by Maddy Hunter
“No more questions?”
“That’s it.”
“So you don’t think foul play was involved?”
He eyed me curiously. “We didn’t find any evidince to indicate a crime had been committed.”
“Oh, thank God!” I grabbed his forearm and squeezed gratefully. “You don’t know how happy I am to hear that.” Given the number of bodies I’d stumbled upon on my last four trips abroad, I was relieved that Claire’s death didn’t smack of homicide, but the fact that her dreams of a husband, children, and a gas-guzzling SUV would never be fulfilled left me oddly dispirited. “So, what happens now?”
“Postmortem. She might have had a preexisting condition that contributed to her dith, so that’s what we’ll be looking for. Hilthy adults don’t collapse and die for no reason.”
I sidled a look at Jake Silverthorn and lowered my voice as if I were sharing an original thought. “Do you suppose she might have been bitten by, say, a poisonous snake or spider?”
Peter bowed his head close to mine, and said in a knowing undertone, “You’ve rid the book, haven’t you?”
“Book?”
“The Big Golden Book of Reptiles, Insects, and Marine Life that Can Kill You in Australia.”
I stared at him, deadpan. “There’s a whole book?”
“It used to be an encyclopedia, but they condinsed it into an abridged coffee table edition with great color illustrations. It only lists the didliest buggehs, so you don’t have to waste time looking at the ones that give you more than an hour to live.”
A whole hour. Imagine. You’d have time for a pedicure before you kicked off.
“But if you ask me, the thrit is way overblown. The last time I saw a report of someone dying from a snake or spider bite was an eon ago.”
“How much of an eon?” I asked. “Ten years? Twenty?”
“Two weeks. But I’m talking about the whole country.”
“Thanks for your patience!” Henry’s voice reverberated through the room. “Our bus is back in working order so I’d appreciate your boarding as soon as possible. I’m hoping to make up time on our way back, so instid of stopping for dinner en route, I’ll order boxed lunches and lit you eat on the bus. That way you’ll still be on time for our ‘Meet and Greet’ back at the hotel. So sorry for the inconvenience, mates. Really.”
As the room began to empty, Peter urged me out the door. “Would you mind walking to the van with me so I can give you a business card? If you recall anything in the nixt few days that might be of use in our invistigation, ring me up.”
He removed a card from the vehicle’s glove compartment and scribbled something on the back. “This is my cill number, in case you need to reach me at home. You niveh know when those memories are going to kick in.” He handed me the card, smiling with straightforward interest. “I don’t suppose your tour group has accommodations anywhere around Warrnambool.”
My voice dripped apology. “I’m afraid we’re staying in Melbourne.”
“My loss. I could have shown you sights along the Great Ocean Road that the guidebooks haven’t even found.”
“Riddy when you are, Peter,” the other official said as he climbed into the passenger’s side of the van.
I waited until they drove away, then crossed to the parking lot where our bus was being given a final once-over by the Port Campbell mechanic and a male audience high on testosterone.
Men were so predictable. A guy might not know a jackhammer from M.C. Hammer, but if he hears the far-off buzz of a drill or saw, he’ll be out the door, tracking down the sound like a mountain man tracking bear. Once he locates the source, he bonds with the other guys who show up with ritual grunting, scratching, drinking, and standing around being useless. A lot of people think it’s team sports that form the cornerstone of male relationships, but it’s not.
It’s power tools.
I found Etienne and Duncan on the shaded side of the bus, watching sweaty, windblown tour guests climb aboard—Etienne with his black hair, Windex blue eyes, and one percent body fat, and Duncan with his football player’s physique, too-long blond hair, and dark brown eyes. I never failed to be struck by how opposite they were, and not just in looks. “How can you stand out here in the heat?” I swiped away the moisture that was drizzling down my temples. “Aren’t you dying?”
“Bella.” Etienne lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed my fingers. Duncan gave my hair a playful ruffle.
“Hiya, pretty. You’re right. It’s hell out here, but the mechanic had a pneumatic wrench that was poetry in motion, so we had to check it out, didn’t we, Miceli?”
