G'Day to Die: A Passport to Peril Mystery - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,1
bobsleds; hell had officially frozen over.
“I’d better be a halfway-decent photographer,” the man said, laughing. “It’s how I make my living. Guy Madelyn.” He gave her a smile that animated his face. “Weddings are my specialty, so if you’re ever in the market for a high-priced wedding photographer, I’m your guy. Pun intended.”
Bernice peered up at him, doe-eyed. She gave her name tag a demure touch and her stubby eyelashes a seductive flutter. “I’m Bernice. Did I mention I’m a widow?”
She was twice his age and half his height, with a dowager’s hump that rivaled Ayers Rock. Oh, yeah. That was gonna fly.
“I got pictures!” Nana shuffled toward me in her size five sneakers. She was wearing a duckbill visor, white capri pants, and a shell pink T-shirt embroidered with flowers, songbirds, and the words, IOWA’S NO. 1 GRAMMA. My brother Steve’s family had splurged last Christmas and bought her one in every color, which had aroused a bit of envy among her friends. T-shirts bearing the words Best, Greatest, or No. 1 were all the rage at the senior center.
“You wanna see, dear?” She handed me a fistful of Polaroids, narrating as I flipped through them. “That’s the wooden walkway leadin’ to the lookout points. And there’s them scrubby bushes growin’ beside it. Don’t know how that pink flower ever managed to sprout up in the middle of all them brambles, but it sure is pretty. That’s Dick Stolee after the wind blew his baseball cap off his head.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I was waitin’ to shoot the expression on his face when his toupee flew off, but it just sat there. It was pretty disappointin’. He must be springin’ for better glue than what he was usin’ in Switzerland.”
Guy Madelyn craned his neck to peek at Nana’s shots. “Have you tried a digital camera? I’m sold on mine.”
“Already got one,” Nana said, “but it’s too much fuss. Pricey batteries. Pricey memory cartridges. Pricey photo paper. Monkeyin’ with every picture you download. So I’m back to my Polaroid. Pixels might be the in thing, but I’ll take instant gratification any day.”
I flipped to a photo of an isolated limestone tower.
“Can you guess which apostle that is, dear? I think it’s a real good likeness.”
Bernice burst into laughter. “The rocks don’t have names, Marion. Someone called them the Twelve Apostles as a marketing gimmick.”
“That’s St. Peter,” Nana continued, “and the puny one in the next shot is Judas. You can tell ’cause it looks more sneaky than them others.”
“Which one’s Dopey?” asked eighty-nine-year-old Osmond Chelsvig, hobbling over to us on the bone white spindles that were his legs.
Osmond’s inability to distinguish dwarfs from apostles wasn’t surprising, considering he hailed from a long line of agnostics.
“Excuse me.” Guy Madelyn was suddenly at Nana’s elbow. “Would you mind if I take a closer look at your photos? You seem to have captured some unique angles that I missed entirely.”
“No kiddin’?” She handed the stack over, smiling broadly as he examined every snapshot. “I didn’t think they was so special, but the light here’s real bright, so it makes everything look good.”
“You’re being modest. The Australian light isn’t what makes your shots so outstanding. It’s your composition. Your contrast. Look at this shot.” He flashed it at the handful of guests circled around us. “You’ve turned an ordinary pink flower into something extraordinary. And on a Polaroid camera, no less. You have an incredible eye.” He lowered his gaze to her name tag. “Marion Sippel, eh? I’m not familiar with your name or your work, but tell me I’m right in assuming you’re a professional.”
Nana gave a little suck on her dentures. “I do have some professional trainin’.”
“I knew it. Where did you study? The Royal College of Art? The Brooks Institute?”
“Windsor City Senior Center. They run a two-hour minicourse last November. It was real in depth.”
He let out a belly laugh. “You took pictures like this with only two hours of training?”
“It was s’posed to be four, but we run into a schedulin’ conflict with the low-vision group’s Christmas cookie and pickled herrin’ exchange.”
He shook his head, awe in his voice. “Mrs. Sippel, if you’ll allow me an unbiased opinion, these photos are nothing short of Ansel Adams caliber. I’m speechless.”
“Lemme see those,” said Bernice, snatching the stack from his hand.
“Me, too,” said Helen Teig, grabbing a fistful from Bernice.
“Careful!” Guy shouted as Nana’s photos made the circuit, passing from hand to hand. “Don’t get your fingerprints on