Sea Change (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 1) (15 page)

Eighty pieces.

Havilland Dinner Service in the Wheat Pattern.

“Oh my God.”

She went out into the garden.

There she stepped squarely into a pool of Allana Delafosse, who engulfed her, hugged her, not-kissed her first not-on- the right and then not-on- the left cheek, and who finally held her out at arm’s length, as though waiting for her to dry before pronouncing:

“You look terrible, dear.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you feel bad?”

“Now I do.”

“You should not have come out in weather like this.”

“Well, the shower––”

“You should have called me. I could have arranged transportation.
 
How are you getting home?”

“I have the Vespa.”

This caused Allana to attempt an impression of Eduard Munch’s “The Scream.” Eyes wide, mouth circular and gaping, the complete absurdity and simultaneous horror of The Abyss opening before her––saw Nina’s Vespa for what it truly was:
 
The Death of God.

Allana attempted to mouth ‘no,’ but nothing came out, and there was nothing left to her but to embrace Nina a tightly as she could, and sob.

“It’s all right, Allana.
 
It’s really not that cold.”

She could feel Allana’s strong hand patting her back, and this, plus the warm tickle of black ermine in her nose—Allana had come for the evening dressed not as an image from Post War Expressionism but as Cruella De Ville—comforted her and made her not so much resigned to the inevitable wintry death that awaited her during the ride home, as excited by the wake that was to proceed her departure.

Finally, Allana had led her to a vacant chair, gotten two sips of tea into her—not Darjeeling—examined her with the ruthless supernatural gaze of a true Creole medicine woman, and said, hesitantly:

“Your color seems somewhat more natural now.
 
Are you feeling better?”

“Much.”

“You simply must allow me to take you home though.”

“Someone might steal my Vespa.”

“No one will want it, dear.”

“There’s comfort in that, then, anyway.
 
A person has so little in these final days––”

“Nina!”

Her Last Rites were interrupted by Macy Peterson, who exuded far greater happiness than should have been expected from any woman dressed in a salmon-colored suit offset by octopus ink purple scarf.

“Nina, are you all right?”

“Yes, I––”

“She came here,” said Allana, looking first at one woman, then the other, then balefully out a window and into the winter night, “on her moooowwwtacycle.”

“Nina, you didn’t!”

“It’s not that far.”

“Why didn’t you
call
me?
 
There are so many people I could have gotten in touch with, who would
gladly
have given you a ride!
 
Do you have a way home?”

“I thought I’d just let the ambulance take me to The Emergency Ward.”

A complete blank look on both of the faces staring at her.

One second, two seconds—

“That’s a joke.”

Then both of them knelt forward at the same time and said in one identical voice:

“Don’t joke about things like that.”

“Well, if you can’t joke about death then what––”

The same blank stare.

Change the subject.

“You have some wonderful gifts here, Macy.”

A few more seconds for the awesome specter of Nina’s demise, the horror of a world without Nina—to be gradually displaced by the visions of glittering little jewel caskets lying around what had become a magic kingdom under drifts and drifts of silvery glittery snow, so wonderfully powdery perhaps because all of it was in fact powder.

“Have you seen the things, Nina?”

“I’ve seen some of them.”

“Aren’t they marvelous? Did you see the Hummels?”

“Yes!”

“Paul
loves
Hummels!”

“Does he?” exclaimed Nina, and thinking simultaneously,
then this would make him the first man in the history of the world to do so.

“Yes, he does!
 
Oh, and by the way, he’ll be here soon. He apologizes for being a bit late; he’s in a big planning meeting!”

Since Nina had begun a two track conversation, one with herself and one with Macy and Allana, she decided to let the thing go on for a while as it was––four woman chatter, the two Nina’s (public and secretive), and the two people sitting before her.

What kind of a meeting?
private Nina asked secretively.

“The dishware set was incredible,” public Nina said.

“Wasn’t it?”

I don’t suppose Miss You Know Who was at this meeting, was she?
asked private Nina.

“The Limoges is also beautiful,” stated public Nina.

Allana Delafosse said something to this but Nina was having trouble keeping up with her own two tracks and didn’t pay attention.

Something about ‘exquisite,’ but who cared.

Private Nina leaned forward, put her hands on Macy’s knees, looked straight into her beaming face, and said quietly but firmly:

Do you realize that this woman is stealing your fiancé from you, right under your nose? That she’s been seen with him all over town for the last days? That she’s going to hire him off somehow, give him some fake administrative job for beaucoup money, more maybe than he’s ever seen—take him to bed with her, make him a toyboy for a few months, and then throw him out?

These words were fed into the translation center, spliced, processed and reprogrammed, then forwarded into the alternative control center which re-routed them into public Nina talk, so that they came out:

“It’s probably the best shower I’ve ever seen.”

“I know, isn’t it?
 
People are just so nice.”

Florence Thomas came by then and said:

Blah da blah da blah da blah.

To which, Macy replied:

Blah da blah da blah da blah.

Allana seconded that, saying assertively:

Blah da blah da blah da blah.

Leaving an opening which could not be missed by Jaynie, of Jaynie’s Antiques, the woman who’d given one of the three pickle casters, and who could always be counted on to say something like:

Blah da blah da blah da blah.

Which she did.

Nine felt compelled to respond, saying:

Blah da blah da blah da blah.

Allana countered:

Blah da blah da blah da blah.

Macy corrected her:

Blah da blah da blah da blah.

Nina supplemented the thought, saying, in a conciliatory way:

Blah da blah da blah da blah.

And then there was a lull in the conversation.

