G'Day to Die: A Passport to Peril Mystery - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,57

into us. “One minute he’s spitting into a barrel, and the next minute he’s gone.”

Tilly scanned the room. That’s one of the advantages of being six feet tall in your stocking feet. “There he is. Look for Jake Silverthorn’s hat, and you’ll be right on target.”

“Party time!” said Bernice, grabbing a newly filled glass off the counter.

“Wait a minute,” said Margi. “That’s my glass.”

“Is not.”

“Is so. I put mine next to the one that’s smeared with lipstick.”

“That would be mine,” I said, snatching it up.

“I’m keeping this glass,” vowed Bernice.

“Well, I’m not drinking after you,” said Margi. “I want a new one. S’cuse me! Can I get a clean glass over here?”

“I don’t mean to confuse the issue,” said Tilly, “but I could have sworn I put my glass next to the one with the lipstick print.”

At birthday parties you played musical chairs; at wine-tasting parties it was musical glasses.

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the room, followed by a boom that vibrated the floor-boards.

“What was that?” asked Nana.

“Call an ambulance!” a man shouted.

Our hostess slammed her bottle of Reisling onto the counter in disgust. “That’s it! I’ve had it with you flaming tour groups. The idea is to taste the wine, not drink yoursilves into a bloody coma!”

Chapter 13

Osmond read from his tally sheet as we huddled next to the building where paramedics had been administering to Nora Acres. “Five people think she collapsed from the heat. One person thinks it was a heart attack. One person thinks she fainted from thirst. I reckon that’d be Lucille. Three people say she collapsed from old age, and one person says she’s faking it to draw attention to herself.” We all stared at Bernice.

“What? You’ve never heard of Munchausen’s Syndrome? Don’t you people ever watch ER?”

“She wasn’t faking it,” Tilly chided. “Did you see the poor woman when they took her away? She looked as if she were on her deathbed.”

And if it was possible, Heath had looked even worse.

A local ambulance had arrived in record time and whisked them away. I hoped their efforts to stabilize Nora had been successful.

“How old a woman you s’pose she is?” asked Nana.

“A hundred and ten,” said Bernice.

“They probably shouldn’t let folks that old sign up for these trips,” said Osmond, who was a birthday short of ninety. “I’ve heard that once you reach a hundred, things really start falling apart.”

“That young man with her should have known better,” Helen affirmed. “You think he’s a relative?”

“That’s her son,” I said, not surprised by the drop-mouth expressions that stared back at me.

“No way,” said Dick Teig. “Great-grandson, maybe.”

“Do you suppose she had him late in life?” asked Alice.

“Yeah, like when she was eighty,” said Dick.

“It’s her son,” I repeated. “He told me himself.”

Henry walked our way, lips moving and finger waving in the air as he counted heads. “That’s everyone. You can reboard the bus in about tin minutes. Sorry for the excitement, but I hope you won’t let it affict the rist of your day. There’s plinty more wine for you to taste at the other vineyards, kangaroo with plum sauce to dine on for lunch, and you can relax knowing that Mrs. Acres is receiving the bist midical care that South Australia has to offer. I’m sure she’ll be up and about in no time and anxious to rejoin us.”

“How old a woman do you think she is?” Dick Stolee called out.

Henry unfolded a paper from his breast pocket and scanned the text. “She was born in forty-three, so that would make her—what? Fifty-siven going on fifty-eight?”

Gasps of disbelief. “No way is she only fifty-seven,” argued Bernice.

“Says so right here on her midical form. She was born on St. Patrick’s Day in nineteen-forty-three.”

“Maybe she’s got that disease what makes people look real old,” said Nana. “What’s it called?”

“Wrinkles,” said Grace.

Uff da! Nora Acres was younger than my mom? I guess that’s what happened when you lived in a place with too much sun and not enough drugstores selling sunblock with high SPF.

A digital tone rang out from Henry’s hip. He walked out of earshot to answer it.

“If she’s fifty-seven, I’ll eat my—” Bernice gave herself a once-over in search of digestible clothing.

“Why don’t you eat Dick’s shirt?” suggested Grace. “It’s made in China, and you like Chinese.”

Henry walked back to us, a hitch in his normally fluid gait. “That’s a call I wasn’t expicting.” He inhaled deeply, his cell phone still cradled in his palm. “I’m afraid I painted too rosy a