Etienne spun me around into his arms and whispered seductively against my earlobe, “It’s made of titanium and can withstand a thousand foot-pounds more torque than your average pneumatic wrench. It’s the bomb.”
I grinned. “Do you know what that means?”
“I believe it means the essence of perfection.” His voice rang with boyish enthusiasm. “I have a new American slang dictionary.”
“How does a police inspector learn about foot-pounds of torque?”
“It’s not something I learned,” he whispered against my neck. “It’s part of the programming software that goes with the Y chromosome.”
“Hey, Em,” Duncan interrupted, “is that a bug on your foot?”
“BUG?” I shot out of Etienne’s arms. “Where? Which foot?” I thrashed around and swatted blindly, pausing after a few panicky moments to look down. “Is it gone?”
Duncan gave me a serious once-over. “Yup. Looks like you got it.” He braced an elbow on Etienne’s shoulder. “What do you say, Miceli? Time to climb aboard?” He gave me a flirtatious wink, the twinkle in his eye making me wonder if there’d been a bug there in the first place. I looked suspiciously from one to the other. Fast friends, were they?
I fixed Etienne with a questioning look. “I’m surprised you didn’t flash your credentials at the coroner so you could get in on the investigation.”
A moment’s uncertainty flickered in his eyes before he remembered to smile. “They seemed to have things well in hand. No sense making a nuisance of myself.”
But he always wanted to be in on the action. What was up with that?
“Twinty-nine, thirty, thirty-one,” said Henry as he included the three of us in his head count. “That leaves eleven gists missing.” He glanced around the parking lot. “Always a few stragglers who muck up the works.”
I imagined it was only coincidence that my Iowa contingent had exactly eleven members, but they couldn’t possibly be the culprits. Without exception they were always first for everything—to arrive at breakfast, to be out the door, to board the bus so they could claim the good seats by the restroom. They might be old, but in any given footrace, they always smoked the competition.
I scanned the windows at the rear of the bus to do a quick head count, aghast when I saw there were no heads, only rows of empty seats.
EH! They were the culprits! Oh, my God. Where were they?
I gave Henry’s arm a frantic tug. “It’s my group that’s missing. This is so unlike them. They’re never late. Ever. Something terrible must have happened to them.”
He unholstered his cell phone. “No worries. I’ll call emergency services again if you like.”
Etienne grabbed my wrist and aimed me toward the visitor’s center, motioning with his hand. “Is that one of your group in the window?”
I strained to see what he was pointing at. It was fluorescent pink and filled the entire window, which meant it had to be Lucille Rassmuson. Oh, thank God. “Hold off on the phone call,” I instructed Henry. “I see them. I’ll be right back.”
I rushed into the visitor’s center to find all eleven of them cowering by the window, bunched up like grapes. “Are you guys okay? Is someone hurt? What are you doing in here? The bus is about to leave!” And then I said something to them that no other person in the annals of history has ever said to a group of Iowans. “You’re late. Do you
hear me? L-A-T-E. Late!”
They stared back at me like zombies. Good Lord, what was wrong with them? “Guys?”
“Did you know that of the ten deadliest snakes in the world, all ten are Australian?” said Dick Teig in a strained whisper.
“And there’s a seashell here that can kill you if the creature inside chomps down on you?” said Grace Stolee.
“And there’s a rock with thorny spikes that can pierce shoe leather and shoot you full of enough toxin to turn your innards to creme brulée?” added Dick Stolee.
“It’s not a rock,” said Bernice. “It’s a fish that looks like a rock.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dick sputtered. “Well, I think you look like a rock.”
“And there’s a saltwater crocodile that can leap twenty feet out of the water and eat you in one ferocious bite,” fretted Lucille, though in her case, it might be two.
“And there’s a big bird in the rain forest that can split you open with one swipe of its claw,” Osmond croaked. “It’s like a can opener with wings.”