No one knew how long this lull lasted, nor were any records kept, so it will be one of those mysteries of nature. Suffice to say that for a physically indeterminate amount of time the village had become one those
black holes that suck in all human suffering, wisdom, and aspiration, condensing them into a tiny ball of immensely heavy matter—which must for unknown reasons remain hidden for a time—and replacing them with utterly useless blather, which was then spread out all over the universe.

Unexplained forces finally blew up this black hole, allowing the return of reason to human speech, so that Allana might say to Nina:

“You know, dear, I did meet with Miss Ivory some days ago.”

“I think I heard about that.”

“Well.
 
These things do get round, don’t they?”

“Yes.
 
Yes, they do.”

“I must say, I was impressed with her.
 
And with the way she seemed to listen.”

‘Seemed,’
thought Nina,
may be the operative word here.

“You know she thinks the world of you, don’t you?”

“She’s been complimentary to me. I’m not really sure why.”

“We all know why, Nina. We all know why. She recognized someone who embodies the town’s—well how else shall I say it?––the town’s soul.”

“That’s asking a lot, Allana, from someone who’s only five feet three.”

“I’m not certain what height has to do with it.”

“Nina,” said Margot Gavin, who, empress of her own domain, had joined the group, “is bringing humor into the conversation.”

“Ah. Well, at any rate. She has shown excellent taste in her feelings for you and she was not at all unreceptive to my presentation concerning Auberge des Arts.”

“Pardon?”

“‘Auberge des Arts’ is one proposed name for the mansion itself, renovated in such a way as to become a pure cultural center.”

“Oh yes! I’d heard about that—just the basic plans, of course.”

“They are quite complex now. I and several others have been working intently on them.
 
I’m sorry I don’t have the plans here––”

“That’s all right.”

“—but we were able to get blueprints of the mansion itself, and it seems perfectly made for such an endeavor.
 
There are two separate areas that might well be transformed into Black Box Theaters.
 
One hall with splendid acoustics, a perfect place for chamber music concerts.
 
There are intimate quarters—one even with a fireplace, if you can imagine that—that remind one of Old English drawing rooms, where Noel Coward, George Bernard Shaw, Dorothy Parker, Oscar Wilde and Edith Wharton, might sit chatting far into the night––”

“—about Paranormal Romance?”

“Nina!”

“Sorry, Margot.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Allana.
 
Go on.”

“Well, that’s basically the gist of the proposal.
 
This splendid mansion is now the centerpiece of our town again; as it was always supposed to be.
 
But now we can put art and culture in the center of our community.”

“I hope that happens, Allana.
 
I really do.”

She was about to something both inspiring and fake.

She was prevented from doing so, though, by the arrival of something even more inspiring and fake.

Eve Ivory.

The woman entered Margot’s garden like an appearance of the Northern Lights, fur, jewelry, bangles, radiance, and misrule.
 
She was not so much a human being as a personified boutique, open only for private showings.

“I’m so sorry I’m late! Here, I’ve at least brought this!”

She held before her a small present.
 
It was wrapped in white paper with a red bow. By its precise measurements, Nina could tell it contained something of no value that was ugly.

“Margot!”

“Eve!”

“This is the first time I’ve been in your place. It’s really quite cute in a kitschy sort of way.
 
I have a dear friend with two kiddoes:
 
some of these little sparklies will be perfect for them!”

“Whatever I can do.”

“And—is it—you must be Macy?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then congratulations!”

“Thank you!”

“I’m so sorry to have to borrow your fiancé for the evening, but the meeting just will not end. There are some hugely important negotiations going on at city hall and, well, without Paul––”

“I understand. He’s excited that he can help. He seems to think something very big is about to happen.”

“It is, Macy. It is. Which is why I have brought these!”

Strapped around her neck was an animal of the tundra which she had forced to be motionless so that it could carry her things.
 
She reached into its mouth and withdrew from its pelvic cavity at least twenty letters, all of a hue that would have been called ivory had that not been her name, and which thus would preferably be called ‘bone,’ since that fit more her nature.

“These are invitations to all of you.
 
A Holiday Gala, December 22, eight o’clock.
 
I think I can promise you to have a truly remarkable announcement to make.
 
Now I must rush back though:
 
and once again Macy:
 
congratulations to you and Paul!”

So saying, she left.

She’d been gone for perhaps ten seconds before Margot, shaking her head and continuing to peer at the door, asked quizzically:

“Who came in?”

The invitations were opened, analyzed, praised for polish and elegance:

DEAR MR/MS––

MISS EVE IVORY HAS THE PLEASURE OF

REQUESTING YOUR PRESENCE

AT A GALA

TO BE HELD

DECEMBER 22, 8:00 P.M.

AT

THE NEWLY RENOVATED

ROBINSON HOUSE

RSVP

There were envelopes addressed to everyone in the store.

“She did,” Nina said, admiringly, “her research.
 
She got all our addresses right.”

There was a bit more oohing and aahing about the invitations, and some speculation about what was to go on at this ‘gala,’ and what announcement was to be made that would be so important to Bay St. Lucy.

But the main thing that Nina could not help noticing was the composure of Macy, who’d lost her fiancé on what might have been the most important evening of her life, up to this point.

All of these presents were to be opened by the two of them, by her and Paul.

And, yet, here she was, left to flit from one table to another, one group to another, one exquisite China display to another, apologizing and gushing, smiling and, Nina knew, wondering.

What exactly did this woman want with him?

Eve Ivory’s visit, as welcome here as a camp fire in a dirigible, had cast a pall over the evening.

There was, to be sure, still a kind of cozy glow radiating from the fireplace over by the wall, where three plastic logs turned slowly around an invisible spit, rotating like hot dogs with fake bark.

But people spoke a bit softer, and seemed to be looking at their watches.

This was the way of things for some minutes, half an hour longer.

And then something else happened.

People began to be drawn to the windows.

For what?
 
Nina wondered.