We all rummaged in our packs again. Misti passed Ray his raincoat without a word.
16
I stood on the ferry feeling exhausted, a little sore from being a drone’s crash pad, but satisfied. It had been a long but wondrous day once Connor had taken over guarding the satchel. No further incidents had occurred, and we’d managed to ferret out at least a few facts about the nomads too.
We’d seen sweeping vistas, hidden creeks and rivers, scenic treetop walkways, a rushing waterfall, and the rainforest turning abruptly into the soft white sand and bright blue water of Cape Tribulation—as pristine as when Lieutenant James Cook first set eyes on it several centuries prior.
The nomads had identified over a dozen bird species from their calls or glimpsed sightings, pointed out half a dozen snakes, including a particularly memorable turquoise one, three types of lizards, the largest of which was a four-foot goanna clinging from a tree trunk, a number of green tree frogs, the flashing wings of a Ulysses butterfly, an eerily beautiful cassowary, and a family of feral pigs. (We’d yet to figure out whether the nomads’ vast knowledge came from their love of nature or a secret wildlife-smuggling sideline.) And we’d topped it all off with the world-famous ice cream from Daintree Ice Cream Co. and iced coffees whipped up by Misti that we’d enjoyed at one of the many lookouts.
Ray had been napping in their motorhome ever since.
Now the sun was setting over the river, lighting up the cloudy sky with orange hues and reflecting back over the water. I wandered to the rear of the ferry to get a last look at the ancient wild and wondrous rainforest. Between the dangerous plants, bugs, and slithery things, I was glad I wasn’t sleeping there, but I felt sad to leave it behind too.
Despite the hour, it was still stinking hot. It would’ve been nice to remove my shoes and dunk them in the water if it weren’t for the inconvenient facts that the ferry sat too high for that and the Daintree River was full of crocodiles.
Footsteps interrupted my musing, and I turned to see the lovebirds Ginger and Gerrie walking to join me. I guess it was kind of romantic out here, come to think of it, but Connor was stuck in the car guarding the satchel.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Gerrie murmured, his voice filled with reverence.
“It is,” Ginger agreed. “No matter how many times I come here, I never get tired of it.”
Gerrie put his arm around her. “Well, you’ve never gotten tired of me either, so you’re a remarkably magnanimous woman that way.”
Ginger chortled and leaned her head on his shoulder. “You honey-tongued old devil. You’re a hard man to get sick of.”
I wasn’t sure whether to feel charmed or uncomfortable.
“Anyway, we should leave young Isobel here to enjoy the peace and quiet. Come on.” They linked arms and walked past me. I realized I hadn’t said a word to them. Not that you needed to with those two—
A body slammed into my back, and I flailed head-first over the railing.
Cool water plunged up my nose and down my throat as I hit the river mid-gasp. I choked and coughed reflexively but didn’t have enough air in my lungs to clear it out. Fighting panic, I opened my eyes to figure out which way was up and struggled for the surface. My long-sleeved clothes and heavy hiking shoes fought against me. My nose and throat burned. My lungs screamed for air.
Was the surface getting any closer? Or was I sinking still? I churned the river beneath my feet, too terrified to stop and remove my hiking boots. The water above hadn’t grown any lighter. Or was my vision darkening from lack of oxygen? Instinctively I knew I didn’t have enough air left to remove the weighty items pulling me down, but I couldn’t seem to rise fast enough with them attached either. Was I really about to die? Would this muddy water be the last thing I ever saw? My mind joined my lungs in screaming, and I fought back hysterical sobs.
In the midst of my barely leashed panic, I saw a dark shape in the murky water coming my way. Oh God. If that was a crocodile I was dead meat. I thrashed my limbs harder, fighting to reach the surface and escape the looming shape at the same time.
Something grabbed my waist. I lashed out and made contact, only then realizing that the pressure around my torso was fabric rather than teeth, and the thing I’d hit skin instead of scales. Oops.
