by Maddy Hunter
As soon as I took my seat on the bus, Henry veered into morning traffic. “Mornin’, folks. Wilcome to day five of your Great Aussie Advinture. Today we’ll be taking a thirty-minute flight to Kangaroo Island, which is a hundred and twinty-three kilometers off the coast. At Kingscote we’ll split into two groups since tour buses on the island accommodate fewer passengers, but no worries. You’ll all be seein’ the same sights.”
“Have you heard anything from Heath Acres?” Lola Silverthorn called out.
Wow. The woman didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.
“Thanks for asking. He rang me up last night. They haven’t released his mum’s body yit, but whin they do, he’ll be taking her back to Coober Pedy for burial.”
“Do they know what killed her?” asked Dick Teig.
“No word yit, but he’ll probably know by the ind of the day. And speaking of that, I bought a sympathy card that I’ll sind around for all of you to sign, if you like. Make sure it gits back to me sometime today, and I’ll post it to Coober Pedy.”
Aw, that was so thoughtful. I dug out my memo pad and wrote a note to myself. Things to pack for next trip—sympathy cards. Maybe if I prepared for the worst, nothing bad would happen. It was worth a try. Nothing else seemed to work.
Two snazzy Mercedes-Benz buses awaited us at the Kingscote airport. “Doesn’t matter which bus you git on,” Henry announced as he herded us toward the parking lot. “But once you decide, stay with the same group the entire day so you don’t foul up my hid count.”
My group charged toward the nearest bus like race-horses out of the gate, Nana and Bernice in a footrace at the head of the pack, elbows flying and boots clacking.
“Marion! Marion!” shouted Conrad.
Nana arrived first and did a little jump-around to celebrate. In fact, she looked fast enough to challenge Bernice in the five-yard dash at this year’s Senior Olympics. Conrad caught up to the group, staggering against the bus as he gasped for air.
“Hey, back of the line,” Dick Stolee admonished.
“I’m not in line,” Conrad choked out. “Marion, I have exciting news from the university search team.”
“They found the rat?”
“Not yet, but the photo you took is the desert rat kangaroo, so they’re pulling out all stops to track it down. They’ll want to interview you when it happens. You’ll make headlines all across Australia. You’ll be the celebrity du jour!”
“You s’pose they’ll take pictures?”
“Of course, they will. You’ll be a media darling!”
“I better find me a beauty parlor.”
“I’ll keep you informed. They’re going to call Henry with any news. Has anything this noteworthy ever happened to you before?”
“Well, I found a hundred-million-year-old plant earlier in the week.”
He dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Besides that.”
“I won seven million dollars once.”
Conrad’s mouth puckered like a drawstring pulled too tight. “Oh.”
When we got the okay, we crowded onto the bus, gushing over the luxuriously cushy seats and fancy TV monitors. I claimed a window seat at the back, and Nana sat beside me. “I’ll move if one a your young men wants to sit here, dear.”
I glanced out the window to find them climbing onto the other bus. “Looks like they’ll be sitting with each other today.”
“Probably brushin’ up on new cusswords. If you overuse the old ones, they lose their effect.”
Guy Madelyn strolled down the aisle, taking candid shots of everyone. “I’m sorry, Marion,” he said when he reached us, “but I couldn’t help overhear your conversation with Conrad. I hope you won’t let his promise of pie in the sky influence your decision about coming to work for me. Has he fessed up about Australia’s track record with other significant discoveries? I hope you realize they have a habit of losing everything they find.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Gold reefs in the central desert. Ancient fossils. The topography is so monotonously similar that people make discoveries one day and lose them the next. That rat kangaroo I heard Conrad talking about? Don’t get your hopes up. Remember, here today, gone tomorrow. I’m offering you a sure thing, Marion. Give it some serious thought.”
He snapped our picture and moved on, leaving Nana in an uncharacteristically pensive mood. I squeezed her hand. “Will you be terribly disappointed if they never find your rat kangaroo?”
