Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) (27 page)

“That’s all right, I can visualize it.”

“Anyway, when she wins the contest, she’ll be wearing an Akris Punto guitar print silk tunic. But later on, she’ll change into––”

“You know, Suzy, maybe you shouldn’t tell me.”

Suzy Maples smiled.

“I understand. The suspense. You don’t want me to ruin the suspense.”

“That’s it! I can just imagine sitting in my little bungalow, Furl the Cat curled up on my lap, watching Jennifer––”

“Jenn.”

“––Jenn changing from one outfit into another––”

“And you’ll be able to say to yourself, ‘This is all happening because of me.’ How is that going to feel, Ms. Bannister?”

“I can’t tell you. I really can’t begin to tell you.”

“Ooooh, I was dreading coming to talk to you. But now I feel much better.”

“Glad I could help.”

“Are you going to be downstairs tonight when the big announcement is made?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. And I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed for you!”

“Thank you! Thank you so much!”

And, so saying, Suzy Maples rose and left the room.

To be followed, in precisely five minutes––

(How did they all manage to keep showing up in perfect five-minute intervals, as though they were German trains?)

––by Pat and Jim Hershey.

They knocked, she told them to come in, they did, they all went to the table.

And again and again and again and––

What if, once these two left, she just threw herself out the window and ended it all?

How high was this window?

She looked.

Probably not high enough.

And there were bushes down there to break her fall.

And it was raining, so she would get wet.

Better to just endure.

“We hope––”

“––that we’re not disturbing––”

“––you but we wanted to tell––”

“––you how sorry we––”

“––are that you’re suspected of murdering Mr.––”

“Amboise.”

Pause.

“Thank you so much for being concerned.”

“That’s––”

“––all––”

“––right.”

Amazing,
she thought,
how they could do that
.

And those plaid shirts.

And those dazzling smiles.

“We thought it might help you to know that––”

“––we’ve come up with a theory of the––”

“crime. And we thought you might like to hear––”

“––it.”

“Sure.”

They both sat forward on their chairs.

“Pat, do you want to start?”

“Of course, Jim. Okay. We think it had to have been done by one of the cozy cat writers. We know this sounds crazy, but––well, what if some woman here actually was having an affair with him? What would you say to that?”

“I’d be shocked,” said Nina, wondering for a time if she was the only woman at The Candles who was
not
having an affair with Garth Amboise.

“Of course, you would. Because you don’t think the way mystery writers do.”

“That is so true.”

“But––well, Jim, you go on and tell her the rest.”

“Sure, honey. Well, the way we see it, this mystery woman arrives in Amboise’ room around 6 a. m.”

Pat Hershey interrupted him:

“Five, darling. We said five.”

He shook his head impatiently:

“No, six. Five would have been too early.”

“Why would it have been too early?”

“It’s still
dark
at five, anybody knows that.”

“Dark or not,” she asked, “what difference would it have made? And also, at six the household staff would have been up and running around the corridors.”

“And you know this how?”

She stood up and raised her arms above her head.

Her voice was getting louder now.

“I know it because anybody with any common sense would know it; what’s the damned matter with you were you raised in the wild?”

“I was
raised
, if you have to know, in a home where people made
sense
when they talked to one another!”

“Listen, if you’re implying that I––”

Nina cleared her throat.
       

“Ahem! Listen, it probably doesn’t matter so much about the exact time. At least not right now. If you could go over the basic theory. As it happens, I may know a couple of details that may be relevant.”

“Of course, of course,” said Jim Hershey, nodding. “All right. Then the basic problem that any good sleuth has to figure out, is how the killer got out of the room, since the door was locked from the inside when the maid arrived to find the body.”

His wife stared at him for a time.

Then:

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“The door, the one that was locked from the inside.”

“It wasn’t locked from the inside!”

“It most certainly was! That’s why it’s a locked-door-mystery!”

“The door was unlocked, you ninny! That’s how the maid got in to find the damned body!”

“She got in by the window!” shouted Jim.

He stood up.

So did his wife.

They were glaring at each other now.

Pat Hershey spoke quietly, her eyes squinting, her lips tightly sealed together.

“We were in that room together this very morning.”

“And there was a window.”

“There was no window.”
     

“Then how
did
the stupid killer get in?”

“By the secret tunnel!”

“The what?”

“The secret tunnel, Pat! We agreed not more than fifteen minutes ago that he got in by the secret tunnel!”

“I
never
agreed to that ridiculous notion!”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire, you
did
! You didn’t want to at first because you don’t have enough imagination to conceive of something like that!”

“A secret tunnel! How much frigging imagination does it take to conceive of a secret tunnel?”

“More than
you’ve
got!”

Nina tried to speak:

“I don’t think there could be a––”

But she was cut off.

