Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) (29 page)

There was a good deal of shouting in the room now as tension increased, and more hard objects––chicken wings, biscuits, oranges––were hurled seemingly at random targets.

“I told you,” Margot hissed at one her staff members, “not to serve any more biscuits. Or chicken parts for that matter!”

The woman, obviously flustered, could only shake her head:

“We didn’t at first. But they were throwing mashed potatoes.”

Finally Margot was able to buttonhole Harriet Crossman, who was watching intently the scene before her:

“Harriet, can’t you stop this?”

Harriet merely turned and looked at her, saying:

“Stop what?”

“Stop what’s going on out there in my dining room!”

A shrug:

“Obviously, you’ve never seen a literary conference before.”

“But the food?”

“It’s not bad. We’ve had worse, although there have been numerous complaints about the fried okra.”

“No, no, I mean
throwing
the food!”

“What about it?”

“Can’t you make them stop it?”

Harriet Crossman thought about this for a time and finally said, quietly:

“I don’t know. It’s become such a tradition––”

“This is insanity.”

But, after what seemed an eternity, dinner did actually end.

And it was time for the big announcement.

Nina and Margot were standing in the back of the room, as Harriet Crossman took the podium:

“Well we’ve had another splendid meal!”

“DOWN WITH THE OKRA!”

“NO MORE GRITS!”

“Now, now, other cultures other customs. But that’s not the important thing now. The important thing now is the announcement that we’ve all been waiting for. The announcement that will serve as a kind of crowning star to our guild, and a vehicle to fame and fortune for one of our members. Ms. Sylvia Duncan of Los Angeles, as you know, has been conducting intensive interviews with each of you for the entire day. It was, of course, rather unfortunate that this work, as well as the other vital work that The Guild must deal with, had to be interrupted by the murder of Mr. Amboise. But we did not let that stop us. We marched on like troopers, and we will continue to do so until the conference officially ends in two days. Whatever remains, though, will be somehow anti-climactic. For the highlight of our gathering is before us now, at this moment. For a new Jessica is ready to be born—and I have the honor to introduce to you—Ms. Sylvia Duncan!”

Thunderous applause.

All writers on their feet, many of them holding cats high in the air now, so that the small animals could be visible to Sylvia Duncan, who, smiling, was taking her place before the microphone.

Finally, the bedlam died sufficiently for her to begin:

“I want to thank all of you, and, of course, all of your cats––”

HA HA HA!
 
HA HA HA!

“For what has been an immensely enjoyable day for me. I’ve gotten to know so many people, both real and fictional. But you are all such fine authors that it’s the fictional ones who stand out to me. And such a variety, a diversity, of characters! The whole of humanity is shown in your work and in your settings! Retired librarians, retired eighth-grade school teachers, retired high school teachers, retired nurses, retired dental technicians, retired housewives—and all of them working in places so different as a quaint seaside village of one thousand in lower Maine, and a quaint village of almost three thousand in northern Massachusetts. My mind, I must tell you, is spinning.”

“BUT WHO’S THE WINNER!”

“WHO IS THE NEXT JESSICA?”

And of course the refrain:

“I AM JESSICA!”

“I AM JESSICA!”

“I AM JESSICA!”

But Sylvia Duncan merely raised her hands high over her head, and, laughing, continued:

“It may well be that several of you will become as well known as the creator of Jessica Fletcher. I fully expect our new HBO series to be wildly successful, and to spawn progeny!”

“UP WITH PROGENY!”

“HUZZAH FOR THE PROGENY!”

More from Sylvia:

“But, of course, all of this depends on our beginning. It depends on our choosing as our first cozy heroine a genuinely riveting character; a character who will make small retired old ladies around the world say, ‘I can solve murders, too! I live in a quaint little ocean-side town and I’m smarter than our bungling police chief—bring on the next not too violent murderer—AND LET ME AT HIM!”

“YES! YES!”

“BRAVO FOR SYLVIA!”

“BRAVO FOR HBO!”

“BRING ON NOT-TOO-VIOLENT MURDERERS!”

“BRING ON THE BUMBLING POLICE OFFICERS!”

Another calming wave from Sylvia, who was actually beaming now, and whose radiant smile would have eclipsed that of Jessica Fletcher behind her, had that smile not been fifty times larger than hers.

“And so, dear ladies—and two surviving gentlemen—we shall bring them on! But first, we must bring on someone else. Someone who has created a truly spellbinding character! Someone who will blaze the trail of glory for all of you!”

