Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) (17 page)

“My mystery writing reflects my earlier classical training. Never lost that love completely, you know! I write the Drusilla of Sestos Mysteries.”

“Drusilla of––”

“Sestos.”

“I’m sorry, I––”

“I know, you’ve probably not heard of it. Possibly because it isn’t very large. And also because it no longer exists.”

“Where was it when it did exist?”

“About forty miles south of Rome. But it was destroyed by a volcano in 234 AD.”

“I thought that was Pompeii.”

“No, Pompeii’s destruction came half a century later. And that wretched city got all the publicity. The tragedy of Sestos though was equally compelling. Wiped out completely. Dear Drusilla too. But I made quite a complete study of the lady earlier in my career. And finally, when I could no longer resist the urge to write fiction—something that someone might actually read, you know—I thought, why Drusilla is the perfect cozy heroine! She lives in a small coastal town––”

“With a volcano.”

“Of course with a volcano, but also some charming sea vistas to look at…and she is the perfect person to solve mysteries, simply by dint of her occupation.”

“Which is?”

“Drusilla is a seamstress! One of the few occupations open to Roman ladies of high rank and acute intelligence.”

“She weaves.”

“Yes, she weaves! But to the Romans, and to the Greeks, from whom they stole the imagery, weaving is also the ultimate mark of intelligence and artistry. One weaves cloth, of course, but one also weaves stories and tales. Homer’s Penelope deceives suitors for years by weaving and then unweaving the burial shroud for Odysseus. Athena herself, the goddess of wisdom, is, as she tells Odysseus, the greatest of all weavers. Wisdom and lying are one and the same for the Greeks, and for the Romans after them––and for my Drusilla and––I suppose if we get right down to it—for me.”

“Is Athena a character in your stories?”

“Of course she is! And she is my muse! I have a small image of her—actually a shrine one might say—and I pray to it daily before beginning to write. I also pray to the muse of course:
 
Oh, sing in me, muse—which is what the Greek singer chanted before beginning his songs of Troy and the great battles and the great wanderings.”

“You have a cat?”

“Of course, I have a cat! We all have cats. Mine is back in the room now, sleeping.”

“His name?”

“Clawdius.”

“That would fit.”

The sun had risen now. They could hear bullfrogs croaking in the moss around the edges of the pond, and Nina found herself imagining them to be the incarnation of all the long dead singers and poets and cozy writers, chanting to the muse so that they could sing of Troy and Penelope and Odysseus and Miss Marple.

“Are you hoping,” she asked, “to win an HBO contract and put Drusilla on weekly television?”

He merely smiled and shook his head:

“Oh no, that would spoil everything.”

She looked at him and asked:

“Why?”

“Because it would mean success! And that would destroy my ability to write!”

“Why?”

“Oh, it would take the fuel away!”

“What fuel?”

“The, the…”

He shook his head, then thought for a time, and said quietly:

“I’m not sure about the other writers of fiction, my dear. Perhaps some do write for money. But there’s so little of that commodity lying around, and so many writers trying to get it—that anyone who chooses the drudgery of fiction writing as an avenue for financial success, is surely an idiot.”

“So why write? Do you want fame?”

An even more pronounced shake of the head:

“Fame is even in shorter supply than lucre.”

“Then why write? What motivates you?”

“The same thing that motivates all fiction writers I imagine. Even though most do not realize it.”

“And that is?”

“Spite, of course!”

“What?”

“Spite! I write out of pure spite! And had I not this wellspring of churning, spewing, bubbling, boiling, ever-regenerating, perfectly pure spite raging deep within me—why, I could never write a word. My fiction would be completely dead.”

“I still don’t––I mean––”

“I know it must be difficult for those of you in the outside world. But every time one of us receives a rejection letter—and we receive hundreds of them before we ever gain even the slightest glimmer of success—a grain of spite gets sown in the furrows of our little mental fields. Finally, there are rows of such spite seeds, and then more rows, and then complete fields, and then blossoming crops, golden in the sunlight, all bushels and bushels and bushels of complete spite, all of it dedicated to—to no one! To faceless people, editors who do not answer queries, agents who do not accept un-agented submissions, website entries that say, “We are no longer accepting submissions.” We rage against all of these evil forces, and our rage generates power, and it’s this power we harness in order to write. Reject me, huh! Well, I’ll write another novel! I’ll write a novel with one hand behind my baaack! And another one and another one after that. JUST TO SHOW YOU, TO SHOW ALL OF YOU! I’LL WRITE A HUNDRED NOVELS AND YOU CAN’T STOP ME!”

He had changed momentarily, Nina noted, from Professor Miracle/Wizard of Oz to the cowardly lion, raging and shouting, ‘Put ‘em uuup! ‘Put ‘em uuup!’

