Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) (11 page)

“Great.”

“I don’t know,” said Margot. “If I’d read it, I might have refused to let the ‘Pwoalpime’ in.”

“The what?”

“The ‘person who occupies a low place in my esteem.’”

“Amazing how you got all those letters arranged like that in your mind.”

“Well, I’m pretty special. There. Read it.”

Nina did so:

GARTH AMBOISE

Garth Amboise, while still quite young, is succeeding in carving for himself a very special niche in contemporary American literature. Mr. Amboise has published more than a thousand poems in publications such as
The Kenyon Review, The Arizona Press, Tamarlane Monthly, The Oxford Review, The New Yorker, The National Review, Alaska in our Times, People Magazine, Ebony, The Frankfurter Allgemein, Newsweek,
and
The Readers’ Digest.
He has won numerous literary awards, including The Henry Spencer Award for Best First Novel, The Elania Dusting Award, The Cincinnati Readers’ Treasury Award, The John Deere Award, The Yale Writer of the Year Award, The California Psychology Best Creative Fiction Award, Dog Lovers’ Monthly Award for Creative Prose in Support for Abandoned Animals, The Truett Spencer Award, The Amelia Earhart Award, The Bill Smith Award, The Lena Horne Award, The Andrew H. Perkins Award, The University of Texas Best Rodeo Fiction Award, the Paul Marten Best Novel to be Published by a Handicapped Writer at Georgia State Award, and The Queen Elizabeth II Award for Best Treatment of an Episode in English History (The Glorious Revolution). Mr. Amboise has also published more than two hundred novels, many of which have appeared on
The New York Times
Bestseller List. He holds six doctorate degrees, among them Ph.D.s in English Literature (Harvard), Chinese History (USC), Botany (University of the Bahamas), Paleontology (University of Berlin), Proctology (University of Singapore), and Oboe (Julliard School of Music)—a truly amazing set of accomplishments, given his age of twenty-six.

“So,” said Margot, “that’s the man who came to dinner.”

“I don’t care what he’s accomplished,” said Nina. “I still hate him. I hate him so much that––”

She was interrupted in what was certain to become a satisfactory stream of invectives by the entrance of Harriet Crossman, who crossed the small room quickly and embraced her, saying quietly but passionately:

“Thank you! Thank you so much!”

Nina allowed herself to be thus profusely thanked for a time, then finally pushed herself sufficiently free to ask:

“Why?”

“The litter! You got it here on time! No accidents, not one.”

“Oh. Well, I do what I can.”

“All of the authors have their own special blend of cat food, of course. But as for litter––”

“I was just glad to help,” Nina repeated.

“And help you did, my dear. I will say though, that otherwise, The Candles seems perfectly suited for the cats. It was, clearly, originally built by a cat lover—or a cat-loving wife.”

“How,” asked Margot, “do you know that?”

Harriet Crossman gestured toward the corner of the small office.

“Look down there. That small board in the corner swings on hinges.”

She took two steps, reached down, and pushed the panel, which did indeed swing open, then shut again.

“I never even noticed that,” said Margot, quietly. “Are you saying there’s one of those in each room?”

“As far as our writers have been able to tell. It’s a marvelous thing; now the pussies can go visit each other.”

I’m not
, Nina found herself thinking,
completely sure that’s a good thing.

“And otherwise,” Harriet continued, “I must tell you that you’ve done a splendid job in preparing for us. Every report I’ve gotten is favorable. The rooms are perfectly laid out, the pairings have been made, and all the writers are raving about the atmosphere of the place. We are so looking forward to the next few days!”

“Well,” said Margot, “I’m glad to hear that. Unfortunately though, not everyone seems pleased.”

“Not everyone?”

“No. We’ve just had a rather difficult conversation with Mr. Amboise.”

“Oh God. That––well, no, I shan’t allow myself to lose control.”

“Nina and I have already lost control, so don’t worry about it. Mr. Amboise does seem—well, different from the rest of the group, I must say.”

“Of course, he’s different! He’s not one of us! Not one of us at all!”

“He has an impressive list of accomplishments.”

“He has a massive ego, is what he has. And he’s not a cozy writer!”

“Then what is he doing here?”

“He’s here because we couldn’t stop him.”

“Why not?”

A frustrated shrug.

“His agents are the most powerful in New York. They were able to find a publisher for his one cozy mystery, and, being a name publisher, they insisted on his being admitted to the guild. As for the cozy, it’s a dreadful thing, probably knocked off in a few days.”

“But why,” Margot asked, “would he want to even be here? He clearly doesn’t like it here, nor does he seem to want to associate with any of the other writers.”