“Nah. But I was kinda lookin’ forward to havin’ my hair done.”
After introducing us to our driver—a typically young and handsome Australian named Trevor—Henry took a quick head count, then hurried down the aisle and handed me an envelope and pen. “Could I trouble you to be in charge of the card, Imily? That way, I know I’ll git it back.”
I agreed to be keeper of the card, though I worried a little about how to carry it around all day without dog-earing the corners. As we left the airport and headed south, I wrote a little note to Heath, signed my name, and handed the card to Nana.
“I’d like to offer you a frindly wilcome to Kangaroo Island,” Trevor said pleasantly, “the third largest island off the coast of Australia. We’re isolated from the mainland and haven’t sold our souls to devilopers, so our landscape and wildlife are the same now as they’ve always been. The last hundred pairs of scarlet fan-tailed glossy black cockatoos on the planet live on Kangaroo Island. Tin percint of the world’s sea lions waddle onto Seal Bay. We don’t offer nightlife or glitz, but we have an abundance of salt air, clear water, and the kind of solitude you’ll niveh find in Sydney or Milbourne.”
The scenery was unremarkable. Meadows and trees. A few fences. We could have been driving down a road anywhere in the Midwest. When we turned east, it got a little more exciting because the pavement ended, forcing us to continue down a rutted dirt road that bounced us around worse than the Star Wars ride at MGM Studios. Meadows and trees still abounded, but looking out the window at them was like watching a movie with a jumpy video track.
“Our first stop this morning will be Emu Ridge Eucalyptus and Craft Gallery. Sixty years ago the island supported forty eucalyptus oil distilleries. Today, Emu is the only one lift. They dimonstrate the extraction prociss every half hour, but if that’s not your cup a tea, you can shop the gallery for souvenirs and crafts. I ricommind the Ligurian honey, collected from hives first imported from the Italian province of Liguria back in eighteen-eighty-one. All the bees on the island are pure Ligurian and descinded from that original strain.”
We pulled into the parking lot of a rustic compound of squat bungalows with red roofs and whitewashed siding. Perched atop a building that identified itself as MACGILLIVRAY POST OFFICE 1953 was an emu weather vane that kept watch over derelict machinery in various stages of decay, mangy undergrowth, and a huge cauldron whose contents steamed like witch’s brew.
“We’re here for forty-five minutes,” announced Trevor. “The comfort station’s around back.”
I decided that watching eucalyptus leaves being pressed didn’t interest me, so I hit the gallery, amazed at how much merchandise could be shoehorned into a compact space. Hats, cloth bags, books, cards, dream catchers, paintings, magnets, T-shirts, honey, and all things eucalyptus, from candles and soap to shelf liners and lotion. I felt as if I’d stepped into a mini Mall of America.
“Listen to me, Marion, this will be the best decision you ever make. Trust me. It was too bad about Nora, but I believe things happen for a reason. Maybe Fate intended that you be the face of Infinity Inc., not Nora Acres.”
I looked over my shoulder to find Diana Squires directly in Nana’s face. Rolling my eyes at her persistence, I grabbed a jar of the famed Ligurian honey and marched over to them.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation, but Mom would love this.” I handed the jar to Nana. “I think you should buy it for her. And look, there’s no line at the cash register at the moment, so this is a good time to check
out.”
Nana flashed me a grateful smile. “If there’s no waitin’, maybe I oughta buy two.” She shuffled off.
Diana crossed her arms, displeasure in her eyes. “You obviously don’t have your grandmother’s best interests at heart. Why are you holding her back? What are you afraid of? That she might start looking better than you?”
“Oh, please.” I whipped out the sympathy card. “While I have you here, can I get you to sign this?”
She scribbled her name and handed it back. “I hope you realize you’re looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Gift horses can have a lot of nasty side effects.”
“Infinity manufactures the safest products in today’s market. Ask anyone.”
