Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) (21 page)

Margot shook her head:

“He was torn to pieces.”

“Ma’am?”

“You heard me. He was torn to pieces.”

“What tore him to pieces?”

“A demon,” Nina found herself saying.

The officer stared at both of them, then asked Margot:

“Is she joking?”

But Margot merely shook her head and answered:

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Within thirty minutes, most of the necessary work concerning the crime scene and the mutilated corpse had been taken care of. The body was now on its way to the Abbeyport morgue, and policemen had replaced the cozy writers in Garth Amboise’ room. Whatever
could
be found in the way of fingerprints, murder weapons, ways in and out of the room—evidence of any kind—
would
be found, at least according to James Thompson.

Whom Nina found herself doubting, even as he stood behind the same podium where only a short time ago Harriet Crossman and then Sylvia Duncan had addressed the crowd of cozy writers.

Now he was addressing this same crowd.

“All of you know by now,” he said with a gravelly voice, “that a crime has been committed here in The Candles.”

Of course they know about it,
Nina found herself thinking. They’ve already written the first four chapters of it.

The officer went on:

“One of your colleagues, I believe a Mr. Amboise, has been brutally murdered. We don’t know precisely how he was murdered. But the body was—well, it was mutilated. We don’t have any suspects as of now. Our men are going over Mr. Amboise’ room even as we speak, and whatever evidence is there, we will find it.”

He paused to let this sink in, and he looked carefully at the faces spread across the room before him. Was he thinking this soft and grave pronouncement would force an admission from one of them?

No such admission was forthcoming, and so he went on:

“Given the nature of the crime, and the fact that the killer is obviously still at large—and may still be hiding in or around the plantation house itself––it would seem more prudent, I’m sure you all agree, that this conference be cancelled. We can take all of you into Abbeyport in police vehicles. Our department will work with you to get you all back to Chicago, where I’m told you departed to come down here. Once back in Abbeyport we’ll have to interview each of you and get statements. None of you are suspects as such, but we want to know what you may have seen or heard in the hours before the crime, or whether any of you had talked to Mr. Amboise. It may be possible to get you all on a flight out before tonight. If that is not possible, we will try to find motel space to accommodate you until something goes out tomorrow.”

He paused.

Harriet Crossman, who’d taken a seat in the front row, stood up and spoke:

“Officer, we thank you for your advice, and we appreciate the gravity of your task. But what you ask––and I assume all our coziests are in agreement with me on this point—is quite impossible.”

He stared down at her, then at the other people in the room, all of whom were nodding in agreement with their leader.

“Hear hear!”

“No leaving!
 
No leaving!”

“On with the conference!”

Officer Thomson could only shake his head:

“But Ms. Crossman, this is a crime scene.”

To which she shook her head in return:

“No, Sir. Mr. Amboise’ room is a crime scene.
This
is a hotel.”

“I know, but––”

“When a crime is committed in a hotel, is the hotel closed? The entire hotel? Even if the crime is murder?”

“No, but––but you’re all so isolated out here––”

“Would we be safer in New York City? Is anyone safe in New York City?”

Laughter at this and a few catcalls, a few shouts:

“Down with New York City!”

“Crime capital of the world!”

The officer’s face was flushed now.

He continued, shaking his head:

“But you all must understand, we’re going to have people here, going in and out, running tests—”

“Very well, then run your tests.”

“But ma’am––”

She took a step closer to the podium:

“And there is almost certainly something that you, my dear officer, do not understand. And that is of the utmost importance to this conference. This is not just any literary conference, not ‘Murder or Mayhem’ or ‘Love and Murder,’ or any of those fun gatherings. No. Writing mysteries is not a game to us. Crime-Coziness is our life. Most of us may have had another profession earlier on in our lives, but by now we have almost certainly forgotten what it was, and without our cozies we would have no way at all of making a living in the real world.”

The officer looked around the room, examined the faces of all the conference participants, then nodded reluctantly:

“All right, I can see that. I can believe that. But still––”

“There is vital work to be done here in the following days. Decisions to be made as to which of thousands of manuscripts and digital files may be awarded the coveted AGCW Medallion, signifying membership in our organization; publicity campaigns to plan and co-ordinate; kitten giveaways––”

The officer leaned forward as though he had not understood.

