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

noticing her for the first time, glanced down and resisted the urge to pet her. Then she said:
    “Well, our biggest concern remains the issue of standards. Thousands of amateurs are attempting to write cozy mysteries these days, and all of them wish to be a part of our guild, and have their books bear our trademark.”
    “And the books aren’t any good?”
    “Oh it isn’t a question of that! Some of them are quite good! It’s just that in so many cases they aren’t cozies. There is a list of fifteen qualifications a text must have for it to be considered a cozy. Failing in any of these—well, to give you just a brief example:   War and Peace is––I suppose you might say––‘well–written,’ if one has a taste for such things. But it could hardly be considered a cozy!”
    “So you wouldn’t accept it?”
    “Of course not! Of course, the problem is—well, Mr. Tolstoy’s piece of verbiage fails in so many obvious regards that it would hardly be an issue. But other works are more difficult. And there is always this pressure to expand our parameters. Make an exception here or there, allow into our little library of works a town that is not truly quaint, a sleuth who is not the proper age––”
    “What is the proper age?”
    “Sixty-five and up. Writers who are not perceptive enough to grasp that need to take their young women detectives and go elsewhere. If we start making these kind of seemingly small exceptions, then the floodgates of dilettantism will swing open and our literary civilization will degenerate into chaos.”
    “So this,” Nina continued, wondering why she was speaking at all, “is what your meetings will be about? Choosing or rejecting new members who want to be cozy writers?”
    “This is one of our issues. There are many others.”
    The cat carriers, by now, had all been taken out of the limousines and were being carried by their owners, in a small parade, in the direction of the main house. Several of the animals had begun to notice each other and were hissing and snarling, throwing themselves against the small wire doors of the carriers.
    “Aren’t they so cute!” said Harriet Crossman.
    “The Hersheys?” asked Margot.
    “No, the cats. I just love to see them interact!”
    This is, thought Nina, going to be a disaster .
    She was beginning to imagine the various ways in which it was going to be a disaster, when Harriet Crossman continued:
    “Our biggest order of business, of course, as you undoubtedly know, is going to be the national television production. This will be a multi-million dollar affair. Each of our authors will be interviewed by the network representative—and by the way, Ms. Duncan hasn’t arrived yet, I take it?”
    “No,” said Margot, shaking her head. “No, she’s supposed to get here sometime tomorrow morning, I think about ten-thirty.”
    “Ah. Well, at any rate, her decision is going to be the making or breaking of one cozy author’s career. But, of course, it will affect all of us. The national publicity connected with a major series of this nature will send sales through the roof. So we will be monitoring her interviews with great interest.”
    “I see. Well, you certainly have full plates and much work to do in the next days. Please don’t hesitate to come to me or the staff with any questions. We’re at your disposal, as is the entire plantation!”
    “Thank you! Thank you ever so much! Well, now I must go fetch Hecuba and set about finding a roommate. Ta ta for now!”
    “Ta ta!” answered Margot.
    “Ta ta!” answered Nina.
    Then:
    Thousand one, thousand two––
    Harriet Crossman out of hearing distance.
    Margot, whispering:
    “Nina, you’ve got to get into town. Take one of the trucks. I could send one of the men but I don’t trust them. We’ve got no time, no time at all, and this is one errand that has to be done right!”
    Margot had taken from her massive leather purse a ball-point pen and note pad, upon which she was