He was quite animated by this time, and he was forced to pause for a few seconds.

Finally, he was able to smile wanly, shake his head, and be his old self/selves.

“But, success? People telling you how they live for every word you write? How much they love this character or that? And what will the next novel be about and how they can’t lead normal lives until it comes out and until they see the film of it and is it true that so and so is to play the starring role? No. Such success would be no more than a poison gas hovering inches above the typewriter. No writers could stand it. And most writers who do achieve it––well, you know, they attempt to commit suicide.”

“They try to kill themselves?”

“No, they try to kill their characters. But the public will not allow them to do so. Sherlock Holmes was wished dead a thousand times by his creator. But England would have none of it; and so poor Conan Doyle was sentenced to life as a parrot, simply repeating again and again what he’d already said.”

“And you don’t want that for Drusilla.”

“Of course not. My mysteries are published by a small house. I try various means to sell them and I fail. These failures enrage me, and I use this rage to write more books.”

He was silent for a time, then he turned to look at the sunrise:

“I suppose,” he said, “you must be sick indeed of hearing me ramble on.”

“No. I just never thought writing would be like that. I did have one more question, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Of course, I don’t mind!”

“How did you get published in the first place? And, if your books don’t sell, how have you gotten to be included in the AGCW, which only takes the top cozy writers?”

He smiled while he turned the bait can over and watched the worms crawl into ever deeper tufts of grass.

Finally, he said:

“Well, that was the influence of Harriet Crossman. I met her when I was living in Boston. I showed her my manuscripts. She found a publisher for them—she has many contacts, and called in a favor, I suppose. Then, since she was even at that time the most decisive force in the Guild, she used her influence to have me admitted.”

“She must love your work.”

He got to his feet, carefully wrapping the fishing line around the pole and securing the hook.

“That’s possible,” he said. “Or it might simply have been because for lo those many years we were sleeping together. So, ready? Let’s go back!”

And he walked away.

CHAPTER NINE:
 
FAME COMES A- KNOCKING!

During the mile or so walk back from the lake to the plantation house, Nina said little to the professor who walked in front of her, and spent most of the time thinking that it would be good for her to spend the entire morning locked away in her room, if for no other purpose than to imagine where and when and IN GOD’S NAME HOW??? did Professor Brighton Dunbury and Harriet Crossman become lovers?

But she was not to be allowed this luxury.

Much had been happening at the Candles.

In the first place, the cats were proving to be a problem. Unfettered access to every room and every corridor, such access granted by the ubiquitous cat doors carefully carpentered into the place by its original, obviously cat-loving builders gave them equally unfettered access to each other,

And after a few hours of such access, it became painfully clear to their owners, and much more painfully clear to Margot, that they all either hated each other or loved each other.

In various rooms or corners, on various counter tops, behind various chairs and sofas, under various beds—they hurled themselves hissing and spitting and clawing and tearing and ripping and spewing and yowling.

Or, in much these same areas, they made passionate love, assuming positions and postures that Nina, accustomed only to the celibate life lived by the confirmed bachelor Furl, would never have thought conceivable, except that she saw an example of it taking place just in front of the refrigerator when she went into the kitchen looking for Margot.

The same Margot who, at just that moment, happened to be coming out of the dining room.

Both of the women stared at the spectacle for a time.

“Would you look at that?” asked Nina, quietly.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“It’s kind of educational though.”

“What?”

“I mean, it’s kind of like watching the nature channel. I really would never have thought––”

“Do you know this is going on all over the house?”

“In just this same way? I mean, with the same––”

“I DON’T KNOW, NINA! I’M NOT TAKING NOTES!”

“I’m sorry.”

Margot was silent for a time.

They both were silent for the amount of time necessary for Hecubah and Driscoll (the two enamored animals in question) to consummate their relationship and wander woozily off in opposite directions, purring quietly and licking themselves.

“We are,” Margot said, when it was possible to speak again, “going to have to have the whole place sanitized. Top to bottom.”

“Well. You’ll be able to afford it.”

“It’s not worth it. All the money in the world wouldn’t be worth it. Just the cat hair alone––”

“I know. I’m a cat owner.”

“You own
one
cat!
One
! I’ve been sneezing ever since I got up this morning! And last night—it was three in the morning, actually—two of them got into my room!”

“Were they friends or enemies?”

Margot shook her head:

“I’m not sure. I was half asleep, it was all so dream-like. But they broke a lamp.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to be sorrier. I have a kind of difficult job for you; but you’re the only one I can trust to do it.”

“Is the litter gone? Because I’m not…”

“No, it’s worse.”

