by Maddy Hunter
“Be there in a sec,” I shouted back, still unnerved by the prospect of juggling both of them for the next fourteen days. But this had been their idea. They insisted on going head to head on a level playing field, like players in a Survivor challenge, and no argument on my part could change their minds. So here they were, vying for me as if I were the lone bucket of chicken wings on an island whose only other food source was sand flies. This pretty much confirmed something I’d been unwilling to admit until now.
I hated reality TV.
As I marshaled my courage to join my two suitors, the crowd encircling Guy spat out another guest who came hurtling straight toward me. “Eh!” I cried, sidestepping her before her sturdy Birkenstocks creamed my open-toed wedges.
“Oops! Sorry.” She paused for breath, shivering as she stared back at the mob. “I didn’t mean to get caught in the middle of that.” She patted down her oversized blouse and hiking shorts as if taking inventory, before flashing me a smile. “I’ve never seen people get so maniacal over photographs. I specialize in chopping off heads, so I don’t even own a camera. I learned long ago that postcards are the way to go. I’m Claire Bellows, and you’re obviously not part of the Aussie Adventures tour since you’re not wearing a name tag.”
I returned her smile. “Emily Andrew. I’m part of the tour, I just don’t do name tags.”
“I like that idea.” She removed her ID and stuffed it into her breast pocket before wiping beads of perspiration from her brow. “We’re not schoolkids, right? I hate name tags, and I’ll be stuck wearing one for a whole week after the tour is over.”
“Conference?”
“Yeah. Scientific meeting in Melbourne. How ’bout you?”
“I’m on the job as we speak. Official escort for a group of Iowa seniors who are in the middle of that mob over there.”
“So you’re not alone?” Claire Bellows reminded me a little of Rosie O’Donnell—dark-haired and heavy-legged, with a directness that oozed confidence. “I always travel alone. When you’re by yourself, other tourists feel sorry for you, so they adopt you. It’s a great way to meet new people. If I keep at it, I figure I’m bound to run into Mr. Right one of these days. Are you married?”
“I used to be.” I let out a sigh. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve never been married. I’m thirty-seven years old, on a career track that has my head pressed against the original glass ceiling, and unless I can reinvent the wheel and wow my company’s CEO, that’s where I’ll be stuck until I’m ready to hang up my lab coat. So I’ve officially entered the marriage market.” She wiggled ten brightly polished nails. “I even got a manicure to kick off the event. First one in my life. I want it all—husband, two-point-three kids, dog, gas-guzzling SUV. I hit the snooze button on my biological clock when I started work and the alarm is about to go off, so I’m pulling out all the stops. Guaranteed, I’ll be walking down the aisle in the next few months.” She nodded emphatically and glanced around the room as if scouting out likely prospects. “Do you have time to date much?”
“Um…dating is a problem.”
She opened her collar wider, fanning herself with the placket. “Well, don’t be surprised by what you find when you get back into the dating scene. If you don’t have good instincts, you’re going to end up disappointed.” She bobbed her head toward Etienne and Duncan. “You see those two hunks over there by the window? Case in point. The two best-looking men on the tour, and they’re taken.”
My neck grew warm with self-conscious guilt, but in my own defense, this wasn’t my fault! I wasn’t flaunting them like trophies. I hadn’t even invited them to join me on the tour! What was I supposed to do? Send one of them home? They hadn’t even bothered to buy cancellation insurance!
Claire let out an anguished moan. “It never fails. The gorgeous guys are always gay.”
I jerked my head around to stare at her. “What?”
A gust of wind whistled through the room as our guide banged through the main entrance, his navy blue uniform putting him in danger of being mistaken for a United States Postal Service worker. His name was Henry, and in addition to narrating our travelogue, he drove the bus, prepared and served midmorning tea and cakes, directed us to the restrooms, counted heads, snapped guest photos, maintained our vehicle, treated minor injuries, exchanged currency, and could belt out a rendition of “Waltzing Matilda” that made your teeth vibrate. I was dying to see what he’d do for an encore.
“If I can trouble you for your attintion!” he called out. “I apologize to those of you waiting to board the Aussie Advintures bus, but one of our tires has blown, so I’m waiting on a mechanic from Port Campbell for assistance. No worries, though; we’ll only be delayed an hour or two. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Groans. Hissing. “What are we supposed to do for two hours?” a disgruntled guest yelled.
“Introduce yoursilf to your mates!” Henry suggested. “You’re in this for two weeks togither. Give it a go.”
Claire gave my arm a squeeze. “I’m a little stiff, so I’m going outside to walk off the kinks and check out a minor curiosity. See you on the bus.”
“But wait—” I sputtered as she broke for the door, followed by a slew of other guests. I had to set her straight about Etienne and Duncan before her imaginings became grist for the rumor mill. If there was one thing I’d learned in Ireland, it was to nip a vicious rumor in the bud before it had a chance to blossom.
Battening my hair down with a bandanna, I signaled Etienne and Duncan that I had to leave, then exited the building, bracing myself against the brutal force of the wind.
The sky was electric blue, the sun so hot that it rippled the air. I shivered at the hostile acres of briars and brush that stubbled the cliff top, then stepped onto the slatted walkway that knifed through them, noting the frequent signs that cautioned visitors to PLEASE REMAIN ON THE WALKWAY. Oh, sure. Like there was someone on the planet who’d willingly stray off it?
I spied Claire and the other guests a city block away, hustling full speed ahead in spite of the heat and head wind. I couldn’t chase her down in my five-inch stacked heels, so I trudged behind for an exhausting five minutes, cursing when I reached the brow of the cliff, where the walkway split into a T.
I squinted east and west, wondering which way she and everyone else had gone. Nuts! This called for serious deductive reasoning. Eenie, meenie, meinie, moe…
Interrupted by the sudden clatter of footsteps behind me, I turned to find Guy Madelyn hiking my way. “The wind’s a pain,” he called out, his shirttails flapping around him, “but at least it keeps the flies from tunneling up your nose.” He paused beside me and nodded seaward. “Did you know that if you leaped off this cliff and started swimming south, you wouldn’t run into another landmass until you reached Antarctica?”
“Assuming you leaped at high tide.”
He raised his forefinger in a “Eureka!” kind of gesture. “Timing is everything. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name in the visitor’s center.”
“Emily Andrew. You want to hire my grandmother as your new crack photographer.”
“Mrs. Sippel is your grandmother? She has some fine photographic genes. Did she pass them on to you?”
“I got the shoe and makeup genes.” I regarded him soberly as he opened the lens of his camera. “Were you serious about wanting to hire Nana?”
“I’ll say! And I’d like to sign her up before the competition finds out about her.” He scanned the horizon through his viewfinder before motioning me toward the guardrail. “Could I get a shot of you with the great Southern Ocean as a backdrop? I don’t charge for my services when I’m on holiday.”
Was I about to be discovered? Oh, wow. I might not have made it as an actress, but could Guy Madelyn transform me into a cover model?
I struck a pose against the guardrail and emoted like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. Sexy. Sultry. Windblown.
“Can you open your eyes?”
I tr
ied again. Sexy. Surprised. Windblown.
“Maybe we should try this from one of the lookout points. We’re getting too much light here.”
Which I interpreted to mean, it was a good thing I was otherwise employed, because I had no future as a cover model.
“So you’re not here to shoot a wedding?” I asked as I walked double time to keep up with his long strides.
“Family reunion. It seems the Madelyn side of my family played as important a role in Australian history as the Mayflower passengers played in American history, so when my wife and kids fly out from Vancouver in a couple of weeks, we’re planning to meet all the Aussie relatives for the first time. The kids are really fired up, which is remarkable since they’re at the age where nothing impresses them. But I think they’re finding the idea of celebrity status for a few days ‘way cool.’”
“Because they’re related to a famous photographer?”
He laughed. “Because the town is planning to honor us with an award to recognize the contribution my ancestors made toward populating this part of Victoria. We’ve dubbed it the Breeder’s Cup. The kids figure we’ll be the only family in British Columbia with a commemorative plaque for inveterate shagging, so that gives them bragging rights. Kids, eh?”
Noticing a discarded candy wrapper littering the wayside, I ducked beneath the guardrail to pick it up, frowning when I realized what I was holding. “This is one of Nana’s photos. What’s it doing out here?” It was bent, and a little scratched, but in good shape otherwise. I showed it to Guy, who threw a curious look around us.
“I was positive all your grandmother’s photos found their way back to her. People can be so damned careless. I hope this is the only one she’s missing.”
“Dumb luck that I found it.” I slipped it into my shoulder bag for safekeeping. “So, where did your ancestors emigrate from? England?” I knew everyone in Australia was an import, except for the Aborigines, who’d been roaming the continent for either four centuries or sixty thousand years, depending upon which scholarly study you wanted to believe. Yup. The scientific community had really nailed that one.
“Portsmouth. They set sail in the early eighteen hundreds on a ship called the Meridia, and fifteen thousand miles later wrecked on a submerged reef along this very coast. My relatives were among the lucky few who survived.” He bobbed his head toward the open sea. “Look at all that water. If you took it away, do you know what you’d find? Sunken vessels. Over twelve hundred of them. More than anywhere else on earth. This whole place is a graveyard, which hammers home a very salient point.”
“What’s that?”
“Air travel is a wonderful thing.”
We followed the walkway through a stand of trees that were as stunted and gnarled as Halloween ghouls, then descended a short flight of stairs to a lower level with sweeping views of the deeply scalloped coastline and the thundering—
Guy suddenly ducked beneath the guardrail and charged through the underbrush, heading straight for the cliff’s edge. Eh! Were Iowans the only people who ever observed the rules?
“What are you doing?” I screamed after him. “Didn’t you read the signs? You’re supposed to stay on the walkway!”
He dropped to his knees twenty feet away and rolled something over.
Oh, God. It was a body.
Chapter 2
“What do you s’pose she was lookin’ for?” asked Nana, her nose pressed to the visitor center window.
“A husband,” I said as we watched two officials load a body bag into the rear of a van labeled—CORONER—CITY OF WARRNAMBOOL.
I’d run back to the visitor center after Guy made his discovery and tracked down Henry, who’d punched a number into his cell phone before dashing off with his medical kit. When emergency vehicles started screaming into the parking lot, I gave the police and paramedics directions to the site, then joined the other guests in the climate-controlled visitor center to await the outcome. With speculation about the nature of Claire Bellows’s injury running rampant, Osmond Chelsvig conducted an independent poll of our Iowa contingent and announced the results with the same giddy excitement that overtook him during off-year school board elections.
“Broken leg gets six votes. Diabetic coma gets one vote. Head trauma gets two votes. Ingrown toenail gets one vote. And, ‘She’s faking it to draw attention to herself’ gets one vote.”
We all threw disgusted looks at Bernice, who crossed her arms defensively. “You can’t prove that was me. That’s the beauty of secret ballots.”
When the coroner’s van pulled into the parking lot an hour later, I realized that all of us had been wrong. Claire Bellows was more than injured.
Claire Bellows was dead.
“She might have succumbed to heatstroke,” suggested Tilly Hovick, who leaned heavily on her walking stick as she observed the activity in the parking lot. “I believe that in extreme circumstances, heatstroke can cause death. If she was sensitive to the sun, she should have had an umbrella, though in this wind, an umbrella would be about as practical as flip-flops in the Arctic.”
“I bet she died of thirst,” said Lucille Rassmuson, whose fluorescent pink muumuu made her look like a pitcher of cherry Kool-Aid. “I thought I was going to die of thirst myself when I was out in that heat.”
“People don’t die from thirst,” Margi Swanson corrected helpfully. “They die from dehydration. We’ve treated a few cases at the clinic. Would you like me to explain the physiology to you?”
“NO!” a chorus of voices sang out.
“I’ll till you what killed her,” rasped an unfamiliar voice in an Australian drawl. “Nature.” With his accent, it came out, “Naycha.”
He strode into our midst with testosterone-laced swagger, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops as he squinted at each of us. He was wearing a tank top, shorts, thick socks, and boots that looked as if they’d kicked around a construction site for decades. His face was the color of tree bark, seamed and unshaven, and on a leather string around his neck hung a tooth the size of my baby finger. Probably one of his own. His name tag read, JAKE SILVERTHORN.
“My giss is taipan,” he said around the toothpick that was wedged in the corner of his mouth. “Didliest snake on earth. There’s only one good thing about being bitten by a taipan.”
“Would that be that there’s an antitoxin available at local pharmacies?” asked Tilly.
“You die quick. Though some say, not quick enough.”
It suddenly grew so quiet, I could hear sweat popping out on everyone’s upper lip. “How quick?” asked seventy-six-year-old Alice Tjarks in a voice much more tentative than the one she used to announce the daily farm reports on KORN radio.
“Two minutes. Four, tops. The most agonizing four minutes you’ll ever spind.”
I stared down at my open-toed wedges with the ankle straps and wondered if I should reconsider my footwear options.
“The taipan’s a northern vipah,” Jake went on in his growlly voice. “But there’s three million square miles of imptiness around us, most of it unexplored, so no one really knows what’s out there. Taipan’s niveh been spotted in Victoria, but that doesn’t mean it’s not here.” His toothpick bobbed as he stretched his mouth into a knowing grin. “Or maybe it was a ridback that bit her.”
“What’s a redback?” asked Margi.
He made a tarantula of his hand and wiggled it in the air like a hand puppet. “An eight-ligged killing machine.”
Nervous twitters. Gasps. Dick Teig burped.
“Your ridback isn’t the worst of its kind. One nip by a Sydney funnel wib and you’re looking at instantaneous dith, but a ridback toys with you a bit. If he gives you a nip, you can look forward to a few minutes of frinzied twitching before you discharge every fluid in your body and die a grisly death.”
Snakebite? Spider bite? Uff da. Dying from thirst was looking better by the minute.
Tilly waggled her cane in the air. “Is the redback indigenous to this part of Victoria?”<
br />
“The buggeh breeds especially will in Victoria.” He looked down at his feet and cracked a smile. “Why do you think I wear boots?”
“Is Imily Andrew here?” a man called from the doorway.
Recognizing him as one of the officials from the coroner’s office, I hurried over to him. “I’m Emily.”
He was a well-built guy around my age who had a Mel Gibson thing going with his looks, which made me wonder if all Australian males were six feet tall and gorgeous. He nodded politely and flashed his ID badge. “Peter Blunt. Warrnambool Coroner’s Office. I apologize for the interruption, but I need to ask you a few quistions. I promise it won’t take long.” He opened a pocket-size spiral notebook and readied a ballpoint. “You were with Mr. Madelyn when he discovered the body?”
I nodded. “I stopped to admire the scenery near one of the lookout points and was stunned when Guy took off into the underbrush, ignoring all the posted signs. I didn’t see the body until he fell to his knees, and that’s when I ran back here for help. I’m afraid my participation ends there.”
“Did you know Ms. Bellows?”
“I spoke to her for a few minutes before she left the visitor center, but that was the first and last time. The tour only began yesterday, so none of us have had much of a chance to chat yet.”
“Was she complaining of any ailments? Dizziness? Pain?”
“She said she was a little stiff. And she looked pretty hot.”
“Thirty-eight degrees Cilsius will do that to you. We’re having an unusual bad spill of heat. A sorry wilcome for you, isn’t it? Have you any idea why she might have lift the boardwalk?”
“She told me she wanted to check out a minor curiosity while the bus was being repaired.”
“Did she say what?”
“I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say.”
“That’s the thing about the Shipwrick Coast,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s such an awesome sight that tourists niveh tire of exploring it. There’s some blokes who won’t rist until they see every wind shift and tidal change. Tourists use up more film here than anywhere ilse in Victoria.” He flipped his notebook shut. “Thanks for your hilp, Ms. Andrew.”