My rescuer was helping me upward toward that sweet, sweet oxygen. I might have cried in relief, but who would know when you’re submerged under water? At last—after what felt like a short eternity in hell—we broke the surface.
I coughed and sputtered and maybe vomited a little, Connor holding me tight and tugging me to safety. “You’re okay, Izzy. I’ve got you,” he promised, and then multiple arms pulled me up onto the ferry while he boosted me from below.
I sprawled inelegantly on the deck and coughed and choked up more river water. Connor joined me seconds later, rubbing my back and murmuring reassurances. He was barefoot and dripping wet, and he’d never looked more beautiful.
Mum was there too, and I realized she was part of the back rubbing and murmured reassurances. I reached for both of them and clung to the hands they gave me, grateful to be alive.
After a little more recovery time, I croaked, “What happened?”
“Oh, honey,” Mum said, “Ginger lost her footing and fell into Gerrie, and Gerrie fell into you.”
“Apparently Ginger tripped over a traffic cone,” Connor put in.
I looked over to where I’d been standing. Sure enough, there was a knocked over traffic cone. I couldn’t remember if it had been there earlier.
Ginger and Gerrie rushed over clutching towels. “Izzy, we’re so, so sorry! Thank goodness you’re okay.”
They’d seemed so sweet just before my involuntary swim. Could they have been thinking those lovey-dovey things while plotting my possible death?
They thrust the towels at us and, in the face of my silence and paper-thin smile, scurried away. I was too wrung out to act.
Another thought struck me. “The satchel?” Funnily enough, Connor hadn’t taken it diving with him.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I ditched it somewhere along with my shoes. You’re far more important.”
I leaned into him. “Thank you. For rescuing me.”
“Of course,” he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Steve wouldn’t have jumped into a croc-infested river to save me.”
Connor tucked a tangle of wet hair behind my ear and squeezed me tighter. “Yeah well, Steve’s an idiot.”
Mum shuffled closer to hug both of us. “Dumber than a box of rocks,” she agreed. “But I think I like this new fella of yours.”
We stayed like that for a few more minutes before my mind used my recent near-drowning and eaten-by-a-crocodile experience to remind me of Amy’s murder. “I guess we should go and see what’s left of our satchel.”
Mum was waylaid by Kirk along the way. So it was just me and Connor who returned to the car to find Etta sitting primly with the satchel on her lap.
“Looking for this?” she asked knowingly. “I think it’s time you tell me what the hell’s going on.”
I opened my mouth and shut it again.
Ray chose that moment to stumble out from his motorhome (probably woken by Gerrie and Ginger’s procurement of the towels). He took in Connor and me—both sodden and dripping onto the deck—and shook his head.
“I told you it was going to rain today. You should’ve brought raincoats.”
17
None of us spoke a word while we waited for Ray to wander on his way. Then Connor met Etta’s direct gaze.
“I disagree,” he said.
Etta assessed him, tapping her fingers on the blue leather. “I need to know what’s going on so I can protect Izzy.”
Connor folded his arms. “No, you don’t. It’s none of your business, and I’m protecting Izzy.”
“Oh sure. You’re doing a bang-up job so far.”
Connor winced. Reassessed. Exhaled slowly. “Fine. We’
ll talk. Later.”
Mum managed to disengage herself from Kirk, and the ferry banked on the south side of the river.
An hour later, I was still wet, sore, and exhausted, but the hotel shower was within my sights.
Lily got up to greet us, then missed a step at Connor’s and my bedraggled appearance. “I thought I was the only one going swimming today.”
All right, I’ll admit it. I took some pleasure from the fact that, for once, Connor was almost as disheveled as me. Even if he had gotten that way by heroically leaping into the river to save my sorry ass.
“It’s a long story,” I said, glancing with yearning toward the shower. “Have Mum and Etta fill you in.”
My heroic boyfriend and I departed into separate bathrooms. Separate because we had company. And washed away the day’s misadventures.