“WHO IS IT?”

“WHO IS THE CHOSEN ONE?”

“TELL US! TELL US! TELL US! TELL US!”

“And so I shall! Esteemed members of The Guild of American Cozy Writers, the heroine of our new HBO series—is Ms. Nina Bannister!”

Complete silence in the room, which, for an instant at least, resembled the House of Wax.

Finally, several voices blended together and asked the same question:

“Who?”

“Ms. Nina Bannister!”

A pause.

Then Sylvia continued:

“I, as many of you I’m sure, are already aware of Ms. Bannister through her political activities and her creation of the nationally acclaimed Lissie Party. But after hearing of her exploits for the past months and years, her success in saving her home town of Bay St. Lucy from huge gambling and tourist interests, her role in protecting the entire Gulf Coast from eco-terrorists, her adventures in Austria and Washington––”

There were more voices now, and the writers had gotten to their feet:

“Austria?”

“Washington?”

“Those aren’t cozy places!”

“And who is this woman, anyway?”

“She isn’t one of us!”
          

“She’s not even a writer!”

The coziests, outraged, had split into two groups now, one advancing toward Sylvia at the podium, and the other advancing toward Nina and Margot.

All of them were shouting.

To Nina:

“What qualifies you, of all people, even to
be
a cozy writer?”

Nina knew nothing to say.

She looked quickly behind her; there was no place to hide, no place to escape to.

“Come on, tell us! What qualifies you to be a cozy writer?”

“Well, I do have,” she said, quietly, timidly, haltingly, “a cat. His name is Furl. He––”

But she was interrupted by shouts directed at Sylvia on the other side of the room.

“Who’s going to write the scripts for the TV shows?”

“We’ve got the plots already, from Ms. Bannister’s own real life exploits. As for the dialogue and description, we’ll probably just hire Hollywood ghost writers.”

This was precisely the wrong thing to say.

“GHOST WRITERS!”

“WHAT?”

“ARE YOU CRAZY?”

On the other side of the room, the group shouting at Nina had surrounded her and was closing in.

“Where do you live, anyway?”

She thought about lying, and saying:

‘A little village on the Massachusetts coastline.’

But she did not.

Probably because she did not know the names of any little villages on the Massachusetts coastline.

Instead she answered:

“Mississippi.”

Realizing how stupid that was, even as she said it.

The crowd reacted as though they were a small fire upon whom gasoline had been poured.

WHOOOSH!

“Mississippi! That’s the WORST possible place for a cozy!”

A small voice did pipe up from the middle of the mob, saying:

“Well, except maybe for Arkansas.”

But the blaze continued to roar, gaining in intensity and hatred:

“WHO ARE THE ECCENTRIC LOVABLE CHARACTERS WHO LIVE AROUND YOU?”

Desperately—for the ring of people around her had tightened, so that they were only a foot or so away—Nina pointed at Margot and said:

“Her!”

But this only made things worse, and the group continued to howl and scream:

“SHE’S NO MORE A COZY CHARACTER THAN YOU ARE!”

“FRAUDS!”

“NON-COZIES!”

“SEND THEM HOME TO MISSISSIPPI!”

“DOWN WITH THE LISSIES! DOWN WITH FURL!”

On the other side of the dining hall, Sylvia, who’d obviously not expected the degree of vindictiveness occasioned by her announcement, was trying to enlarge upon her vision:

“You see, we’ll make each of the episodes be some kind of ‘Change.’ The first will be
Sea Change
; then the one in which she solves the actor’s murder will be
Set Change
, because it has to do with the theater; then, when Nina goes back to teaching and becomes the women’s basketball coach, the episode can be
Game Change
. Then––”

But these plans only worsened the rage and drew the crowd, which now was acting like a lynch mob, in closer:

“THOSE ARE THE STUPIDEST COZY TITLES I’VE EVER HEARD!”

“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO PUT ON THE BOOK COVERS? THE BACK OF HER HEAD?”

Sylvia was growing desperate now, and Nina could see the look of terror in her eyes, as though she were a deer surrounded by savage wolves.

“But, but, listen, people will like the stories, I promise you, and we won’t have to actually
go
to Mississippi to shoot the episodes, and, and––”

“STOP!”

Suddenly there was silence in the dining room.

One of Margot’s staff was standing in the doorway, a horrified look on her face.