Since no one was waving around The Big Golden Book of Reptiles, Insects, and Marine Life that Can Kill You in Australia, I figured all this sudden knowledge had originated in one place.
Nana regarded me anxiously. “Emily, dear, did you know there’s more things that can kill you in Australia than anywhere else on earth? That fella what looks like the crocodile hunter was nice enough to give us the scoop.”
Note to self: Kill Jake Silverthorn.
“Okay, gang,” I said in the most soothing voice I could muster. “I think you might be overreacting a teensy bit.”
“Tell that to the girl who keeled over out there in the underbrush,” argued Dick Teig, his gaze riveted on the floor in an obvious search for killer insects with dinner plans.
“None of us would have signed up for this trip if Emily had told us how dangerous this place was,” complained Bernice. “It’s all her fault. No one wants to be insect bait for the next two weeks. I say we go home. And we better get refunds!”
“Show of hands for how many people want to go home,” asked Osmond.
“EEE-YAH!” yelled Dick Teig, stomping his foot on the floor so hard, the windows rattled. “Die, you cussed bug.”
Dick Stolee sidled up to him. “What’d you kill?”
Dick lifted his sandal. “Dust bunny.”
Dick Stolee nodded. “Looks like a poison one.”
Section two, subparagraph three of my official Escort’s Manual states that the savvy tour escort “will do everything in her power to place her guests’ minds at ease so they can fully enjoy every moment of their tour experience.” Unfortunately, subparagraph three offered no suggestions about how to do that, so I was going to have to ad lib my butt off.
“Listen to me, everyone: the only thing you’re in mortal danger of is missing the bus. We’re not walking on a beach, so you can’t be attacked by seashells. We’re not wading in the ocean, so you can’t be stung by rocks. We’re not visiting the Great Barrier Reef, so you can’t be devoured by crocodiles. We’re not exploring the rain forest, so you can’t be ripped open by birds.”
Alice Tjarks shot her hand into the air. “Excuse me, Emily, but what’s left to see if you’re not taking us to visit any of the exciting touristy stuff?”
“Yeah,” sniped Helen Teig. “We expect to get our money’s worth!”
“We didn’t fly all the way over here to do everything on the cheap!” Dick Stolee protested.
Gee, that worked well. “You will get your money’s worth. It’s a big country. There’s plenty left to see. But you won’t see any of it unless you get on the bus.”
Foot shuffling. Sighs. Indecisive looks. “What about snakes?” Margi called out.
“You only have to walk a short distance to the bus, and it’s on pavement, so just watch where you’re going. Australian snakes prefer to slither in the grass anyway.” At least, I hoped they did.
“Does anyone have a weapon in case Emily is feeding us a line of bull?” asked Dick Stolee.
“Tilly has one,” Bernice piped up. “Let her go in front. If she sees a snake, she can beat the crap out of it with her cane while the rest of us hightail it to the bus.”
Nods. Smiles. Grunts of approval. In the next half second Tilly got body-passed from the back to the front, and everyone bunched up in line behind her.
“Are you okay with this setup, Tilly?” I asked skeptically.
She stood pencil straight in her madras skirt and visor, looking stern and professorial. “I’ve faced giant dung beetles in Africa and black flies in Maine. I should be able to handle this.” She rapped her walking stick on the floor. “Come along, people! Look lively, or you’ll be using your opposable thumbs to get back to Melbourne.”
They scuffed across the floor in a solid clump, as if they’d been Super-Glued. “Hey, we still have a vote pending about whether we’re going home. Can I see a show of hands?” Osmond yelled, as they squeezed through the door.
I whipped out my camera and got off a shot, grinning, as they shuffled across the pavement in caterpillar formation. I could see the caption under the photo in my travel newsletter: TOGETHERNESS, AUSTRALIAN STYLE. I snapped another for good measure, suddenly reminded of what Peter Blunt had said.
He’d implied that tourists use up all their film shooting pictures of the Shipwreck Coast. But Claire told me she always cut off the heads of her subjects, so she didn’t even own a camera. So if she hadn’t gone back out into the heat to take pictures, why had she gone out?
