Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) (12 page)

Jim, in mock horror, held a finger up to his lips:

“Oops! Mustn’t give it away now, Pat!”

She clapped both palms to her mouth and then took them down, laughing as she said:

“Oh, I did, didn’t I? Now don’t any of you tell!”

“We won’t,” said Harriet, still beaming.

“Well, at any rate, we hope to have the killer revealed a little later in the evening, and the epilogue done by bedtime.”

“You should,” said Margot, “have a quiet evening to work. I don’t think anyone will bother you.”

“Wish us luck then!” said the pair in unison as they exited the room waving.

“Good -bye for now!”

“Good luck!”

“Thank you, thank you!”

“Happy writing!”

“Happy…”

Etc. etc. etc.

Finally Harriet said, shaking her head:

“They are just so cute together.”

To which Nina and Margot could only answer:

“Yes they are. Yes they are.”

And the three of them continued to watch as Jim and Pat Hershey, arm in arm, made their way across the back yard.

Across the back yard, into the far south entrance, and gone from view.

“Frank and I had a wonderful marriage,” Nina found herself whispering, “but even we didn’t seem to think in unison like that.”

“It’s a gift,” said Harriet. “I’ve been married twice, and––well, it’s a gift. I just really don’t understand how two people can––”

But she was interrupted by the opening of the entranceway door.

Tingle tingle tingle little bell.

And there, in the doorway, stood a figure of very different mien.

Sunshine replaced by darkness.

Exuberance replaced by gloom.

Health replaced by sickness.

It was a sad woman of indeterminate age, indeterminate hair, and indeterminate position in the world. A woman, actually, who seemed to deserve no position in the world. A short and mousy woman, bent slightly forward, overdressed in a trench coat which protected her from the rain that was not falling, but did not protect her from Harriet’s rather cold stare.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“I’m Molly.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t seem to be able to––”

“Molly Badger.”

Upon saying which, she shrank back an inch or so and bent an inch closer to the ground, as though she were a poorly skilled but deeply driven boxer who had no choice but to remain eternally in the ring that was life, being pummeled, and watching helplessly as the blows landed.

“I wrote you,” she said, almost inaudibly.

Harriet nodded, but the aloofness in her voice remained.

“Oh, yes. I do remember now.”

“About coming. Taking part in the convention.”

“I remember your writing, and I also remember quite clearly my answers.”

Molly Badger continued to shrink, saying even more timidly:

“I know. I got the letters. I just thought if I actually came, if you saw how much I wanted to be here and to be one of you—to be a real Cozy Writer––”

Harriet shook her head:

“I’m sorry, Ms. Badger, but I must tell you that you have wasted your trip.”

“Isn’t there––”

“No. I’m sorry there isn’t. It’s as I expressed clearly in my letter:
 
we simply do not have space to accommodate people in your—well, in your category.”

“But I just want to learn.”

“And that is an admirable goal. But it’s not our job to teach you. There are courses that one can take––”

“I know, and I’ve taken them. Several of them. But they don’t seem to do any good.”

“Then I am deeply saddened. But that does not change the fact that the AGCW is not an instructional institution. We realize, of course, that there are any number of people in precisely your situation who would love to be members of The Guild, and to enjoy the privileges such membership affords. But the fact is that we cannot begin to accept all of you. If we did, our standards would––well, in short, it’s simply impossible.”

Helplessly, the woman turned and spoke to Margot:

“Isn’t there––isn’t there some place for me here? I won’t be any trouble. I just want to listen, to soak in what I can. Ma’am, if you are the head of this Bed and Breakfast, don’t you have some corner for Molly Badger to sleep in? I’ll pay whatever you want. And I can help out! I can clean!”

Margot, almost mute, seemed to have nothing to say. She merely shook her head while Harriet continued to address the woman cowering before her:

“I’m sorry but this is not a decision for Ms. Gavin to make. I truly regret that you have been put to an inconvenience, and that you did not choose to believe my letters. But if we begin making exceptions for one of you, then we shall have to make similar exceptions for you all. And the standing of our Guild would plummet. Now I don’t mean to appear rude, but I have a great deal of work to do, and I must ask you to leave.”

