When there’s a scandal…”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s one thing I want you to do…really for Grandmamma.”

  “Whatever I can do.”

  “All right. It’s as I’ve been telling Grandmamma. We can’t go back—we can’t go back there, right now. It’s just…I can’t stay…”

  “I understand.”

  “So we’ll be staying elsewhere for some days. I don’t know how long.”

  “All right.”

  “Here is a list…”

  She handed Nina a folded slip of paper.

  “These are toiletries, a few items of clothing, some sentimental things…they should all be easy to find, and can fit in two small suitcases. If you’d gather them from the house…”

  “Of course.”

  “Several ladies from the church have keys.”

  “It won’t be a problem.”

  “it will be such a comfort for…”

  But by then the crowd had discovered them, and came rushing around the corner.

  It had soon pinned them against the back wall of the hospital.

  It was as though they were an exhibit at the state fair.

  “When was the last time you saw your husband, Ms. Reddington?”

  “Had he been drinking?”

  “Does he take drugs?”

  “Do you think he died of an overdose?”

  “What can you tell us about his last moments?”

  “Is it true that he’d been abusing you?”

  All of these questions were interrupted by Tomlinson, the attorney, who pushed through the crowd, made his way to Helen and her grandmother, put an arm around each of them, and said in a bullhorn voice:

  “Ms. Reddington will not be answering any questions at this time.”

  “Can you tell us where she will be going now? Where she’s going to be living for the next days?”

  He nodded:

  “Arrangements have been made for Ms. Reddington and her grandmother to stay at a hotel in Vicksburg. I’m not at liberty to divulge the name of the hotel. We will be leaving Bay St. Lucy soon, by helicopter. That’s all I can say now about that matter.”

  “Can you tell us anything more about what happened to Mr. Barrett?”

  “Not at this time. We are insisting, of course, on an autopsy.”

  “Has foul play been ruled out?”

  “Nothing has been ruled out.”

  “Excuse me!”

  Helen Reddington extricated herself from the attorney’s grasp, took a step forward, and, ignoring him, addressed the crowd:

  “I’d like to make a statement.”

  Tomlinson, obviously taken aback, reddened:

  “Helen, you don’t have to say anything.”

  “I know, but I want to. I want to get this over with.”

  “I have to advise strongly…”

  “I understand your advice, but I intend to make this statement. Now please allow me to do so.”

  Silence.

  Helen Reddington continued:

  “My husband and I, along with my grandmother, returned to our house around 11:30 last evening, after the performance of Hamlet. We were driven home by friends. Several people stayed for some minutes to wish us well, but we were tired, and Grandmamma was exhausted, and so we made our excuses. We went up to bed. My husband routinely takes medication for back pain. He also takes a mild sedative to help him sleep. Within a short time I could tell he was sleeping normally. I went to sleep almost immediately myself. I slept soundly. I knew nothing until first light came through the window, a bit after five. I could tell something was wrong. I’m not even sure how. Clifton was…well, too still. I touched him, and he was cold. spoke to him, and then shouted to him, and then shook him. After that, I knew. I had a cell phone that’s on the nightstand. I called 911, and said that my husband was not breathing. I then continued to shake him and try to make him talk to me. But he was…just cold. After a minute or so I could hear the sirens coming. So I got up, put on a robe, went downstairs, and woke Grandmamma. I told her not to worry, but Clifton was ill, and would be taken to the hospital. After that, the vehicles arrived, and you know the rest.”

  Silence for a moment.

  Tomlinson stepped forward and was about to speak, but Helen Reddington interrupted him.

  “Now there is something further. I’d like to announce that, as of this moment, Mr. Tomlinson is no longer our attorney.”

  Stunned silence.

  Finally Tomlinson:

  “Helen, you can’t fire me. I’m your husband’s attorney.”

  “My husband is dead.”

  “But…”

  “And you’re fired.”

  More stunned silence.

  Tomlinson spoke.

  No words came out of his mouth.

  Helen Reddington again, to the crowd.

  “My grandmother and I will be staying with a friend in Bay St. Lucy. As for the autopsy—if the coroner’s report deems that foul play has been a possibility, then ordering the autopsy is, as I understand it, his decision. If he does not, then my husband’s body will be cremated day after tomorrow, and it will be done here. Now if that is all…”

  It was, of course, not all, but during the moment’s lapse required for the known universe to resume motion according to its eternal laws, a vehicle of some kind rounded the corner of the hospital.

  It worked its way through the crowd, honking once, but not needing to honk a second time, its two ton weight and battered bumper constituting enough force to move The New York Times easily, and—albeit with a bit more of a struggle—even People Magazine.

  The vehicle—it was a battered van—stopped five feet from the Reddingtons who, Helen with an arm around Hope, made their way up and into it.

  Helen dragged the heavy panel door closed behind the two of them.

  And they drove away, John Giusti at the wheel.

  Within half a minute, they had disappeared around the corner.

  In another ten seconds, Moon Rivard was standing at the same corner, a bullhorn in his hand.

  The bullhorn brayed:

  “I want all of you to listen.”

  All of them did.

  “The Reddingtons deserve their privacy. They been through a lot. Now I’m going to have two squad cars go with them. Anybody else wants to tag along, we gonna arrest. I hope that’s clear.”

  It was.

  And the crowd dispersed.

  CHAPTER 15: MEMORIES OF AGATHA CHRISTIE

  The rest of the day disappeared somehow in a welter of errand running, question answering, confused blathering, and wondering what in heaven’s name could be happening. But by nightfall, Nina had succeeded in filling several suitcases with items from the Reddington home, borrowing Margot’s Volkswagen which would be used for a pack-mule trip out to John Giusti’s home the following morning, eating eleven or twelve (she’d forgotten which) small meals at various shops and coffee stands scattered throughout town as she dispersed, re-gathered, and dispersed again whatever new gossip happened to be floating around at that particular hour—and in general succeeded in using her brain as much as possibly without actually thinking about anythi
ng at all.

  It was dark when she returned home. The moon had begun to rise over the offshore drilling rig, which now seemed to serve as a rack for it to sit on, as though it were a white and shining bowling ball ready to be picked up and hurled underhanded toward some as yet invisible heavenly pins.

  Barrett’s attorney, Tomlinson, was sitting on the top step leading up to her shack.

  He was, incredibly, wearing only slacks and a short sleeved sport shirt.

  He smiled down at her.

  “Hope you don’t mind. Several people told me where you live.”

  “I don’t mind. I don’t think.”

  “Don’t worry; I won’t bite.”

  “All right. Come on in then.”

  She unlocked the door, and he walked in behind her.

  In five minutes they were sitting on her deck, sipping iced tea, watching the moon make the waves silver.

  A candle burned on the table, flickering orange, its flame dodging subtly this way and that, either blown about by or successfully avoiding a weak breeze from the sea.

  Tomlinson was a florid man, and he would always be imposing.

  She wondered if the straight chair he sat in would support him, and winced as he leaned forward to put his perspiration-soaked and gleaming forearms on her rickety table.

  He smiled.

  “I want to thank you for seeing me.”

  “Not at all,” she said, knowing very little else to say.

  “I’m told you are a very knowledgeable person about the town and about what goes on here. I’ve had talks with Mr. Bennett.”

  “Yes, Jackson.”

  “He admires you a great deal.”

  “Well. My husband Frank hired Jackson a good many years ago.”

  “So he said. You know, I assume, that Mr. Bennett has been employed by the Reddingtons to handle their affairs now.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “There were several calls made this morning and afternoon; it’s all official now.”

  “And you are…”

  “I’m fired.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Goes with the job sometimes. I’m sure your husband could sympathize. I’ve been told that he was an attorney.”

  “Yes. That happened from time to time. We always made it through.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  He paused, looked around.

  “It’s marvelous out here. I wish I had such a place.”