“I think,” said Nina, anxious to become known for something other than the acquirer of cat litter, “that I know.”

Margot looked at her:

“All right, then why?”

“The HBO contract.”

Harriet Crossman nodded.

“There you have it. Where there is prestige and money––big money––these types of sharks always show up.”

“But still,” interjected Margot, “I can’t believe we’re going to have to pamper him this way for days to come. Meals in his room! My God, I can’t even imagine––”

“HELLO ALL!”

This greeting, dripping as it was with golden sunshine and wheat germ, came from a pair of plaid-shirted figures who were bursting in from the back porch, their arms laden with tins of something or other.

“We hope we’re not disturbing you!” said the female of the pair.

“Not at all,” replied Margot.

Female:

“We had to come down and tell you––”

Male:

“––that our room is just great. EVERYTHING, actually is just great!”

“Well we’re glad to hear that.”

“Please let me introduce to you,” said Harriet Crossman, “Jim and Pat Hershey. They’re rapidly becoming the best known husband and wife writing team in the cozy business.”

“So happy to know you; glad you’ve come to stay at Candles.”

Pat Hershey stepped forward, beaming––

––actually they both were beaming, but her beams seemed even brighter, more redolent of a noon-day sun to make up for the evening sun, which even now was disappearing.

No problem. She could light a large portion of the house, certainly at least this small reception area, by nothing more than the radiant energy being poured forth by the fifth generation dynamo which was her personality.

“We had to bring you these!” she exulted, holding forth her arms, upon which were cradled two-foot circular, plaid-designed tins.

The plaid of the tins, Nina remarked, matched the plaid designs of the Hersheys’ matching long-sleeved shirts.

Somewhere upstairs, she told herself, were waiting other tins that resembled the designer jeans the chocolate pair were wearing.

Was she going to keep thinking of them as ‘the chocolate pair?’ Hopefully not.

“We brought you some cookies that we baked a couple of days ago!”

Or, maybe she was.

“How thoughtful of you!” said Margot, taking the containers that had been offered to her, then putting them on the counter behind her and taking two more from the male part of the pair.

Jim:

“We thought you might be so busy cooking for other people that you might appreciate it if somebody baked for you!”

“And we do! We certainly do! What did you bring us?”

Pat:

“Sugar cookies, chocolate chip cookies, ginger snaps––”

Jim:

––and teacakes. Our personal favorites!”

“We’ll serve them for everyone along with dinner tonight!”

“Whatever you want to do,” chimed in both of the writers in near unison.

How can they talk together like that?
Nina found herself wondering.

This thought mysteriously transmogrified itself into an audible question, which came blurting out from her almost against her will:

“How can you write together? Isn’t writing kind of a solitary, lonely thing?”

Their smiles, almost incredibly, broadened.

They both took one step forward and began answering, first one, then the other, in such a well-orchestrated back and forth rattattat that Nina forgot for a time to note which of the two was actually speaking at any given time.

“Our minds just seem to––”

“––think alike and when one of us has an––”

“––idea why the other senses it and types it––”

“––down on the paper even before the other one has––”

“––had a chance to tell the other one about––”

“––it but really that’s the way it’s always been in our––”

“––marriage and so why should it be any different when––”

“––we write?”

And for a second they just stood there beaming.

“That’s amazing,” said Nina, who actually was amazed and who’d never heard such a thing before.

“Jim and Pat,” said Harriet Crossman, “write the Nancy Westmorland Mysteries. Their heroine is a retired librarian who lives in a small New England coastal village of around two thousand people. There is a curmudgeon of a police chief and half a dozen or so genuinely eccentric and lovable characters. Nancy loves to cook, the books are filled with yummy recipes. Murders begin around page sixteen––”

“Page eighteen in
The Crab-Claw Conundrum
!” interjected Pat.

“Yes, I’d forgotten about that one. But they
usually
begin to happen around page sixteen so that the readers don’t get bored. After that, there’s always one murder per chapter, and the killer is always a surprise-detestable villain who deserves to be imprisoned.”

“Or executed,” said Jim. “Many of our killers, at least when we project their futures, “are probably given lethal injections or, if they are originally from Utah, shot. But we don’t take the stories that far and so no one really minds.”

“The works are,” said Harriet, smiling, “absolutely perfect cozy mysteries. We put them on the guild’s website as examples to follow for young would-be cozyists just starting out in the business.”

“You’re so kind,” said Pat, taking a step back. “Well, Jim and I should probably be running along now. We’re up to chapter sixteen in our latest; we want to get this last murder committed before dinner, and write the final wrap-up on the fishing trawler.”