Clean and dry, I made myself a hot chocolate and cooked up a batch of cheese toasties—minus the jalapeños, unfortunately. Connor took his gladly.
Clean, dry, and fed, I felt a whole lot better. And along with that improvement of my mood came a new conviction. Having been pancaked by a drone and shoved into a river full of crocodiles—the days of gathering information and biding our time were over. Now we needed to take action.
I perhaps wasn’t the only one with this conviction. Etta was chafing with impatience at the delay in getting the lowdown on the case.
But Lily wanted to talk, and after leaving her alone all day with Herbert, I was more than happy to sit on my butt in comfort for a little longer.
“Herbie and I had a very relaxing day,” she told me when I asked. “We watched Hot Fuzz and had plenty of nibbles and drinks. And cuddles too, of course. He was more interested in eating than reading my paperback though.”
I snickered.
“The only sour spot was those horrible brats at the pool. Ugh. You wouldn’t believe how nasty they can be.”
“Really? What did they do to you?”
“Not to me. I’m a scary adult.” She pulled a face. “But you remember that kid who was reading by the pool and got drenched?”
“The one you donated your towel to? Yeah.”
“Well, her name’s Caitlyn and she’s here with her dad on his second honeymoon. Except he and the new wife aren’t interested in doing any kid stuff with her, so her options are read by the pool or be cooped up with the lovebirds who don’t want her around.”
“Poor kid.” It didn’t take a genius to figure Lily could relate to that kind of unthinking parental neglect.
Lily’s lips flattened. “Yeah. Anyway, Caitlyn hangs out at the pool as much as she can. Not that she even likes swimming. And there are these three other kids who all know each other somehow and seem to have made it their favorite holiday game to torment her. I’ve dubbed them the Brat Brigade.”
That drew a smile from me. “You always did have a way with words.”
She shrugged off the compliment. “Yeah well, it doesn’t help Caitlyn, does it? I’m furious that these undersized snots keep taking cheap shots at her, and I can’t do anything about it. They’re sneaky about it too—waiting until there is no hotel staff around to get them in trouble. I feel helpless.”
I’d had my own gutful of cheap shots today. My own quota of feeling scared or hurt or helpless. I could only imagine how those wild animals must have felt too. Not to mention the scam victims of my last jerk of a client. What was with these people who felt fine about picking on the people or animals who couldn’t defend themselves?
I growled in frustration. “How about you stand up and do something about it then? You’re smart and capable and creative. Brainstorm a plan and put it into action.”
Lily’s eyes sparked with interest. “You really think I should?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I still remember the time you taught the Beltrami brothers a lesson they’d never forget. Give those brats hell.”
Lily grinned.
I wasn’t sure I’d seen her smile like that since I’d gotten home. Like my bold and spirited best friend—rather than the subdued, contemplating-the-upheaval-of-her-life version. I was gladdened and retrospectively apprehensive.
“And um, by hell, I mean, like, a gentle wake-up call about unseemly behavior,” I amended.
Etta might’ve learned a lot of things in her near three-quarters of a century on this earth, but patience wasn’t one of them. Shortly after we’d eaten, she dragged me and Connor out to pick up her dry cleaning.
This raised funny looks from Mum and Lily since the hotel had its own dry-cleaning services. But Etta told them this one offered a free bag of crocodile jerky to first-time customers.
We took the satchel with us.
Remembering Mum and Lily’s narrowed eyes as we headed out the door, I turned on Etta as soon as we were safely within the car. “Couldn’t you have at least come up with a more plausible excuse?”
“Of course not. I’m just a little old lady with no experience in subterfuge.”
My eyes rolled of their own accord. “Right.”
She thrust her phone at Connor, the screen showing an address. “Drive there. And spill already. What’s going on with those gray nomads, and why do they want the satchel so badly?”
We laid it out for her. Everything we’d learned so far—except for the Taste Society parts, naturally.
