Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) by T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese
Authors: T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese
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self-published.”
Silence for a time.
“I’m sorry,” Margot whispered, finally. “I didn’t know.”
“That’s all right, Ms. Gavin. There’s no way you could have known. But I suppose it’s now time for me to be fully honest with you. The Molly Badgers of the world are one of the reasons that the Guild is meeting here at The Candles.”
“How so?”
“Because, when we meet in the larger metropolitan hotels, it’s very difficult to keep such people away. And the costs for security alone––”
“I understand.”
“We thought, coming here, with the forests and the isolation—we thought we could use Nature itself as a buffer against self-publication. Obviously, we were wrong. But this is not a matter over which you should concern yourself further. If Ms. Badger should fail to take our warnings and leave immediately—we have ways of dealing with her.”
The sentence , Nina thought, had an ominous ring to it .
But it was followed by a bright smile, a change in Harriet Crossman’s demeanor, and the words: “Well, let’s all try to put that behind us, and get on with more important matters. I shall see you, Ms. Gavin, and you, Ms. Bannister, for dinner!”
So saying, she turned and left the room.
In half a minute, she had disappeared into the plantation.
Margo hesitated for a time, to be sure she was out of earshot.
Then she whispered:
“Come on.”
“Come on where?” asked Nina.
“Come on with me. We’re going to talk to that poor woman.”
“Why? What can we possibly say to her?”
“Just come on. You’ll see. I think I saw our Ms. Badger go out and sit down by the old well in the back yard.”
They left the office together, made their way across the porch, and headed out into the yard.
When they reached the well, Molly Badger was kneeling on the ground beside it, her forehead pressed against the moist, ragged bricks.
Nina could hear her sobbing.
Margot knelt and put her arms out; the woman hurled herself into the embrace, glad to have cloth and flesh to press against rather than masonry.
“I don’t know, I don’t know what they want of me,” she said, gasping to get her breath.
“There, there––”
“Don’t send me away! Please don’t!”
“I won’t,” Margot said, consolingly. “I promise that I won’t.”
“Margot,” Nina said quietly, “if Harriet Crossman insists––”
Margot shook her head:
“Harriet Crossman doesn’t run The Candles. I do.”
“Still––”
“No. We’ve never turned anyone away from here. We’re not going to start now.”
Then, to Molly Badger:
“I’m sorry that you’re self-published. I truly am.”
The woman looked up at her and shook her head:
“It’s not my fault! I want to be published! Honestly I do!”
“I know. I know.”
“And I can write! My style is as fresh and vibrant as theirs! I can do dialogue! I have believable characters!”
“Of course you do, my child. I’m sure you do.”
“But—but all the real publishers, the ones that aren’t vanity publishers, keep sending my manuscripts back.”
“Why?”
A deep breath, another fit of sobbing, another deep breath, and then:
“My murder methods.”
“Your what?”
“My murder methods. They say I have unbelievable murder methods.”
Nina knelt, put her palms on Molly Badger’s knees, and asked, quietly:
“What murder methods do you use?”
This, though, occasioned a stiffening, and brought about a look of instant distrust:
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll steal them. You’ll steal my murder methods!”
Margot:
“No she won’t, my dear. She’s not even a writer.”
“I’m just a retired high school principal,” said Nina, consolingly.
The distrust continued:
“But everybody else here is a writer! Once I tell you how the murder is done, you might be tempted to tell the others. No. No, I’ve come up with perfect crimes. But the stupid publishers
Silence for a time.
“I’m sorry,” Margot whispered, finally. “I didn’t know.”
“That’s all right, Ms. Gavin. There’s no way you could have known. But I suppose it’s now time for me to be fully honest with you. The Molly Badgers of the world are one of the reasons that the Guild is meeting here at The Candles.”
“How so?”
“Because, when we meet in the larger metropolitan hotels, it’s very difficult to keep such people away. And the costs for security alone––”
“I understand.”
“We thought, coming here, with the forests and the isolation—we thought we could use Nature itself as a buffer against self-publication. Obviously, we were wrong. But this is not a matter over which you should concern yourself further. If Ms. Badger should fail to take our warnings and leave immediately—we have ways of dealing with her.”
The sentence , Nina thought, had an ominous ring to it .
But it was followed by a bright smile, a change in Harriet Crossman’s demeanor, and the words: “Well, let’s all try to put that behind us, and get on with more important matters. I shall see you, Ms. Gavin, and you, Ms. Bannister, for dinner!”
So saying, she turned and left the room.
In half a minute, she had disappeared into the plantation.
Margo hesitated for a time, to be sure she was out of earshot.
Then she whispered:
“Come on.”
“Come on where?” asked Nina.
“Come on with me. We’re going to talk to that poor woman.”
“Why? What can we possibly say to her?”
“Just come on. You’ll see. I think I saw our Ms. Badger go out and sit down by the old well in the back yard.”
They left the office together, made their way across the porch, and headed out into the yard.
When they reached the well, Molly Badger was kneeling on the ground beside it, her forehead pressed against the moist, ragged bricks.
Nina could hear her sobbing.
Margot knelt and put her arms out; the woman hurled herself into the embrace, glad to have cloth and flesh to press against rather than masonry.
“I don’t know, I don’t know what they want of me,” she said, gasping to get her breath.
“There, there––”
“Don’t send me away! Please don’t!”
“I won’t,” Margot said, consolingly. “I promise that I won’t.”
“Margot,” Nina said quietly, “if Harriet Crossman insists––”
Margot shook her head:
“Harriet Crossman doesn’t run The Candles. I do.”
“Still––”
“No. We’ve never turned anyone away from here. We’re not going to start now.”
Then, to Molly Badger:
“I’m sorry that you’re self-published. I truly am.”
The woman looked up at her and shook her head:
“It’s not my fault! I want to be published! Honestly I do!”
“I know. I know.”
“And I can write! My style is as fresh and vibrant as theirs! I can do dialogue! I have believable characters!”
“Of course you do, my child. I’m sure you do.”
“But—but all the real publishers, the ones that aren’t vanity publishers, keep sending my manuscripts back.”
“Why?”
A deep breath, another fit of sobbing, another deep breath, and then:
“My murder methods.”
“Your what?”
“My murder methods. They say I have unbelievable murder methods.”
Nina knelt, put her palms on Molly Badger’s knees, and asked, quietly:
“What murder methods do you use?”
This, though, occasioned a stiffening, and brought about a look of instant distrust:
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll steal them. You’ll steal my murder methods!”
Margot:
“No she won’t, my dear. She’s not even a writer.”
“I’m just a retired high school principal,” said Nina, consolingly.
The distrust continued:
“But everybody else here is a writer! Once I tell you how the murder is done, you might be tempted to tell the others. No. No, I’ve come up with perfect crimes. But the stupid publishers
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