G'Day to Die: A Passport to Peril Mystery - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,37
a small fee, I can take care of maggots for you. Jake Silverthorn. Bug Be Gone. No pist is too tough for me to tackle. Ants, roaches, spidehs, snakes, and”—he looked from Roger to Diana—“the occasional maggot.”
Diana sucked in her breath and stared at him, aghast. “Are you threatening me?”
“What is it with you people?” Lucille hollered. “Can’t you see some of us are trying to eat? Maggots. Ants. Enough with the bug talk already!” She shot menacing looks at Jake and Roger before shoving a forkful of macaroni and cheese into her mouth.
“What’s your problem?” Jake taunted in an oily voice. “Bugs make you squeamish?”
She slammed her fist down so hard, our trays jumped. “Listen, spider man, before my Dick passed away, he operated the largest pest control company in Windsor City, Iowa. Our retirement fund was built on the backs of dead bugs, so don’t accuse me of being squeamish.”
“I bit your Iowa bugs can’t kill you.”
“Maybe not,” Lucille conceded, looking Cheshire Cat smug, “but our bugs are a damned sight uglier than the ones you’ve got here! So there.”
Way to one-up the guy. Tell him we have uglier bugs.
“I’ve seen the Big Prawn,” said Nora.
“Mrs. Acres,” Diana implored, “the man sitting beside you is a fraud. You mustn’t listen to him. I’m the only person at this table who can make promises and follow through with results. I can make you younger, more beautiful. And when the world sees what we’ve done, your face will become the most celebrated image in the world.”
Nora nodded vacantly. “The Big Lawn Mower. The Big Koala. The koala didn’t have bollocks ’cause it was a girl. The Big Merino—”
“If you’re a prime example of what she can expect, let’s hope she does the smart thing and runs like hell,” Roger interrupted. “What’s buried under all that facial cement you’re wearing? Jimmy Hoffa?”
“You’ve niveh seen ugly ’til you’ve seen a three-horned dung beetle,” Jake drawled. “A prehistoric body encased in indestructible black armor with horns that can pierce—”
“European corn borer!” Lucille yelled. “The grossest, ugliest—TV stations had to stop showing it in commercials over the dinner hour because it was making folks sick.”
“Pimple-faced bush cricket.”
“Rootworm. Cutworm.” She added a pinch of horror movie vibrato to her voice. “Alfaaaaalfa weevil.”
“Topless cannibal ant!”
Back home we put our ants in farms; here, they put them in strip joints. Cool.
“Would you all stay where you are so I can get a group photo?” Guy asked as he muscled himself off the bench.
“Emily warned us to stay away from you,” Lucille raved at Jake. “I never listen to her ’cause she’s usually wrong about everything, but she was right about you!”
“Is that so?” Jake spat out his toothpick like a dart from a blowgun. It whistled onto his plate, spearing a half-eaten fuscilli noodle.
Whoa! Anyone who could spit with that degree of accuracy shouldn’t be killing bugs. He should be playing major league baseball.
He angled around to face me. “What exactly has Imily been saying about me?”
“Go ahead, Emily,” Lucille prodded. “Tell him.”
Tell him to his face that he was a threat to humanity? Right. Why didn’t I just paint a target on my chest and hand him an Uzi? “Umm…just out of curiosity, do you have professional baseball in Australia?”
“Would everyone on Emily’s side of the table squeeze in a little tighter?” asked Guy. He looked through his viewfinder. “Bernice and Lola are still out of frame.”
“WHAT?” yelled Bernice.
“Ouch!” I shifted position as Jake pressed against me, driving something hard and intractable into my thigh. I stared down at the lump in the hip pocket of his shorts. “What are you packing? A lunch pail?”
He wriggled his hand into his pocket and removed a clear plastic cube that he slammed onto his tray.
“Hold that pose,” Guy instructed as he pressed the shutter.
“What have you got inside there?” Roger asked, scrutinizing the container. “Some kind of carpenter ant?”
“Spideh,” said Jake as he yanked off the lid.
Holy shit. I shot off the bench like a Jack-in-the-
Box, elbows and legs flying. Roger burst out in raucous laughter. “Calm down, Emily. It’s not a tarantula.” He leaned across the table for a better look. “It’s pretty good-looking as far as spiders go. No hair. Compact. Nice glossy exterior. Looks like a garden-variety arthropod. What’s so special about it?”
Diana shrieked as the creature landed on her nose.
“It’s a jumpeh,” said Jake.
“EHHHHH!” Diana swatted it off.
“Oh, my God!” I cried, as it leaped onto the table. “Is it poisonous?”