Amy left to catch her flight in Port Douglas four nights ago in terrible weather conditions. She departed on time, but only had about fifteen minutes up her sleeve for delays.
The river crossing was flooded, and it appears she tried to cross anyway so as not to miss her flight. She and her vehicle were washed into the river.
Cause of death was drowning, but she had opiates and benzodiazepines in her system, which would have played a significant part in her error of judgment as well as worsening her reactions when things went wrong.
A crocodile ate her corpse, and the drugs in her system probably killed the crocodile which led to her being found. Neither of these events could have been planned or foreseen. But she may well have been found without them.
Amy was not known for taking recreational drugs in general nor opiates and benzodiazepines in particular, and it would’ve been downright foolish under the circumstances. This led us to hypothesize that she was dosed with the opiates and benzodiazepines against her knowledge.
Given the dangerous weather and road conditions that evening, it follows that the individual who gave them to her must have intended her death or at least serious injury.
Yet dosing Amy with recreational drugs under the circumstances was still less certain to kill her than dosing her with a lethal substance, and therefore the person behind the attempt risked Amy surviving. On the other hand, the recreational drugs method had the significant benefit of appearing accidental. More than one Queenslander had been killed in similar scenarios.
So why did her killer act that night?
Had they dosed her impulsively with minimal premeditation? Or had they planned the murder attempt in advance and been waiting for the right moment? The driving conditions four nights ago offered them a much better than average opportunity of the death being chalked up as an accident… But she’d been given enough performance- and judgment-impairing drugs that, even without the weather, she almost certainly wouldn’t have made it all the way to the airport without incident.
When had she been dosed? Most opiates and benzodiazepines affect the user’s faculties for no more than twelve hours and often much less. Therefore, whoever dosed Amy would’ve needed to do so on the day of her departure.
The gray nomads told us they shared a quick meal with Amy before she left. We assume they handed over whatever she was smuggling for them as well. Amy also saw her colleague when she picked up the pharmaceutical products en route. He said he didn’t notice her acting strangely. Another player is possible since we couldn’t be sure Amy didn’t see someone else that day. However, she led a solitary life, and only the nomads and her lab colleague were known to be regular
associates.
(We did not explain to Etta why we’d largely ruled out Dr. Pasquel Merlot as a suspect. With his pharmacology skills and all the lethal critters in their workplace, relying on commonplace, screened-for recreational drugs and the hope of a fatal traffic accident seemed unnecessarily clumsy and imprecise. That and he had no motive that we could see.)
Our search of Amy’s house found no sign of drugs or their use. But we did find records which led us to believe she was smuggling something overseas during her courier travel for the pharmaceutical company she was officially employed by.
Later we matched the names of the payees to the nomads’ motorhome names. Although Kirk’s caravan Liberty wasn’t mentioned.
We spoke to an expert on smuggling in Australia in an attempt to narrow down what the nomads might’ve been sending overseas via Amy’s work trips. At this stage, we were leaning toward wildlife smuggling.
Our day in the Daintree had revealed the nomads had vast wildlife knowledge, weren’t afraid of handling reptiles (we’d all seen Ginger pick up that allegedly nonvenomous snake), and had just come over from Western Australia, which our expert identified as a hot spot for high-value wildlife. In addition, the gray nomads’ frequent visits to national parks gave them the ideal opportunity to do the collecting. Besides which, working as a group increased profit since it also increased the amount of wildlife they could collect—so it made more sense for them to team up for a wildlife-smuggling operation than, say, with drugs, for example. But we couldn’t be certain.
Although the illicit activity itself did not provide an obvious motive for Amy’s death, it seemed the most likely avenue down which to find one.
Connor pulled over at the address Etta had given him. Sure enough, there was a dry cleaner here, and it was still open.
Checking it out made me realize just how sore my neck had gotten from turning in my seat to talk to Etta. I rubbed it and stretched before continuing the rundown.
“Then there’s the satchel.”
The Killer of Oz Page 14