G'Day to Die: A Passport to Peril Mystery - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,41
“First thing we need to do is find out what’s in Diana’s backpack.”
“Airport security should be able to help with that tomorrow,” said Tilly. “If the X-ray machine indicates she’s carrying a plant, they’ll definitely want to take a look. The Australian government is very strict about what they allow passengers to transport across state lines.”
“Tilly and me’ll get in line with her so’s we can keep an eye on what’s goin’ down.”
“Good. One of you in front of her and one of you behind. And I’ll go through security ahead of you so I can corner her if she gets pulled aside. I’ll be dying to hear her explanation of how a hundred-million-
year-old plant got into her backpack.”
Nana raised her chubby little forefinger. “Emily, dear, which part a them angiosperms is s’posed to be the good part? The leaves, the root, or the stem?”
“Uhhh—Beats me.” I looked to Tilly for assistance. “Do you know?”
“It might be all three. There’s no way of telling until they get it into the laboratory for testing.”
“If the plant dies, can them folks in the laboratory still run tests on it?”
“Uhhh—” I looked to Tilly again.
“Not being a botanist, I’m not sure how to answer that, Marion, but I would assume that the scientists at Infinity would prefer the plant be alive.”
“That’s what I figured. What I can’t figure is, how she plans on keepin’ the thing alive for the next two weeks if it’s all squushed up in her backpack. The leaves are gonna crumble like dried oregano.” Nana shrugged. “Maybe she can use ’em to make hundred-million-year-old spaghetti sauce.”
“If I could get my hands on Roger Piccolo’s GPS, would either of you know how to use it?” I asked.
“Your father would know how to use it, dear. He’s got one on his harvester, between the mini-refrigerator and the portable cappuccino maker.”
Personal GPS units hadn’t caught on in Iowa, mostly because Iowans never get lost. We’re all born with internal compasses in our brains that make street signs, road maps, and AAA Trip Tiks completely unnecessary. It’s the neatest perk of hailing from a landlocked, tornado-ridden state in the middle of nowhere.
Well, that, and the Iowa chops.
“My apologies for the delay with your drinks, ladies. One Shirley Temple with extra cherries”—Etienne set a glass down in front of Nana—“and one Professor and Mary Ann.” He placed the other highball in front of Tilly, who clasped her hands with girlish pleasure.
“What a delightful surprise, Inspector Miceli. I had no idea there was a cocktail named for us stodgy old academics. I’m honored.”
“It’s just Etienne, Ms. Hovick. My police inspector days are behind me.” He kissed the crown of my head and trailed his thumb across my cheek. “Be right back with the rest of the order.”
“What’d he mean about his police inspector days bein’ behind him?” Nana asked, plucking a cherry off its skewer and popping it into her mouth.
“Did I forget to mention the latest? Etienne took it upon himself to retire from the police force. They gave him a gold watch and everything.”
Tilly swished her cocktail around in her mouth like a professional wine taster. “This is quite tasty. I believe I detect apricot brandy, vodka, and a hint of lime. Has he told you what he plans to do with himself for the rest of his life? He’s rather young to be sitting around, gathering moss on his north side.”
“He can do anything he wants,” Nana piped up. “He’s loaded.”
I lasered a look at her. “About that—You were giving him financial advice on the sly and never bothered to tell me?”
“Do I look like a snitch?”
“No, but—Joblessness? Lavish wealth? This is a lot to have dropped on me all at once.”
Nana sighed. “That was probably your grampa’s last thought, too, when the roof a that ice shanty come crashin’ down on him like it done.” She patted my hand. “It’s not so bad, dear. Trust your young man. He knows what he’s doin’.”
“Here you go, pretty.” Duncan slid a shot glass onto the table then, with a pint of Guinness in hand, sat down beside me. “Try that out for size.” It was white and frothy, with a consistency like melted Marshmallow Fluff.
“What is it?” I gave it a sniff.
“Looks like Kaopectate,” said Nana.
I tongued some froth into my mouth.
“No, no, no,” Duncan said, laughing. “Don’t sip it. It’s a shooter. You’re supposed to knock it back in a single slug.”
“Like chugalugging? I’ve never been good at that. Everything always comes