“You’re not thinking, Jim, about what we actually agreed about not more than an hour ago; you’re just spewing out those ridiculous ideas you had about how to write
The Jaded Juggernaut.”

“All right then, if you’re so smart, what did we actually agree on?”

“The woman arrived at five––”

“Six.”

“FIVE DAMMIT OR SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN SEEN!”

“And what do you mean a woman? We said a man!”

“I never said that! How could it have been a man?”

“Because Amboise was gay!”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s what you agreed to!”

“I was mocking you! I was saying, ‘Oh, sure, Garth Amboise was gay, right’! Like, didn’t you hear the irony in my voice? And besides that, there aren’t that many men here!”

“There’s me!”

“Sometimes I wonder about that!”

“What are you trying to say? Are you trying to say that I’m gay?”

“Well, Buster, if the slipper fits…”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!”

“YOU WANNA MAKE ME!”

“I think,” Nina said, “if we could just get back to––”

But Pat Hershey had moved to the writing desk now, and was holding the neck of a porcelain vase.

Jim bellowed at her:

“So is that supposed to scare me or something?”

“IT’S SUPPOSED TO DO MORE THAN THAT, AUTHOR BOY!”

So saying, she hurled the vase, which missed her husband’s head by inches and shattered on the wall behind him.

He laughed:

“Well, that’s one murder method that clearly won’t work! Just like all of your others!”

“You want me to find one that will?”

“You wonder what I want you to do?”

“Oh, yes, I’m dying to know what you want me to do!”

“ALL RIGHT THEN! I WANT YOU TO––”

The door burst open at that point and Margot stepped in.

“What’s going on here? I was just coming up to check on Nina.”

“The Hersheys,” said Nina, “were writing together. They were telling me how the murder might have taken place. But somehow a vase got broken.”

“It’s a part,” said Pat, quietly, “of––”

Nina finished the sentence:

“––of the writing process, I know.”

Silence for a time.

Finally Margot said to Nina:

“Did you get a good nap?”

To which Nina answered:

“Shut up.”

And then they all went down to dinner.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
 
THE SINGING OF THE MUSE

Nina’s mind was whirling as she began to follow Margot and the Hersheys down the stairs, as they all headed for dinner.

Two women had made love to Garth Amboise last night. Both were passionately in love with him. Both had been cast aside by him.

Both admitted these things.

Yet both denied having done the deed.

Still, if either had––

“Ms. Bannister?”

This from a rosy-cheeked young staff worker who was standing before her on the stairwell.

“Are you Ms. Nina Bannister?”

She thought hard about denying it but finally said:

“Yes, I am.”

“The policeman, Officer Thompson.”

“What about him?”

“He wants to see you in room 314.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. But he says it’s important.”

“All right.”

The boy left and Nina climbed another flight of stairs.

In two minutes, she was knocking on the door of room 314, wondering whose room it was and what connection James Thompson might have to do with it. She was ready to knock, but her thoughts must have been audible from inside the room, because a voice said:

“Please do come in, my dear. The door is unlocked.”

She pushed the door opened and entered a shrine.

The lights were down, incense was burning, and a small statue, perhaps a foot in height, had been placed in the center of the room and was surrounded by flowers.

“May I introduce you to the goddess Athena, Ms. Bannister? The two of you have much in common, especially in the area of wisdom.”

This from Professor Brighton Dunbury, who, looking much as he had this morning at the pond, gestured toward a floral-covered easy chair.

“Please do sit down. You know Officer Thompson, I believe.”

“Yes, of course.”

Thompson was seated on a couch, Dunbury in a straight chair.

A coffee table sat between them and the chair Nina sat in.

It was on this small table that the incense burner sat.

“I asked the officer to come to my room, Ms. Bannister, because Athena and I have something to say to him. A tale to tell, as it were. Athena, as we learn from Book 13 of
The Odyssey
, is of all the gods and goddesses the best at the weaving of tales. But after he arrived, I thought it better to restrain myself until you came, too. I heard, you see, of the vile accusation that had been leveled against you—the theory that you had murdered Mr. Amboise.”

“But I didn’t––”

James Thompson interrupted her:

“That’s all right, Ms. Bannister. Let’s hear what Professor Dunbury has to say.”

The professor smiled:

“Thank you, Officer. Well, it’s rather straightforward, really. The fact is, Ms. Bannister could not have murdered the unfortunate Mr.
 
Amboise.”

“And you know this how?”

“I know it because I murdered him.”

Shocked silence in the room.

Nina could hear the sound of her own breathing, and a soft hiss as the spray of incense floated upward.

“
You
murdered him?”

A nod.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. This morning at precisely ten fifteen.”

“And what did you use to do this murder?”

“The same knife that I use for gutting fish. I simply—well, gutted him. As I’m certain the people at your headquarters have now ascertained. He was, you will admit, deeply cut.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“A veterinarian learns many things about how to inflict wounds. I simply used my expertise.”