“I could ask Nora Acres, but unfortunately, she’s no longer with us.”
Diana blinked erratically, as if her eyelids were collapsing beneath the weight of her liner. “Are you implying that an Infinity product may have been responsible for Nora’s death? Heath refused to let her sample any of our product! Who knows, maybe if he’d loosened up a little, she’d still be alive. When a woman is as old as she was, I think it’s criminally negligent to deny her treatment that could reverse the aging process.”
“She was only fifty-seven.”
Diana’s bottom lip sagged open, either from shock or an excess of gloss. “Get out of here. I’m fifty-seven. She was decades older than I am. Her face. Her hands.”
“Fifty-seven.”
“Holy shit, she must have led one hell of a hard life.”
“But a pretty quick death. You were there when it happened. Did you notice anything unusual?”
“Other than her dropping her glass and passing out? What is this? A roundabout way of asking me if I slipped her a deadly dose of face powder?”
I heard the click of a camera shutter. “Nice profile shot,” said Guy, as he checked his display screen.
“I told you to stop taking my picture!” Diana shouted. “What part of ‘Don’t take my picture’ can’t you understand?”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Erase it.” She grabbed his camera. He slapped her hand.
“Get your paws off my equipment.”
“Erase it!”
He punched a button. “There. It’s gone.”
“Good. And so help me, if you ever try taking my picture again, I’ll smash your freaking camera and have you arrested. You got that? Now stay away from me.”
She stormed out of the shop. I raised my eyebrows. “Do you suppose this means she’ll be a no-show for the group photo at the end of the trip?”
Guy laughed good-naturedly. “I wouldn’t have kept the profile shot anyway. Her face came out blurry. All her shots have come out blurry. She has an annoying habit of moving just when I press the shutter. I’ve had to erase all the shots I’ve taken of her, not that I’d give her the satisfaction of telling her. It’s way too much fun ticking her off.”
“That is such a guy thing. Why do men enjoy ticking women off so much?”
“We don’t do it to all women, just the ones who overreact. Must be a control thing. You’re so levelheaded, I bet no man has ever succeeded in ticking you off.”
I smiled stiffly, thinking that two were getting dangerously close. I held my hand out for Guy’s camera. “Would you like your picture taken against a backdrop of authentic Aussie bush products?”
He twitched his mouth indecisively. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Emily. The world-famous photographer is even less photogenic than Diana Squires. Honest. In most of our family portraits I end up looking like roadkill in a mock turtleneck.”
“I bet my Dick takes a worse picture than you,” Helen Teig claimed as she browsed nearby. “You should see his passport photo. DICK! GET OVER HERE!” She cupped her hand to her mouth. “He looks like public enemy number one.”
“You should see mine,” I said, digging it out of my shoulder bag and flipping it open. “How bad is this?”
Helen regarded it dismissively. “That’s actually quite nice, considering what your hair normally looks like.”
“You want to see bad?” Guy fished his neck wallet out of his polo shirt and handed Helen his passport. “I look like a character out of Deliverance. All I’m missing is the banjo.”
“You’re right,” Helen agreed. “This is much worse than Emily’s.”
“It can’t be worse than mine!” I objected. “I have to show two forms of photo ID when I pass through Customs. The last time I renewed my driver’s license, the woman who took my picture suffered a nervous breakdown.” Helen flashed me Guy’s photo, causing me to gasp. “Euw, that’s much worse than mine.”
Dick stomped toward us. “What in tarnation is so all-fired important that—”
“Show Emily your passport photo,” she said, poking his stomach.
“Are we supposed to show passports here?” asked Osmond, as he came up behind us.
Dick wrestled his shirt out of his pants to access his waist wallet.
“Why is Dick undressing?” asked Margi.
“Everyone get your passports out!” said Osmond. “This is a checkpoint.”
Hissing. Groans. Foot shuffling.
Alice tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Emily, are we being strip-searched?”
