Read Online Climate Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 7) by T'Gracie Reese, Joe Reese - Free Book Online Page A

last of the limousines had parked and begun to disgorge its passengers.
    All thirty of them, emerging from ten huge black shining cars.
    “My God,” said Nina, softly. “Who are these people?”
    For they were not, in any sense, what she’d been expecting.
    Nor were they the crowd expected by the staff, who were all standing on the back porch, open-mouthed and staring.
    What all of the Candles had been expecting were frail little old ladies.
    And, in fact, there were some little old ladies scattered through the bunch.
    “That one,” Nina whispered, “must be Rebecca Thornwhipple.”
    “Which one?”
    “The short one there, getting out of the third limo.”
    “With the frizzled white hair?”
    “Yes.”
    “What is she wearing?”
    “A T-shirt.”
    “I know, but the thing printed on it––”
    “Yes.”
    “Is that––”
    “Yes.”
    “The male reproductive organ?”
    “Think so.”
    Both of them stared for a while.
    “A reproductor reproduction,” said Margot.
    “Yes. And it certainly stands out, drawn in red like it is.”
    “But what is that thing she’s carrying?”
    “A cat carrier.”
    “Wait a minute! Am I crazy? Look at them! What are they––I thought for a minute they were all getting suitcases out of the cars, but––”
    “Cat carriers,” said Nina. “Every one of them has a cat carrier.”
    “With cats in them, you think?”
    “Betting on it.”
    Nina watched Margot and waited while her friend deduced the obvious.
    “Thirty cats.”
    “Yes.”
    “We can’t take care of thirty cats.”
    “You’ll have to.”
    “Why are they all travelling with cats?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Oh, my God! And just look at them! Those aren’t little old ladies at all!”
    “Well, except for the one with the penis on her shirt.”
    “Well, come on, we have to go and meet them. We’re their hosts.”
    That was true, but it hardly seemed to matter, simply because the people milling in the driveway seemed more concerned about the names of their cats and the names of their characters than their own names. The cat carriers came forth from the limousines in a continuous and marvelously garish stream, onyx and pearl and filigree and black-satin and jewel-covered, as though they were the cats of sultans travelling in state and spread out across an oasis for the night. The felines’ names were etched across the receptacles in which they travelled––wild, bizarre, non-earthly, supernatural and mythological names:   Balthazaar, Plethorius, Cullegmugeon, Clawdius, Hisstoproprius, Edapuss, Deflepard––
    ––and as important to the writers as their cats were, their banners and posters, which were now being unfolded and held up to the light, so as to be checked for wrinkles, blemishes, or, Nina surmised in a necessary deduction, cat poop. Some of the banners contained pictures, some script, and some cartoon figures, but all bore the code:   “The .……. Mysteries.”
    The Sheila Hammersmith Mysteries.
    The Griselda Hecubine Mysteries.
    The Patty Parity Mysteries.
    (Patty Parity, Nina assumed, must be a fighter for women’s equality.)
    The Olivia Smitherman Mysteries.
    And on and on.
    “This,” Margot was whispering as they made their way through the crowd, “is my worst nightmare.”
    Nina looked up at her:
    “Why?”
    Margot shook her head.
    “I’m allergic to cats.”
    “Really?”
    “Stupid furry disgusting creatures. I start sneezing and their hair gets all over me and they leave little round turds on the rugs and––”
    “Sssh.”
    “No I mean it. I just can’t––”
    “Get control of yourself. I think you have to say ‘hello’ to this woman.”
    And it was indeed a woman to be dealt with. Almost six feet tall, mannishly dressed, stentorian in posture and bearing—no, if the caretaker was the Scarecrow and the cook the Tin Man, this was certainly the Wicked Witch of the West. Not green perhaps, but––
    ––well, now that one looked closely at her, maybe a