G'Day to Die: A Passport to Peril Mystery - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,28
to what Henry had told us on the way over, Sovereign Hill had proven to be one of the country’s richest deposits. No serious mining took place here anymore, but an authentic gold-mining town had been re-created over the footprint of the original diggings to allow tourists to step back in time and experience a typical day in 1851, from panning for gold to slogging through the mud of the wheel-rutted streets.
“All those in favor of killing Bernice say ‘Aye,’” Osmond called out.
Bernice thwacked him with a plastic souvenir pickax. “Stay away from me. All of you! My shirt stays on my back.” She swung the pick in a threatening arc. “Don’t make me use this.”
Dick Teig hitched up the waistband of his trousers and took a brave step forward, which was weird, because Dick never stepped up to the plate to solve problems; he was usually the one who caused them! Wow. This was huge.
“Stow the ax and listen good to what I’m about to say, Bernice.” His voice was nasally from the tissue he’d stuffed up his nose. His cheeks ballooned with righteous bluster. “Emily has something to say to you.”
Everyone took a giant step backward, leaving me front and center. “Look, Bernice, I’m sorry about your shirt, but wouldn’t you agree that your health is more important than an article of clothing?”
“No.”
“It’s a scientific fact that inhaling noxious fumes can kill you!”
“Emily’s right,” Alice said helpfully. “You can keel over dead if you inhale carbon monoxide.”
“And smoke,” said Margi.
“And Helen’s perfume when she puts too much on,” said Dick Teig.
“You stink, Bernice!” Dick Stolee wailed. “Lose the shirt!”
“All those in favor of Bernice losing her shirt—”
Yup. This was going well.
“Bernice! Just the person I was looking for.” Guy Madelyn flagged her down with a black T-shirt with gold lettering. “How hard would I have to twist your arm to be my photographic model for the afternoon? I need someone with great bone structure and presence, and you fit the bill. I’ll even buy lunch and provide your wardrobe.” He shook out the shirt so we could read the block letters: GO FOR THE GOLD AT SOVEREIGN HILL, BALLARAT, AUSTRALIA.
“Lunch and the T-shirt?” She plucked the shirt from his grasp. “Deal. I used to be a magazine model years ago, but you probably figured that out already. Once you have it, you never lose it.”
He handed her a zippered storage bag. “For your monster truck shirt.”
“My, my.” She smiled coquettishly. “You think of everything.”
We held our collective breath as she sashayed toward the fitting room and erupted into spontaneous whoops as she disappeared behind the curtain. Dick Teig hammered Guy gratefully on the back. Margi yanked streamers of toilet paper from her nose. Helen grabbed Dick’s ear and dragged him off behind her.
“What’s this problem you have with my perfume?”
“Sorry about the wait, folks,” Henry announced from the turnstiles at the front door. “I have your tickets and visitor maps. The queue starts here. Synchronize your watches. It’s twelve-thirty now; we’ll meet back in this building at four o’clock.”
The group dispersed helter-skelter, leaving me alone with Guy. He winked good-naturedly. I stared at him in awe. “You do realize that you’re about to commit one of the most generous acts in recorded history?”
“I had no choice. I sit directly in front of her on the bus and the drive back to Melbourne will take over an hour. We’re talking life or death here.”
“I’ve gotta warn you, she’s a handful.”
“I cut my teeth on mothers of the bride. Trust me. This should be a cakewalk by comparison.”
The fitting room curtain flew open and Bernice stepped out, a vision in black and gold. “How do you feel about my nose? You think I should get rid of the zinc oxide? I’m not sure pistachio fits our color scheme.”
Guy’s attentiveness to Bernice boded more than unpolluted air; it meant Etienne and Duncan would be freed up all afternoon! All I had to do was find them. I scanned the souvenir shop and, not finding them in the midst of a buying spree, headed for the next most logical place for them to be.
Conrad Carver occupied a bench in the waiting area outside the men’s room, talking heatedly into a cell phone. “Tell them to look harder! I don’t accept that. I hope you’ll have better news for me later.” He punched a button to end the conversation, then muttered a few unintelligible syllables that I suspected might be Polish swear words.