Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) (31 page)

“Maybe,” said Margot, quietly, “you could tell them that.”

Sylvia nodded, resolutely.

“You’re right. I’m going to make one last effort. If they hate me, they hate me.”

“That’s the spirit! I’ll even go with you. Maybe I can help.”

“I would deeply appreciate it.”

“Well, it’s my B&B. I’m responsible for the safety of everyone here. Although I haven’t been doing such a great job so far. Want to come with us, Nina?”

But Nina merely shook her head:

“I don’t think so.”

“Coward.”

Another shake of the head:

“It’s not that.”

“You’re not afraid of them?”

“I’m afraid of something. Just not them. They’re not our problem. Not the biggest one, anyway.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I just––I’ve got to talk to somebody. And here in the library is the best place to do it.”

“Who do you have to talk to?”

“An old friend. One who always helps me.”

“You’re sounding crazy.”

“No. For the first time, I’m sounding something other than crazy. Now go on out there, you two. Do the best you can. I’ll be along in a little bit.”

So saying, she turned and walked farther into the library, while Margot and Sylvia went to face the pack of angry writers.

And so, for a time, she tried to clear her mind.

The sound of the storm.

The sound of the shouting coziests.

The soft, not quite audible but always tangible, muttering of books.

Voices coming from the books.

She walked along the shelves.

Fine books.

Homer.

Shakespeare,

And of course Jane.

Jane Austen.

Her Jessica Fletcher.

“Listen, Nina, listen,” Jane was whispering.

“You always forget. You’re so caught up in the outer turmoil, that you always forget the most important lines of all.”
 

“I know, Jane. Just tell them to me one more time.”

“All right. They’re from
Emma,
of course, my greatest mystery. And they go, ‘A mind lively and at ease can do with seeing nothing. And can see nothing that does not answer.’”

“Yes. Yes, of course. And my lively little mind tends to be at ease when it should be working.”

“Then put it to work, Nina. Put it to work like you always do. Those people out there need you.”

And so saying, Jane Austen’s voice disappeared.

It had to, so that Nina could formulate her own thoughts.

Ask her own questions.

A beast at large in the countryside?

Possible, but not likely.

Nothing about all of this was ‘likely.’

It was all impossible.

Two mutilated bodies.

Perhaps someone could have come in and surprised C. R. Roberts, but that was not likely.

And Garth Amboise?

Still a mystery.

Nothing was making sense.

All right, then—forgetting Janet Evanovich and P. D. James and going right to Sherlock Holmes, eliminate what was impossible.

The trouble was though,
all
of it was impossible.

These murders couldn’t have happened.

And yet they
had
happened.

All right, then if––

She was interrupted by the sound of the library door opening.

“Aha! I find here the next great celebrity! Congratulations, dear lady!”

She turned to see Professor Brighton Dunbury bowing low, his black flop hat almost touching the floor.

He straightened, and, smiling broadly, pronounced:

“So YOU are Jessica!”

She hardly knew what to say.

Finally, she did say:

“That doesn’t seem very important right now.”

“Really? Fame, riches, Hollywood, stardom?”

“No. I keep remembering what you said at the pond this morning.”

“Ah, yes. You mean about the panther.”

“No. About success. How it would keep you from writing.”

“Certainly it would! But that is hardly a problem for you, is it?”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t write! The only person who can ever be sure of avoiding writer’s block is someone who’s never written to begin with!”

She thought about that for a while.

“Well, I suppose––”

Then she thought about other things.

The scene at the pond.

Everything that happened at the pond.

“You seem lost in thought, my dear Ms. Bannister.”

“Yes. I guess I am.”

“Much as I myself am, when I commune with Athena.”

“Yes. Except I have another Athena.”

“And that would be…”

But Nina did not say ‘Jane Austen.’

Because her mind was still at the pond.

A mind lively, working at being not at ease.

“Professor, out at the pond this morning. So much happened.”

“Oh, not so much, actually. We heard the panther--”

“Yes. The panther.”

“And I caught a lovely little sunfish.”

“Yes, there was that, but––but there was something else. Something that we’re forgetting.”

“We talked. I told you of my past. I spoke of Drusilla of Sestos. Of weaving and unweaving.”

“Professor, you know that I’m a literature teacher myself. For years and years.”

“I do know that. You told me. I was delighted to find that I had a colleague!”

“You talked earlier about
The Odyssey
, and about Odysseus, lying.”

“And being loved for it by Athena!”

“Yes, but––I’m thinking about the other group of plays you mentioned. The House of Atreus plays.”

“Ah, yes, wonderful works!” Dunbury shouted. “Clytemnestra murders her husband Agamemnon in his bath! She hacks him to pieces!”

“It seems a little like what’s been going on here.”

“You think one of the lady writers may be a vengeful Clytemnestra?”

“No. No, that’s not quite it,” said Nina. “It’s not that easy. Clytemnestra may have stopped being human for a while—but she didn’t turn into an animal either. Professor, you said the gods order Orestes and his sister Electra to murder their mother Clytemnestra in revenge for their father’s death?”

“Yes, they did. And the pair obeyed their orders. Also in a very bloody fashion!”

“But then they were hounded,” Nina asked, “by the Furies?”

“Yes, precisely. Until Athena herself intervened, and forgave them, and made the Furies harmless.”

“Yes, I remember now. But Professor Dunbury, I don’t think a panther killed those people. I don’t know how I know that. But I do. Something far more deadly killed those people. But it all goes back to the pond. Something else that happened at the pond.”

“But nothing else did happen! Nothing that I remember, anyway!”

“Yes, one other thing happened. The dog, Borg.”

“The plantation dog?”

“That’s the one. You calmed him down, remember?”

“Of course! He’d been upset by the writers some months ago. Poor fellow.”

“You used a device on him.”

“Yes, I did. But surely you don’t think poor Borg did this!”

“You could make a device that would make him want to do it, though, couldn’t you?”

“Well, yes, you could, by altering his brain waves, drive him almost crazy. Still, I don’t think that he or any other dog would be able to––”

“No, they wouldn’t. But the Furies would.”

“My dear Ms. Bannister, I don’t understand how––”

Her musings were interrupted by Margot, who burst into the library.

“Nina!”

She looked around:

“What? What is it?”

“Chief Thompson!”

“What about him?”

“He just called me on my cell phone. Actually, it wasn’t him. It was a woman from police dispatch in Abbeyport.”

“Fine, so I’ll ask it again—what does Thompson want?”

“He wants us to drive out to the main road and meet him.”

“Why, for God’s sakes?”

“He says it’s urgent! He’s found something that might answer the whole puzzle!”

“Has he shot the animal?”

“The woman didn’t say. But she did say that we need to go as fast as possible. Now come on:
 
we can take the Volkswagen. I’ve got two heavy rain slickers in the entryway. Maybe we can make it to the car without drowning.”

“All right.”

And so saying, Nina followed into the small entryway/ reception area.

Turmoil, turmoil.

The storm, terrible in its intensity.

Sylvia’s voice in the dining room, trying to placate a sea of anger.

Chaos everywhere and yet––

––something about her was calmer than it had been.

Something was looking.

At––

At what?

A pile of boxes lying in a corner.

“Come on, Nina! Put this on! We’ve got to hurry! I don’t know why, but the woman in the dispatcher’s office said get there as fast as possible!”

The boxes.

Cardboard boxes.

What was wrong with the boxes?

They were the boxes that the gifts had come in.