“I don’t have the stomach to watch Dick get naked,” whined Bernice. “YOU GOT ANY FITTING ROOMS IN THIS PLACE?”
“Who’s supposed to get these?” yelled Lucille Rassmuson, waving her passport in the air.
“Emily wants ’em,” said Dick.
I staggered against the display counter as passports came at me from every direction. “Hold it! I don’t want—”
“G’day, folks,” a voice blared over a loudspeaker. “Our oil-distilling dimonstration begins in one minute by the big vat outside. One minute. Git there early for the bist views.”
The group cleared the area in a half second, hitting the door like stampeding cattle. “Come back here!” I bellowed. “You forgot your passports!”
“Give ’em back later,” Dick Stolee called out as he pushed through the exit.
Great. This was just great. I regarded the armload of passports I’d just accumulated. What was I supposed to do with them in the meantime?
Guy focused his camera on me and clicked. “This one should be priceless. You can call it, ‘Ever-cheerful tour escort just doing her job.’” He nodded toward the passports. “Do you have mine in there someplace or does the lady with the disappearing eyebrows still have it?”
I sighed. “I have no idea.”
“Not a problem. If you have any trouble sorting them out, mine will be the one with the scary photo. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I might need to take a few shots of this eucalyptus-distilling process. What are the chances Diana will be out there?” He gave me a devilish wink. “One can hope.”
I shook my head as I watched him leave. Men.
Laden with two bags full of Aussie souvenirs, I exited the shop twenty minutes later. The live demonstration had ended, so guests were scattered around the compound, either lined up at the comfort station, where I spied Etienne and Duncan, or taking pictures of each other in front of the rusted machinery. Henry leaned against our bus, nodding to me when I approached. “You’ve done some damage, Imily.”
“It’s what I do best.” Well, one of the things I do best.
When his phone started chiming, he apologized and picked up. “This is Hinry.”
Since Emily Post had written her book of etiquette before cell phones were invented, I found myself in a gray area, unsure what would be more rude—eavesdropping on his conversation or climbing aboard the bus.
“Drug overdose? Bloody hill.”
That clinched it. I was eavesdropping.
“Could your mum have mistakenly gotten into something she shouldn’t have? Did she have any midications with her that she didn’t list on her midical form?”
Oh, my God. He was talking to Heath.
“All right. L
it me known as soon as you hear.” He rang off, looking at me, stunned. “That was Heath. Preliminary postmortem tists on his mum indicate she might have died from a drug overdose.”
“Did he say what kind of drug?”
“The lab people have to run more tists before they can determine that, but here’s the tricky part. Nora wasn’t taking drugs. As odd as her behavior was, she wasn’t being treated for any kind of mintal illness or condition. Heath said she didn’t even take aspirin.”
“So, in all probability, the drug was given to her by someone else?”
Henry nodded in slow motion. “Bloody hill. Someone murdered the old girl.”
I knew it! I was right! Someone had poisoned her wine yesterday. But which one of my suspects had slipped her the stuff? And for God’s sake, why? One thing was for sure: there was so much tension between the guests right now, I was terrified the body count was going to rise. “I realize the phone call you received at the dam yesterday never happened, Henry, but have you had any word from the authorities about when they’re going to show up? I mean, how long does it take to drive across town to cuff someone?”
“Lit’s find out.” He punched a number into his phone. “Carol, this is Hinry. What can you till me about the blokes who are seving that arrist warrant?” He listened attentively, nodding and frowning as the woman talked. “Ah, brilliant. Any mintion who they’re going to nab or why? I see. Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”
“What did she say?” I blurted.
He struggled to suppress a smile. “Carol is six foot five with a nick like a bulldog and chist hair up to his jaw. Carol’s a bloke.”
“At least his parents didn’t name him Sue.”
“The old Johnny Cash song!” Henry enthused. “The whole country’s taken a fancy to all your modern American music artists. Johnny Cash, Dill Shannon, Doris Day.”
Oh, God. “What about the authorities?”