“Yes. Yes, I understand. I’ll go.”

And, so saying, the woman made her way out through the doorway, across the broad, blue porch, and out into the yard.

When she was well out of earshot, Margot asked Harriet Crossman:

“Who is that woman?”

A shake of the head:

“Her name is Molly Badger. She began writing letters to me several months ago. I finally answered in terms that I hoped would make our position clear—for we get hundreds, even thousands, of such inquiries—but apparently she is simply more persistent than the others of her kind. It’s very sad, actually.”

“What does she want?”

“To be accepted as a member of The Guild, of course. And, of course, that’s quite impossible. As is her remaining here at The Candles and being part of the convention.”

“But we do have an extra room or so.”

A violent shake of the head:

“No, that’s not the issue. The issue is that she simply does not belong here. She’s not one of us!”

“Why not?”

Harriet Crossman was silent for a time and then said, quietly but clearly:

“She is self-published.”

Silence for a time.

“I’m sorry,” Margot whispered, finally. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s all right, Ms. Gavin. There’s no way you could have known. But I suppose it’s now time for me to be fully honest with you. The Molly Badgers of the world are one of the reasons that the Guild is meeting here at The Candles.”

“How so?”

“Because, when we meet in the larger metropolitan hotels, it’s very difficult to keep such people away. And the costs for security alone––”

“I understand.”

“We thought, coming here, with the forests and the isolation—we thought we could use Nature itself as a buffer against self-publication. Obviously, we were wrong. But this is not a matter over which you should concern yourself further. If Ms. Badger should fail to take our warnings and leave immediately—we have ways of dealing with her.”

The sentence
, Nina thought,
had an ominous ring to it
.

But it was followed by a bright smile, a change in Harriet Crossman’s demeanor, and the words: “Well, let’s all try to put that behind us, and get on with more important matters. I shall see you, Ms. Gavin, and you, Ms. Bannister, for dinner!”

So saying, she turned and left the room.

In half a minute, she had disappeared into the plantation.

Margo hesitated for a time, to be sure she was out of earshot.

Then she whispered:

“Come on.”

“Come on where?” asked Nina.

“Come on with me. We’re going to talk to that poor woman.”

“Why? What can we possibly say to her?”

“Just come on. You’ll see. I think I saw our Ms. Badger go out and sit down by the old well in the back yard.”

They left the office together, made their way across the porch, and headed out into the yard.

When they reached the well, Molly Badger was kneeling on the ground beside it, her forehead pressed against the moist, ragged bricks.

Nina could hear her sobbing.

Margot knelt and put her arms out; the woman hurled herself into the embrace, glad to have cloth and flesh to press against rather than masonry.

“I don’t know, I don’t know what they want of me,” she said, gasping to get her breath.

“There, there––”

“Don’t send me away! Please don’t!”

“I won’t,” Margot said, consolingly. “I promise that I won’t.”

“Margot,” Nina said quietly, “if Harriet Crossman insists––”

Margot shook her head:

“Harriet Crossman doesn’t run The Candles. I do.”

“Still––”

“No. We’ve never turned anyone away from here. We’re not going to start now.”

Then, to Molly Badger:

“I’m sorry that you’re self-published. I truly am.”

The woman looked up at her and shook her head:

“It’s not my fault! I
want
to be published! Honestly I do!”

“I know. I know.”

“And I can write! My style is as fresh and vibrant as theirs! I can do dialogue! I have believable characters!”

“Of course you do, my child. I’m sure you do.”

“But—but all the real publishers, the ones that aren’t vanity publishers, keep sending my manuscripts back.”

“Why?”

A deep breath, another fit of sobbing, another deep breath, and then:

“My murder methods.”

“Your what?”

“My murder methods. They say I have unbelievable murder methods.”

Nina knelt, put her palms on Molly Badger’s knees, and asked, quietly:

“What murder methods do you use?”

This, though, occasioned a stiffening, and brought about a look of instant distrust:

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I’m not going to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll steal them. You’ll steal my murder methods!”

Margot: