Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) (25 page)

––and that was the end of one bottle of wine.

The ashtray was beginning to fill up.

The storm raged outside.

Nina and Sylvia and Margot simply sat in the smoky and leather-colored library, surrounded by the friends that were old and musty books, sipping the old and musty wine, and, improbably, narrating their own lives as though it were a stormy night in the English countryside, and old Faversham was telling his favorite ghost story.

Next to come was Margot.

She described the youth of a privileged child, the years in private schools, the summers spent in Europe––

––and all of this took about a minute and a half.

Then her real life began.
      

It began at Berkeley, of course, and in the mid- sixties.

It began with the first protest marches, the rock concerts, the drugs, the arrests, the fervent hatred of authorities; then the affairs with various musicians, the harder drugs, the nights spent in jail, the visits by horrified parents, the decision to leave school, the decision to paint, the move to New York City, the loft apartment, the first wave of lovers, the second wave of lovers––

––and finally the first job at The Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Then the job at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

Then better and better jobs at the same museum, all of which Margot described with the brevity and casualness with which she’d talked of her youth.

Making Nina realize that her old friend, with all her ability and brilliance, would––if given a choice––still have preferred being transferred back in time, to the streets of Haight-Ashbury and the backs of vans painted with ‘Get Out of Viet Nam’ logos and the pot-reeking acres that were to house Woodstock.

And all that took a second bottle of wine.

None of them had a clear idea of what time it was.

Late afternoon, probably.

Dinner would have to be prepared, but, of course, dinner was being prepared.

Everything that was supposed to be done was being done.

And so it became Nina’s turn.

And since she was now living
The Wizard of Oz
, she had no choice but to admit who she really was.

She was not really Toto.

Furl was Toto.

No, she was Dorothy.

She lived on a farm with Auntie Em and her uncle and some hired men and a dog.

She had the most uneventful, middle class, perfectly prim and proper childhood that anyone could ever have imagined.

She told briefly of Frank, of meeting him in high school, of their marriage, of her first years teaching, and then more years teaching, and Frank’s growing career as an attorney in Bay St. Lucy, of weekly bridge games with friends–

––and just as she was about to say, ‘There’s nothing more to say,” Margot brought up Eve Ivory and the tale of the Robinson Mansion.

Well, yes, of course there was that.

Three bottles of wine was too much.

That would mean each of them would have drunk a whole bottle apiece.

Can’t have that.

But maybe one glass out of the third bottle––

Which she accepted.

Then Margot brought up Helen Reddington and the Fabulous New York
Hamlet
production in little old Bay St. Lucy, and all of the things that had happened with that.

Well, yes, there was all of that.

Which Nina described in as much detail as she was able to remember.

But that did lead, of course, to the tales of Nina as basketball coach. And April van Osdale and the strange Max Lirpa and what had happened to the two of them.

Which Nina also described in as much detail as she was able to remember.

But that led to the tale of Aquatica, the huge off-shore oil drilling rig.

And Nina’s role in saving the Gulf Coast of the United States.

Of this story there was simply too much detail to remember.

But she did what she could.

Not another glass.

Oh, all right.

And then there were the adventures in international art smuggling.

She had to talk a bit about those.

And the wonderful city of Graz.

And, of course, Carol Walker.

Where, she wondered, was Carol now?

Still on her estate, still watching the flowers dance on the Monet?

But then something had to be said about Washington. And about the Lissie movement.

And, of course, it was.

And then the third bottle was empty!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
 
AND THE KILLER IS––

Five p.m. found her in her room.

She needed a nap.

She had needed a nap two hours earlier, but then there had been that letter from Molly Badger, and the ride into Abbeyport, and the strange interview.

Then she’d been accused of murdering Garth Amboise.

Then she’d gotten high on red wine with Sylvia and Margot––

––always something or other.

But now she was alone and exhausted, and there was nothing to prevent her from hurling herself, sweatshirt and jean-clad as she was, like a sack of wet cement on the wondrously thick bed comforter that subsumed her like a warm flannel bath.

There was nothing at all that could bother her now.

The storm raging outside.

The ticking of the standing clock.

THERE WAS NOTHING TO STOP HER FROM TAKING A NAP!

Except the knock on the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

For an instant she simply closed her eyes yet more tightly.

It would go away, wouldn’t it?

It was a dream.

Who would be outside her door? Who would be responsible for the sounds that kept coming.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It would not go away.

So she flipped over, sat up, stared at the doorway, stared through the doorway, and said in telepathy:

“Go and hang yourself. Go and throw yourself into the sea.”

Hoping that the mental messages would penetrate wood, penetrate flesh, penetrate bone––

––death.

This did not happen.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She would have to use a real voice.

This voice would say something so vicious, so cutting, so terrifying, that it would destroy whoever was standing out there.

And so she said:

“Yes?”

In a kind of lilting way that Nina had.

An answer came.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Bannister. May I come in?”

No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no No no no no no no no…

“Of course!”

And the door opened.

It was Harriet Crossman.

“I’ve disturbed your rest.”

Well duuuuh!

“Not at all.”

“I can come back later.”

“No, this is fine. Come in. Sit down.”

“If you’re sure––”

“Of course. I’ll join you. We can sit at that desk over by the window.”

And, after a moment or so, that is where they found themselves.

By the window and not by the bed.

Which had been so wonderful, so delicious.

But here she was, sitting in a chair, listening to Harriet Crossman say:

“I wanted to apologize for this afternoon.”

“For what?”

“Your being accused of murder.”

“Oh, posh. I’m always being accused of murder. Don’t think anything about it.”

“Our members have such fertile imaginations.”

“Well, that’s one word for your members’ imaginations.”

“I know quite well you did not go into Garth Amboise’ room this morning and have mad, stinking sex.”

“Thank you.”

“Because I know who did.”

The storm.

The clock.

Two cats made their way in from one corner of the room, fought viciously for a few seconds of hissing and spewing and clawing and biting, then left through the small trap door on the other side of the room.

“What?”

“I know who had mad, stinking sex with Garth Amboise.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“You!”

“Yes.”

Well, what do you know about that?

Harriet Crossman.

The same person who had, lo these many years, been going to bed with Professor Brighton Dunbury.

The woman,
Nina found herself thinking,
is a gerbil
.

“It was, in fact, almost exactly as Rebeccah Thornwhipple described it. I went up to his room between the end of breakfast and the beginning of the first session. I knew it would probably be no help because…well, some months ago, Garth had made up his mind. I was simply too old for him.”

Be quiet, Stupid Nina
, Smart Nina said to Stupid Nina.

“How did you meet him in the first place?” Stupid Nina asked, refusing the advice.

A shrug.

“In New York City, actually. Garth was there to accept some award or other. He was always winning awards, you know.”

“I saw his resume.”

“Yes. He has a splendid resume. It’s such a beautiful thing. I fell in love with his resume, even before I ever came to know him. I have a copy of it, in my bedroom. I shall always keep it, along with a lock of his hair.”

“Well, they can’t take that away from you. Either of those things, actually.”

“No. And I told myself that no one could take Garth, either. And no one could take him away from me. Except for Garth himself though. And he did. So I went to his room. And I threw myself at him. Gave myself to him, one last time. And do you know what?”

“No what?”

“He laughed at me.”

“Son of a ….”

She hesitated, then said:

“… gun.”

Harriet Crossman was obviously on the verge of tears.

“I was enraged. I’ve never hated another human being so intensely in my life.”

Nina hardly knew how to phrase the next question.

She simply knew that it had to be phrased.

“So, did you…”

The woman looked at her in a puzzled way for an instant, then recoiled in horror:

‘Oh, no! No, no, a thousand times no! I may have hated Garth at that moment, but I would never have murdered him. Even now, when I think of all that blood—that someone could have done that to him…”

Okay
, said Nina to herself,
so you didn’t kill him. Good. Why are you telling me all of this?

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

So, that question answered.

“It’s just that I feel I can trust you. You’re a kind of…”

If you say ‘comforting presence,’ I’ll barf.
     

“…a kind of comforting presence.”

“You’re so kind to say that!”

“It’s true, my dear. Already I feel so much better for telling someone about this.”

“I’m glad that I can help.”

“You are a help. A great help. Just to listen the way you do. I hope Officer Thompson is as good a listener, when I tell him my story.”

“Are you sure you have to tell him?”

“Yes. Now or later. You see, I’m certain my fingerprints are all over the bed frame.”

“Why would your fingerprints be all over the…”

“Don’t go into it.”

“Sorry.”

Once again Nina found herself thinking:

Gerbils.

“And so I shall tell him my story. I can only pray he believes it.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. But there is one more thing. One thing that I must tell him, and that he absolutely must believe.”

“What thing?”

Harriet Crossman leaned forward:

“Someone else had been in that room before me!”

I have
, Nina found herself thinking,
an immense respect for Garth Amboise.

Talk about a resume!

“There was a scent, an aroma.”

“Perfume?”

“Yes. Garth would occasionally wear cologne, like when he flew to Paris to receive the Coco Chanel Award for Best First Novel Promoting the Cause of French Fashion. But this was a woman’s scent. Also I found, in the bed, a nail.”

“A fingernail?”

“Yes, a long false nail. And it began to dawn on me:
 
whatever woman had been there earlier in the morning could have come back. And with those nails…”

“You think fingernails could have done that much damage?”

“It depends on the woman. In one of C. R. Robertson’s latest books,
Blood on the Glass Ceiling,
Patty Parity discovers a corporation in which men are being paid higher wages than women, even though they’re doing the same job. She disguises herself as a secretary—long nails, lipstick, you know—succeeds in finding two of the chauvinist board members in a meeting room, and, when they make a pass at her…”

“I think I understand.”

“Now I’m not saying it’s a cozy novel. But it has sold a great many copies.”

“I’m sure.”

“There is talk of Patty Parity being played by Jennifer Anniston.”

A thought appeared in Nina’s mind, and she let it come out:

“Harriet, do you think C. R. Roberts could have been responsible for Garth’s death? I mean, clearly he exploits women. He’s every true feminist’s worst nightmare. She’s very muscular, but perhaps he might have found that attractive.”

Harriet thought for a time:

“It’s possible, but the body was all in one piece.”