“And why did you commit this crime?”

“Oh, the oldest motive in the world. Jealousy. He was making love to Harriet Crossman, you see. Had just finished the act.”

“How,” asked Nina, “did you know that she had come up to his room at just that time? Surely she wouldn’t have told you.”

A shake of the head.

“The purest coincidence. I’d come up to his room to murder him. The fact that I saw her leaving only made it easier, more enjoyable.”

“You enjoyed doing this thing?” asked Thompson.

A smile:

“Oh, eminently! After Harriet had left the room, I waited for a short time and then knocked. He shouted that I was to come in, thinking, I suppose that I was one of the staff and that I’d come to tell him it was time for his interview with Ms. Duncan. He was, I believe, first on her list to be spoken with.”

“That’s true,” said Thompson. “We know that. Go on.”

“And so I walked into the room. He looked at me with complete disdain and asked me what I wanted. I told him I wanted him to stop making love with Harriet Crossman; that she was much too elegant a woman for the likes of him—she comes from quite a wealthy and educated Boston background, you know, whereas he comes from nothing at all, except a wellspring of pure vanity. Well, at any rate I think he was astonished for a moment or so. Then he sneered. I remember him lying there on the bed, quite dressed and ready for the day, his watch, his jewelry, even the little gold AGCW hung around his neck—lying there and sneering. He asked me what his dealings with Harriet Crossman could possibly have with me, and I told him that the lady and I had been lovers. In my mind were still lovers, and would always be.”

Thompson:

“And then, Professor?”

“Then he laughed. Uproariously. The laughter began as a snicker and simply cascaded. Oh, it was quite unbearable, I assure you. At some points during his bellowing and guffawing, he managed to call me an old man, and impotent, and ready for nothing save a nursing home.”

Silence for a time.

Then:

“At a certain point, I reached slowly into my jacket pocket. I could see him watching my hand. I suppose he expected me to extract something of sentimental value, an old photograph perhaps. At any rate, what I did extract was the fishing knife. Then I simply lunged. The first thrust carried deep into his heart. He was, I’m certain, quite dead instantly. I still remember the look of astonishment in his eyes. I’m not sure why I went on thrusting, and jabbing, and cutting. I suppose I was quite mad. The whole thing happened so quickly that he had no time to scream. But at any rate, after a minute or so it was done. Even though I’m in excellent condition for a man my age—all the hiking and camping you know—I was still quite out of breath. I sat there for a while, gaining my composure. Then I put the knife back in my pocket, went back to my room, and changed my clothes. There is a fireplace in my room, an elegant, even somewhat gentle touch. I succeeded in building a small fire with kindling that had been thoughtfully left there for the coming cold days of winter. In this fire, I burned the clothes I’d been wearing, and which were quite thoroughly soaked with blood. Then I went down to join the meeting. And I heard the announcement.”

A pause, then:

“And that, my dear Officer, and my dear Ms. Bannister, is all there is.”

Thompson stared at him for a time, as did Nina.

Finally Thompson said:

“That’s a very convincing story, Professor Dunbury.”

“The truth always is.”

Thompson pursed his lips, looked down at his hands, and said, quietly:

“Yes. And when we finally learn the truth about this murder, I expect that it will be convincing, too.”

Dunbury:

“I beg your pardon?”

“The truth, Professor.”

“Why, I’ve just told it to you!”

“No. No, what you’ve done is weave a tale. Like you said your goddess there—what’s her name?”

“Athena.”

“Yeah, that. Like you said she was so good at doing. You’ve told a very detailed, very dramatic—pack of lies.”

The professor simply stared for a time, then said:

“That is, of course, what Odysseus does upon his return to Ithaca. Interrogated concerning his origins, he lies splendidly. A wonderful story concerning murders and hatreds long past. None of it true. But the goddess overhears it and is delighted. Wisdom, tale weaving and lying are, to her, one and the same.”

“And you lied so beautifully because you were afraid Ms. Bannister might be accused of the crime.”

“Well, she was accused! I was there! I heard her being accused!”

“Ms. Bannister didn’t commit this murder, Professor. And neither did you.”

“And how may I ask—at least in my case—can you be so sure? What part of my story does not hold true, what part of the cloak that I have woven does not bear wearing?”

“Your cloak was fine, and your story would have been believable. Except for one thing. One thing I just learned from the Coroner’s report, which was just faxed to me an hour ago.”

“And that fact was?”

“The saliva.”

Both Nina and Dunbury leaned forward.

It was she who asked:

“Saliva?”

“Yes, the saliva in his wounds.”

“Something bit him?”

Thompson nodded:

“Yes, ripped him apart, actually.”

They sat in stunned silence, while Thompson merely nodded, slowly, and said:

“I don’t know what killed Garth Amboise. But it wasn’t human.”