Read Online Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) by T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese - Free Book Online
Authors: T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese
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one.”
“What are they doing here?”
Margot, walking fast by the Escort and toward the pasture, simply shrugged:
“Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Come on.”
“But I don’t understand––”
“Amidon probably called all the media outlets in the state. Actually, he probably called all the media outlets in the world, knowing Amidon. These are the first to arrive.”
The two women made their way through a crumbling fence which seemed to dissolve as they approached it.
They watched as two figures—unarmed, Nina noted with relief—emerged from the helicopters, and, bending low to avoid the rotors spinning over them and cow patties lurking under them, waved and smiled:
“Hello, the house!” shouted a young man.
“We’re from WRGC,” shouted a young woman.
They were glowing, radiant, blonde, well dressed, poster children of mass marketing. The woman looked like all of the women who bantered and made useless announcements from the sidelines of nationally-televised professional football games.
The man looked like she would have looked, had she been male.
“Ms. Gavin?”
“Yes!”
“I’m Tricia Lindenwood, and this is Chip Horagan! We do the nightly news!”
“How exciting that you’ve come,” Margot answered. “Welcome to The Candles!”
Several photographers, Nina now noticed, had just emerged from the helicopter.
“You don’t mind pictures?”
“No, no! Take all the pictures you want!”
The two landing parties, one coming west from Candles and the other east from the helicopter, met, embraced, shook hands, gushed, and in general rejoiced over everyone’s existence.
Microphones were produced; cameras began whirring; an interview began, with Tricia and Chip alternately firing questions and Margot answering them:
“So are you excited about northern Mississippi hosting the AGCW?”
Strange, Nina found herself musing. WRGC asking about AGCW.
What had ever happened to words?
“We are thrilled,” Margot lied skillfully, “that the AGCW is about to honor us!”
“Are you yourself a fan of cozy mysteries?”
“Oh, I certainly am!” lied Margot yet again. “I began reading cozies when I was just a little girl. Actually, Nancy Drew was my first favorite. But I was shy and books were my retreat. I discovered the Agatha Christie books in junior high school. Throughout all the following years I wanted nothing more than to secrete myself in my room and transport myself to some small English village where a little old lady was trying to piece together clues before the local constable could. When I think about it, I was the same way in college, and even up until today.”
She’s talking , Nina soon realized, about me .
There’s no possibility on earth that Margot Gavin has ever read a cozy mystery .
She’s talking about me, Nina Bannister .
“So, Ms. Gavin, who are your favorite mystery writers?”
Margot panicked.
So did Nina.
Who were some cozy mystery writers?
Which authors had most thoroughly impressed Furl?
“Well,” Nina interrupted, “you were telling me, Margot, that you’d just finished a novel about a little old retired nurse in some quaint New England village—Maggie Maplewhite, in Seacoast Cove––and after the town miser had been found dead with a gunshot wound in his chest, she had to use her medical training to solve the crime, since the bumbling old police chief couldn’t. It was called something like Death Stares at the Stethoscope. And there were lots of eccentric but lovable characters in it.”
“Oh yes, that one! And what else had I told you about, Nina?”
“Well, there was…”
But the interview was ending.
More helicopters were arriving.
And horns were honking back on the entrance road.
Nina turned.
The first of a series of ponderous limousines was making its way over the bridge.
The Cozy Writers of America were here.
CHAPTER FIVE: THE MAJOR ASSAULT
By the time Nina and Margot had reached the driveway, the
“What are they doing here?”
Margot, walking fast by the Escort and toward the pasture, simply shrugged:
“Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Come on.”
“But I don’t understand––”
“Amidon probably called all the media outlets in the state. Actually, he probably called all the media outlets in the world, knowing Amidon. These are the first to arrive.”
The two women made their way through a crumbling fence which seemed to dissolve as they approached it.
They watched as two figures—unarmed, Nina noted with relief—emerged from the helicopters, and, bending low to avoid the rotors spinning over them and cow patties lurking under them, waved and smiled:
“Hello, the house!” shouted a young man.
“We’re from WRGC,” shouted a young woman.
They were glowing, radiant, blonde, well dressed, poster children of mass marketing. The woman looked like all of the women who bantered and made useless announcements from the sidelines of nationally-televised professional football games.
The man looked like she would have looked, had she been male.
“Ms. Gavin?”
“Yes!”
“I’m Tricia Lindenwood, and this is Chip Horagan! We do the nightly news!”
“How exciting that you’ve come,” Margot answered. “Welcome to The Candles!”
Several photographers, Nina now noticed, had just emerged from the helicopter.
“You don’t mind pictures?”
“No, no! Take all the pictures you want!”
The two landing parties, one coming west from Candles and the other east from the helicopter, met, embraced, shook hands, gushed, and in general rejoiced over everyone’s existence.
Microphones were produced; cameras began whirring; an interview began, with Tricia and Chip alternately firing questions and Margot answering them:
“So are you excited about northern Mississippi hosting the AGCW?”
Strange, Nina found herself musing. WRGC asking about AGCW.
What had ever happened to words?
“We are thrilled,” Margot lied skillfully, “that the AGCW is about to honor us!”
“Are you yourself a fan of cozy mysteries?”
“Oh, I certainly am!” lied Margot yet again. “I began reading cozies when I was just a little girl. Actually, Nancy Drew was my first favorite. But I was shy and books were my retreat. I discovered the Agatha Christie books in junior high school. Throughout all the following years I wanted nothing more than to secrete myself in my room and transport myself to some small English village where a little old lady was trying to piece together clues before the local constable could. When I think about it, I was the same way in college, and even up until today.”
She’s talking , Nina soon realized, about me .
There’s no possibility on earth that Margot Gavin has ever read a cozy mystery .
She’s talking about me, Nina Bannister .
“So, Ms. Gavin, who are your favorite mystery writers?”
Margot panicked.
So did Nina.
Who were some cozy mystery writers?
Which authors had most thoroughly impressed Furl?
“Well,” Nina interrupted, “you were telling me, Margot, that you’d just finished a novel about a little old retired nurse in some quaint New England village—Maggie Maplewhite, in Seacoast Cove––and after the town miser had been found dead with a gunshot wound in his chest, she had to use her medical training to solve the crime, since the bumbling old police chief couldn’t. It was called something like Death Stares at the Stethoscope. And there were lots of eccentric but lovable characters in it.”
“Oh yes, that one! And what else had I told you about, Nina?”
“Well, there was…”
But the interview was ending.
More helicopters were arriving.
And horns were honking back on the entrance road.
Nina turned.
The first of a series of ponderous limousines was making its way over the bridge.
The Cozy Writers of America were here.
CHAPTER FIVE: THE MAJOR ASSAULT
By the time Nina and Margot had reached the driveway, the
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