Nina was silent for a time, contemplating how this might be possible.
 

Finally she asked:

“What do you want me to do?”

“We’re serving breakfast, you know.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Take Garth Amboise his food.”

“No.”

“Someone has to do it. He refuses to eat with the other writers.”

“No.”

“I can’t trust any of the staff.”

“No, I hate him.”

“And
I
can’t do it.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Nina, you know me. You know my temper. And you know how strong I am. I’d strangle him to death and then I’d rub grits in his hair.”

“I have a temper too!”

“But you’re weak! You’re little and weak! He’d have at least a fifty-fifty chance against you!”

“So you’re saying I can’t kill him?”

“I’d really rather you didn’t.”

To this Nina had no answer.

She merely waited a while until Margot finally said:

“Listen:
 
you’ve got to do this. I’ll send someone up with you, one of the boys. No, two of the boys. One can carry the platter of food and the other can carry the box of stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“All kinds of stuff has been coming in from publishers. Sweatshirts that say AGCW on them; commemorative plaques; there are even matching pendants and cat-collar attachments.”

“There are what?”

“Little necklaces that go around your neck, and that have a gold charm or something that has AGCW engraved on them. Then there are cat collars to match with the same charms on them.”

“And the publishers are contributing these gifts why?”

“Bribes.”

“I don’t understand.”

“For post publication.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“It’s the HBO thing, Nina.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“Well, yes, I suppose you’re right there. But anyway, once the TV series is made, every publisher and his dog…”

“––or cat.”

“––or cat, is going to want to come out with a series of books based on the character. The writer will almost certainly get to choose who gets to publish the books. So all the publishing houses that put out cozies are trying to win loyalty. Anyway, there’s like a Christmas tree of presents for every writer, and you might as well take Amboise his when you go up.”

“All right. I’ll do it, but I won’t like it.”

“Then, when you get back down, there’s something else you have to help me do.”

“What is it?”

“Somehow Harriet Crossman found out that Molly Badger is still here.”

“How did she find that out?”

“I don’t know. But she did, and she called me an hour ago. She’s fit to be tied.”

“What can I do about this?”

“Talk to her with me.”

“Why?”

“You’re a calming influence.”

Nina looked at her for a time, then said:

“I’m boring, you mean.”

“I did not mean that.”

“What else is ‘a calming influence’ then?”

“I don’t know, I just––”

“All right all right. Just point me in the direction of that, that––person of low esteem’s room. I’ll go up and wait outside the door until the boys arrive with the rest of the cr––stuff.”

“All right. Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

“WILL YOU STOP SAYING THAT?”

“Well, there is.”

“What is it?”

“Sylvia Duncan, the HBO representative.”

“God, you mean.”

“Goddess.”

“Whatever.”

“She’s going to arrive around ten thirty. The first AGCW business session will last until ten. Then there will be a break, and we’ll all be out in the yard to meet her limo when it arrives.”

“And then everyone will surround her and kiss––”

“The ground she walks upon.”

“That wasn’t what I was about to say.”

“I know what you were about to say, Nina. And shame on you for even thinking it.”

“I’ve been around a lot of bad influences. So where do I go?”

“Up those stairs, turn left, and go two doors down. It’s room 284.”

“All right. And by the way––”

“Yes?”

“How are the Hersheys?”

Margot merely shook her head:

“Showed up bright and early this morning, first in line for breakfast, smiling, patting everybody on the back. Matching plaid shirts. I talked to Harriet Crossman about them. It seems it’s common knowledge among cozy writers. They fight like cats and dogs when they’re actually in the process of writing; but once the book is finished they’re proud as punch of each other. Each one believes the other is as talented as Shakespeare. They can’t stop heaping praise on each other.”

“That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“Don’t even think it. Now good luck with Amboise.”

So saying, Margot turned and walked away, sneezing as she did so.

In five minutes, Nina found herself standing just outside of Garth Amboise’ room.

She held a breakfast platter.

At her feet was a second silver platter, this one with a pitcher of steaming coffee on it.

Beside this platter was a cardboard box, approximately three feet high that held the presents Margot had mentioned.

These things had been left behind by the two boys, one of whom had asked Nina:

“Do you want us to stay?”

“No.”

“We can, if you need us.”

“You’re minors. You don’t need to see this.”

“You’re sure?”

“You have fine and productive lives ahead of you. Go now and live them.”

The boys disappeared down the corridor.

Nina knocked on the door.

Silence.

No response from inside the room.

She knocked again.

A few sounds.

She waited, then knocked again.

Footsteps approaching the door.

She could run.

She could leave the damned presents and the damned food and the damned pitcher of coffee and just run.

But at that time she heard a key rattle in the lock.

The door opened.