Sex Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 6) (24 page)

“The goal is forty, though. Or it’s slumber party time.”

Jackson nodded:

“Well, the gym is ready. It’s been filled with pallets. I can’t say the Bay St. Lucy husbands are all that thrilled.”

“It’s like Laurencia said. They get a poker night.”

Jackson pursed his lips and said:

“They may not need to. Three more referenda are scheduled tomorrow: in Arizona, Wyoming, and Missouri. If the women candidates in those states can make it onto the ballot..”

“..It will be forty-one. And everyone in the country will…well, let’s say a lot of babies might wind up being born nine months and one day from today.”

Nina looked at the list she had been given:

Mary Hall:
 
North Carolina

Janice Wright:
 
Ohio

Sue Robel:
 
Alabama

Gail Hill:
 
Maine

Susan Johnson:
 
Delaware

Catherine McEnroe:
 
Michigan

Angela Granese:
 
Florida

Cindy Barber:
 
West Virginia

Nancy Moore:
 
Kansas

Kathy Berg:
 
Texas

Anna Jenson:
 
Iowa

Holly Damico:
 
Idaho

Sharon Mankey:
 
Indiana

Joanna Blousser:
 
Alaska

Patricia Rockwell:
 
Illinois

Janique Wood:
 
California

Liz John:
 
New Jersey

Dreema Reed:
  
Oregon

Jennifer Vido:
 
Maryland

Lynn Boling:
 
Georgia

Melissa Britton:
 
Arkansas

Davida Weaver:
 
Ohio

Sally Carpenter:
 
California

Julie Seedorf:
 
Minnesota

Kay Reidel:
 
Louisiana

Lana Star:
 
Virginia

Deb Hawkins:
 
Utah

Anne Dewell:
 
Mississippi

Kate Reese:
 
Pennsylvania

Sharon Collender:
 
South Carolina

Anna Souchek:
 
N. Dakota

Margaret Verhoef: Kansas

Nanci Rathbun:
 
Wisconsin

Karrie Kucher:
 
Illinois

Jill Pranger:
 
Tennessee

Terri Star:
 
Arizona

Kay Johnson: New Hampshire

Lynn Jones:
 
South Dakota

Georgia Malendraka:
 
New York

Gail Douthat:
 
Vermont

She put the list down, then said:

“Thirty-eight women; thirty-eight states. Can these women be elected in November, Jackson?”

He shrugged:

“I never thought they’d get on ballots. The world has gone crazy.”

“Or maybe,” Nina said, “it’s beginning to go sane. For the first time.”

The afternoon was delicious. The little corner of the beach/universe where her shack rested was, she decided, the only part of Bay St. Lucy to offer a bit of peace and quiet, and she made the most of it. She spent it reading
The Murder at the Vicarage
and enjoying the Agatha Christiness that was seeping into her welcoming brain.

The upshot of it all was that she was rested and ready for the gala at the Auberge des Arts, and just as rested and ready to hear Helen Reddington speak to the media about the upcoming
Lysistrata
production, which promised to have—at least in terms of money spent and logistical maneuvers utilized—the scope and dramatic potential of World War II.

The first part of the evening was wonderful, of course, having been planned by Alanna Delafosse and Helen Reddington. There was champagne and more champagne; there was schmoozing beneath the magnificent oaks on the magnificent grounds of the Old Robinson Mansion, where gangsters once roamed and politicians now roamed, neither the foliage in the trees nor the flowers in the gardens nor the glass in the dormer windows nor the full moon in the sky able to tell the difference…

And there were the memorable moments of fusion between Nina’s old world of home and her new world of DC, moments such as the one that saw Alanna and Laurencia meet, embrace, and recognize the kinship that had grown between them for both of their entire lives, without either of them having known for one moment of the other’s existence.

Nina would never forget the moment when Laurencia, seated exquisitely within the exquisite gazebo, leaned forward and said quietly to Alanna:

“I will, my sister, be elected.”

And Alanna:

“I know that. I know it with all of my heart.”

“And I will be needing a Minister of Cultural Affairs.”

“I was not aware that such an office existed.”

“It did not. Until I saw you, Alanna. At that moment, it came into being. If you would consent to take the job.”

And then two wonderful smiles met precisely a foot and a half in front of each woman’s mouth, and a small portion of the metal table between them melted.

Nor was the second half of the evening any less fulfilling.

For there was Helen Reddington, beautiful and dark- eyed Helen, who would in only a few short hours become the woman who ended, at least literarily if not historically, the terrible Peloponnesian War, standing at a podium, talking to a room full of reporters about what was to transpire the next evening.

“There is a world of difference,” she was saying, “between Old Comedy and New Comedy. New Comedy is Menander, and then, in Rome, Terence. It’s sit-com stuff. The beautiful young woman and handsome young man who want to be married, and the ridiculous father who’s a miser or a hypochondriac or whatever, and who blocks them. Every one of our thirty-minute TV comedy series, from Lucy to Archie Bunker to Burns and Allen to Seinfeld is based on them somehow.

But Old Comedy—Aristophanes’ comedy—is completely different. It’s wild. It turns universes upside down. It creates Cloud-cuckoo-land. People hang fifty feet above the stage in balloons. Old Comedy is what
Lysistrata
is, and it’s what we’re going to do here tomorrow night. But not just here. Not just in the Auberge itself. No, a lot of the speaking scenes will be done up on the roof garden, where a good many of the cameras are.

But this production is going to utilize the whole town of Bay St. Lucy, and a stretch of beach at least a mile and a half long. It’s going to be epic, and, I promise all of you, unforgettable. Just like the
Lissie
movement is unforgettable. Let me try to make this as clear as I can: when we think today of ‘Greek Tragedy,’ we think of boring choruses of twelve old men in black robes chanting something. But that wasn’t what the real choruses must have been like, it couldn’t have been. The real choruses—well, wealthy people spent months putting them together and training them. There was wild music and dancing––and we’ve lost whatever records may ever have described them. We have no idea what they must have been.

Still, we’re going to recreate them tomorrow night. There are going to be choruses all over the city tomorrow night, all dancing to rock music and country western music and African music and—and all the music of the world! These choruses will have one thing in common: they’ll all be making their way to the Acropolis, which, of course, is our football stadium. At precisely ten o’clock, Lysistrata will announce from our rooftop here that the Spartans and the Athenians have made peace, and that the Peloponnesian War is over. And at just that moment, a helicopter will land in the middle of our football field. Laurencia Dalrymple will get out of it, and walk to the stage where the fantastic Annie Lennox concert took place today. There she will make the announcement: either forty new women candidates have made it to the ballots for the November election—or they haven’t. I’m sure you know that three referenda are taking place tomorrow. It’s going to be close. Either way, sex strike or orgy, this
Lysistrata
is going to have one hell of an ending.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN: WHAT THE PICTURE SHOWED

It was as though a virus had been injected into Nina Bannister.

Two hours before the massive festivities—arrival of ships, beginning of dancing and singing, beginning of the
Lysistrata
production itself—were to begin.

But by then the virus had begun to work.

Working.

Working.

She had one more interview scheduled for five o’clock.

Just before lunch, she called the appropriate people and cancelled it.

She would have walked along the beach, but she could not do so, because there was no beach. There was just a mob of people.
        

So she simply went home.

She turned off her cell phone, which had been buzzing like a small blue plastic glowing hornet’s nest.

And she paced.

She paced in the living room.

She made herself a sandwich in the kitchen.

She ate it.

She walked out on the deck, watched the marvelous array of ships that were out on the ocean awaiting tonight’s spectacle.

Tonight’s spectacle.

Which was going to be wonderful, unforgettable.

Except…

…except for the ‘something’s not quite right here’ virus.

Then, sitting on the deck, she herself began to hear voices.

That same voice, actually.

The one that came to her as the voice of God must have come to the lunatic who tried to kill her.

“Hello Jane,” she found herself whispering to the deck rail. “Hello, Jane Austen.”

“A mind lively and at ease, Nina.”

“Yes, I know.”

“ A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.”

All right, Nina Bannister…

…think.

Your mind is lively, and always has been.

Just don’t let it be at ease.

Don’t let it be at ease.

What’s wrong?

What doesn’t fit?

What…

And then she saw it.

“No,” she whispered to herself. “No, it’s not possible.”

And it wasn’t.

It couldn’t have been.

So thinking, she walked into her living room, turned on the cell phone, and made a call.

Ten minutes later, Sylvia Morales, dressed casually in dungarees and a Janice Joplin sweatshirt, was knocking at her door.

“Nina?”

She crossed the living room, opened the door, and immediately felt a sense of relief.

Sylvia.

Sylvia instilled confidence.

That quiet smile, those dark eyes..

“Nina, what is it?”

She shook her head:

“I don’t know, Sylvia.”

“Has something happened? I thought you’d be at the Auberge getting ready to watch the play.”

“No, I… it’s just…”

“What?”

“Something I thought of. Something that isn’t right, Sylvia.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There are agents scattered everywhere around town. The FBI, the state police, the local guys—there must be a hundred people in Bay St. Lucy. And, I’ve got to tell you, it’s a pretty good crowd. Hardly any incidents to talk about, if you don’t count the marijuana, which we’re ignoring. No, otherwise, it’s just pretty festive.”

“I’m glad to hear that. But something’s wrong. Something just doesn’t fit.”

“What?”

“Sylvia, do you remember the pictures?”

“What pictures?”

“The ones taken at Dulles Airport.”

“Showing Thornbloom and his pilot?”

“Yes, those pictures.”

“Sure, I remember them.”

“I want to see them.”

“Why?”

“Just—one detail.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe I’m not talking about anything. But I need to see those pictures.”

“Well, I’ve got Stockmeyer’s private number.”

“Can he get them to you?”

A nod.

“Sure. He can email them to me on my smart phone. That’s done pretty frequently.”

“Then please, call him.”

“What am I going to give him for a reason?”

“Tell him Nina Bannister likes to look at airports.”

“I’m not sure that will do. But I can tell him there are a couple of loose ends that I would like to tie up. I can also tell him to contact the President of the United States if he has any questions.”

Sylvia made the call.

Stockmeyer was not immediately available.

The two women went outside to the deck to wait.

There, half a mile out, were Nina’s favorite two porpoises, leaping, making their way west toward Hatteras.

They had always, she found herself thinking, betokened good luck.

She needed good luck now.

And so, if her suspicions were right, did Laurencia Dalrymple.

It took an hour and a half for Sylvia’s phone to buzz.

During that time, marvelous things had begun to happen.

Ships—small ships, large ships, boats, barges, floats, and every imaginable form of nautical transportation, began to make their way toward Bay St. Lucy’s beachfront, and these vessels disgorged landing craft, as though the invasion of Normandy beachhead were being reenacted.

Except that these were not soldiers.

These were WOMEN WOMEN WOMEN from not only every state in the union but also seemingly every country in the world.

Here, landing here, a boat filled with Senegalese women, splendidly arrayed in gold and black robes, a huge radio blasting drumbeats as, splashing their way onto the shore and laughing wildly, they began dancing across the sand and up onto the sidewalk that once had taken tourists toward downtown, and that now was taking half of the world’s female population toward a one-time football stadium.

And there! Another craft filled with Asian women wearing kimonos.

All forming choruses.

All dancing.

As the moon rose.

And Bay St. Lucy’s bacchanal began!

“Has he sent it?”

Sylvia nodded, and handed the smart phone to Nina.

“Here’s the picture. There’s nothing in it we didn’t already know about.”

“I’m not so sure of that. Here, let me see.”

“Take it.”

Nina did, and she looked at it again.

Only this time she looked at it with Jane Austen.

‘Can do with seeing nothing…’

See the whole picture Nina.

See the
whole picture
!

“Yes. Yes!”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“They’ve each got one. That’s how he did it!”

“How who did what?”

“He’s going to kill Laurencia, Sylvia. It’s all worked out just as he planned it. And tonight, somehow, some way, he’s going to kill Laurencia.”

And at precisely that moment, even though she had no way of knowing it, the play
Lysistrata
began on the rooftop of the Auberge des Arts.

And all of Bay St. Lucy saw on huge screens what all of the nation and the world saw on mobile apps and, in the cases of the very old and infirm, TV screens. Helen Reddington strode forth in her white Athenian robes and met the women from Sparta and Delos and Thebes and Corinth—and told them about the sex strike that would spread across Greece and last until the horrible war between Athens and Sparta would end, and the people would dance in jubilation.

Nina and Sylvia were heading to the airport.

It might happen there.

Sylvia was on her two way radio.

“Put me through to the tower!”

Pause.

And during that interminable pause, the women of Greece were taking their oath:

NO LOVER AND NO HUSBAND AND NO MAN ON EARTH

SHALL ERE APPROACH ME WITH HIS PENIS UP

AND I SHALL LEAD AN UNLAID LIFE ALONE AT HOME

WEARING A SAFFRON GOWN AND GROOMED AND BEAUTIFIED

SO THAT MY HUSBAND WILL BE ALL ON FIRE FOR ME

BUT I WILL NEVER WILLINGLY GIVE IN TO HIM

AND IF HE TRIES TO FORCE ME TO AGAINST MY WILL

I’LL DO IT BADLY AND NOT WIGGLE IN RESPONSE

NOR POINT THE TOES OF MY BEAUTIFUL SHOES TOWARD THE CEILING

NOR CROUCH UPON HIM IN THE HUNGRY LION POSITION

Nor could Nina know that the oath takers—Kalonika and Lampito and Myrrhina and the others––were solemnizing their vows with mutual drinks from the overflowing wine bowl, while Sylvia was shouting into the phone:

“Stop the helicopter! Stop the copter that’s going to take Senator Dalrymple to the football stadium. You’ve got to…damn!”

“What, Sylvia?”

“The helicopter just took off!”

“But Laurencia’s not scheduled to speak until the play is over. And that won’t be for another hour, anyway!”

“Laurencia asked them to take off early. She wants to see all the choruses making their way through town.”

“Can you contact the helicopter pilot?”

“And tell him what? Nina, what the hell is going on?”

“I just…I can’t…I just have this feeling!”

“
What
feeling? I’m just one little agent, Nina—I can’t order the next President of the United States around because you’ve got a feeling.”

“All right, then come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the center of the world; the Acropolis.”