G'Day to Die: A Passport to Peril Mystery - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,2
them. Have a quick look, then give them back.”
Amid the buzz of enthusiasm, he turned back to Nana. “Have you ever thought of turning professional, Mrs. Sippel? Hollywood glitterati are willing to pay ridiculous amounts for wedding photos these days, and the photographer they’re clamoring for is me. But I’m having trouble going solo. Too many remarriages to keep up with. I’ve been looking to hire another photographer, but I haven’t found anyone suitable—until today. Are you available? I’d start you out as an apprentice, but with your talent, I could probably guarantee you a six-figure salary.”
A hush descended over the crowd. Limbs froze. Mouths fell open.
Bernice hit a button on her digital camera and shoved it in Guy’s face. “I take some pretty good pictures myself. See here? What do you think of that contrast? And look at this one. Have you ever seen better composition?”
“My Dick takes better pictures than that,” Helen claimed. “DICK! WHERE ARE YOU? GET OVER HERE!”
“I’ve taken some mighty fine pictures,” said Osmond, elbowing Bernice out of the way. He angled his camcorder display screen in front of Guy. “My scenery’s moving, but if you see anything you like, I’d be happy to freeze-frame it for you.”
“This is Mushroom!” cried Margi Swanson, waving a snapshot of her cat in the air. “I took it myself. You think I have potential?”
“Get out the way!” snarled the thousand-year-old woman as she pushed toward Guy. “I’ve got a photo for you.”
I stood on tiptoes to sneak a peek at the sepia-toned picture she handed him. The print might once have been glossy, but time and touch had dog-eared the corners and dulled the finish so much that all I could see was an irregular pattern of creases cobwebbing an image that was no longer clear.
Guy studied it for a long moment in the manner of one accustomed to handling other people’s photographic treasures. “A lovely picture,” he said kindly. “But if you want to preserve it, I’d suggest a frame rather than a wallet. Or perhaps a photo-restoration process. They’d have this looking good as new in no time.”
“Come along, luvy,” said the young man in the bush outfit, tugging on the crone’s arm. He retrieved the print from Guy and gave him an appreciative wink. “Photo of her mum. You know how that goes, mate. She shows it to everyone.”
“No problem. Would everyone please start handing Mrs. Sippel’s photos back? I don’t want to lose track of any.”
Bodies shifted. Elbows flew. I got jostled left and right and suddenly found myself ejected from the crowd like a stray pinball. I skidded to a stop on my new ankle-strap wedges and looked back at the melee. Geesch! Who’d have guessed that one teensy compliment could start such a feeding frenzy?
“Emily!”
I looked across the room to find a man beckoning to me. But this was no ordinary man. This was Etienne Miceli, the Swiss police inspector I’d fantasized about marrying.
“Come join us!” shouted his companion.
And this was no any ordinary companion. This was Duncan Lazarus, the doggedly persistent tour director who fantasized about marrying me. The two men had become “buds” since they’d met two months ago and seemed to be enjoying the kind of intense male friendship that’s so ballyhooed among Marines, fraternity brothers, and belching-contest finalists.
“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