“Kitten giveaways?”

“Yes, most assuredly! Book giveaways stopped working for many of us long ago due to the deluge of self-published books on the market. So most of us have begun giving kittens to anyone who will also agree to take a book. And this requires a
great
deal of work and planning. There are shots to consider, methods of transporting the little animals––but animal husbandry has now become a part of the writing process, and we must all of us accept that.”

“All right, I understand that, too. But still––”

“Still? Yes, then, still. Still there is the question of HBO. A series of interviews is about to take place this afternoon that may determine who is to be the next Jessica Fletcher!”

“The next who?”

“Never mind. Just believe me when I tell you that these interviews may well be worth thousands of dollars in television rights, millions if the series goes to a film version, and billions if it’s picked up by YouTube. These interviews cannot and will not be postponed. Ms. Duncan?”

Sylvia Duncan spoke up:

“Yes?”

“You’re going to be completing your plans for the coming season quite soon I understand?”

“Yes, next month.”

“And if a decision is not made very soon, even in the next few days, on the Cozy project––”

“Then we’ll have to cancel it. At least for the time being.”

A burst of jeering from the crowd:

“Boo! Never!”

“Keep the conference!”

“Out with the police!”

“Keep HBO!”

“
I
am Jessica!”

“No,
I
am Jessica!

“No,
I
am Jessica!”

Harriet Crossman took another step forward and said, almost desperately now:

“You can’t imagine what this means to us, Officer. You have a real profession. You have real criminals to deal with; we have to make ours up. And we have to give away kittens, and––”

“All right, all right, I understand. You do realize that I can make you leave?”

“And do what? Haul away thirty women—well, thirty eight and two men—well, one man now—by force?”

T. J. Wood, who, during the interim while the corpse was being removed, had oiled down her muscular torso and was now gleaming, rose, flexing, and said sternly:

“Try it.”

The officer looked at her only for a moment before he said:

“No. We won’t go locking up defenseless women.”

The body builder stepped into the aisle, moving menacingly toward the podium as she asked:

“What did you say? Locking up
what
kind of women?”

He shook his head, clearly more flustered now, and corrected himself:

“We won’t go locking up individuals who, despite coincidental differences in gender-related preference and diversity of muscular makeup, share equally a keen desire to defend their physical, mental, and emotional well-being.”

He had clearly been forced at some time in his life to take a sensitivity training course.

“Well,” said C.R. Wood, returning to her seat, “that’s better.”

“But, there’s one other thing I’ve got to tell all of you!”

“What is it?” asked Harriet Crossman.

“It has nothing to do with the murder. But it’s a vital issue all the same.”

“What is it?”

The officer was still wary of C.R. Wood. After she’d clearly seated herself and become less of a threat, he said:

“Clarence.”

Uh oh
, thought Nina.

“Clarence.”

“Who is Clarence?”

“Clarence, ma’am, is a hurricane.”

A small voice from somewhere in the middle of the crowd said:

“That’s the most ridiculous name for a hurricane I’ve ever heard.”

The officer nodded but continued:

“That may be, but the storm itself is far from ridiculous. It was first projected to come ashore in Texas, but it’s changed course greatly during the last few hours, and landfall now may be somewhere between Louisiana and Mississippi.”

Bay St. Lucy
, Nina found herself thinking.

My bungalow.

Furl.

But Furl was with Jackson Bennet’s family.

He would be okay.

Was Bay St. Lucy being evacuated?

Nothing to do about it now.

Just wait and see.

“What does this mean,” Harriet Crossman was asking, “for us up here in the north of the state?”

A shake of the head:

“Hard to say. But it could well mean heavy rains, even torrential winds. Possible flooding. Sometimes the storm spawns tornadoes. We’re a good distance from the Gulf but a hurricane is not to be taken lightly. Not even one named Clarence.”

Harriet Crossman to Margot, who was standing next to Nina:

“Ms. Gavin, I’d assume that the plantation has gone through hurricanes before?”