Chapter 3
I took an instant liking to Melbourne with its grandiose Victorian buildings, modern high-rises, and colorful electric trams. Back in the 1850s some guy with a lot of vision drew a blueprint for the city, so streets are laid out in an orderly grid that has “Iowa Highway System” written all over it. Even people without maps can’t get lost.
Unlike Iowa, however, Melbourne leans toward the eclectic. For instance, our hotel was located on a quiet side street around the corner from an imposing stone government building, a five-star Pan-Asian restaurant, and a boutique with a tasteful display of whips, chains, and leather bras studded with metal spikes. Iowans are more discreet about specialty boutiques like this. They prefer them to be located in places that are more off the beaten path. Like…LA.
We’d made it back from Port Campbell with an hour to spare before our “Meet and Greet,” so after showering and restyling my hair, I zipped myself into a strapless black number with a peekaboo cutout in the back, slipped into stiletto slides, grabbed my shoulder bag, and rode the elevator to the lounge on the top floor.
The glass-enclosed room afforded dazzling bird’s-eye views of Melbourne’s darkening skyline and city lights. Henry sloshed punch into glasses at a buffet table, whistling slightly off-key to a tune that was being piped in over the stereo system. “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”? Hmm. Was it odd that we were in Australia’s cultural epicenter, listening to America’s greatest hits of World War II?
I took quick visual inventory, surprised when I found none of my crew in the conversational groupings scattered throughout the room. I tried to ignore a frisson of worry. Five minutes ’til showtime; they should be here by now. I hoped they weren’t all cowering in their rooms, too scared to go out, or…or stockpiling bug killer. That stuff could blow like a grenade if exposed to extreme heat, and not to put too fine a point on it, but it was poison!
“Are you Emily?” asked a man who spoke with a hint of a foreign accent. “Conrad Carver,” he said, shaking my hand. “I heard your name being called out at the Port Campbell visitor center. Did the coroner give you any idea what might have happened to the Bellows woman?”
I suspected the reason Conrad Carver looked familiar was because he had Albert Einstein’s hair and mustache. He was short and slightly built, with a unibrow that looked like a happy victim of Miracle-Gro. “He couldn’t tell me a thing, other than he’d be performing a postmortem.”
“It’s a terrible
way to begin a holiday.”
“I’ll say.” Especially for Claire. “Are you traveling by yourself, Conrad?”
“No, no. My wife is with me. If you want to know the truth, this is our anniversary trip.” He smiled modestly. “Fifty years tomorrow.”
“Congratulations!” I clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s a great accomplishment, especially in this day and age.” I couldn’t place the accent. German? Russian?
“You must give all the credit to my wife for putting up with me all these years. The long work hours. The extended travel. The phone calls telling her I’d have to miss the children’s birthdays, again.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
“I was senior paleobotanist for the Smithsonian Institution, and in my spare time I wrote botany textbooks for universities.”
Guy Madelyn motioned to us with his camera. “Do you mind? I’d like to get shots of everyone.”
“Why don’t you take one of Conrad with his wife?” I suggested, stepping out of the way. “An anniversary photo. Where’s your wife, Conrad?”
“Maybe later with my wife,” he said, hooking an eager arm around my waist and yanking me close. “Say, cheese.”
Guy pressed the shutter.
Etienne strode toward us, giving me a long, lingering look up and down. “Love the dress, what there is of it.”
“Is this your wife?” Conrad asked, quickly dropping his arm.
Etienne flashed a slow smile. “She could be. All she has to do is say something other than, ‘I need time to think about it.’”
Conrad looked me in the eye. “A handsome young man asks for your hand, and you don’t say yes?”
“I brought you some punch, Em,” Duncan interrupted, cutting in front of Etienne to hand me a glass. “The dress rocks. What’s it made of? Spandex?” He planted a kiss on my bare shoulder, then lowered his hand to the peekaboo cutout at the small of my back, grazing his fingertips over the triangle of exposed skin. “Nice.”