G'Day to Die: A Passport to Peril Mystery - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,7
adults don’t collapse and die for no reason.”
I sidled a look at Jake Silverthorn and lowered my voice as if I were sharing an original thought. “Do you suppose she might have been bitten by, say, a poisonous snake or spider?”
Peter bowed his head close to mine, and said in a knowing undertone, “You’ve rid the book, haven’t you?”
“Book?”
“The Big Golden Book of Reptiles, Insects, and Marine Life that Can Kill You in Australia.”
I stared at him, deadpan. “There’s a whole book?”
“It used to be an encyclopedia, but they condinsed it into an abridged coffee table edition with great color illustrations. It only lists the didliest buggehs, so you don’t have to waste time looking at the ones that give you more than an hour to live.”
A whole hour. Imagine. You’d have time for a pedicure before you kicked off.
“But if you ask me, the thrit is way overblown. The last time I saw a report of someone dying from a snake or spider bite was an eon ago.”
“How much of an eon?” I asked. “Ten years? Twenty?”
“Two weeks. But I’m talking about the whole country.”
“Thanks for your patience!” Henry’s voice reverberated through the room. “Our bus is back in working order so I’d appreciate your boarding as soon as possible. I’m hoping to make up time on our way back, so instid of stopping for dinner en route, I’ll order boxed lunches and lit you eat on the bus. That way you’ll still be on time for our ‘Meet and Greet’ back at the hotel. So sorry for the inconvenience, mates. Really.”
As the room began to empty, Peter urged me out the door. “Would you mind walking to the van with me so I can give you a business card? If you recall anything in the nixt few days that might be of use in our invistigation, ring me up.”
He removed a card from the vehicle’s glove compartment and scribbled something on the back. “This is my cill number, in case you need to reach me at home. You niveh know when those memories are going to kick in.” He handed me the card, smiling with straightforward interest. “I don’t suppose your tour group has accommodations anywhere around Warrnambool.”
My voice dripped apology. “I’m afraid we’re staying in Melbourne.”
“My loss. I could have shown you sights along the Great Ocean Road that the guidebooks haven’t even found.”
“Riddy when you are, Peter,” the other official said as he climbed into the passenger’s side of the van.
I waited until they drove away, then crossed to the parking lot where our bus was being given a final once-over by the Port Campbell mechanic and a male audience high on testosterone.
Men were so predictable. A guy might not know a jackhammer from M.C. Hammer, but if he hears the far-off buzz of a drill or saw, he’ll be out the door, tracking down the sound like a mountain man tracking bear. Once he locates the source, he bonds with the other guys who show up with ritual grunting, scratching, drinking, and standing around being useless. A lot of people think it’s team sports that form the cornerstone of male relationships, but it’s not.
It’s power tools.
I found Etienne and Duncan on the shaded side of the bus, watching sweaty, windblown tour guests climb aboard—Etienne with his black hair, Windex blue eyes, and one percent body fat, and Duncan with his football player’s physique, too-long blond hair, and dark brown eyes. I never failed to be struck by how opposite they were, and not just in looks. “How can you stand out here in the heat?” I swiped away the moisture that was drizzling down my temples. “Aren’t you dying?”
“Bella.” Etienne lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed my fingers. Duncan gave my hair a playful ruffle.
“Hiya, pretty. You’re right. It’s hell out here, but the mechanic had a pneumatic wrench that was poetry in motion, so we had to check it out, didn’t we, Miceli?”
Etienne spun me around into his arms and whispered seductively against my earlobe, “It’s made of titanium and can withstand a thousand foot-pounds more torque than your average pneumatic wrench. It’s the bomb.”
I grinned. “Do you know what that means?”
“I believe it means the essence of perfection.” His voice rang with boyish enthusiasm. “I have a new American slang dictionary.”
“How does a police inspector learn about foot-pounds of torque?”
“It’s not something I learned,” he whispered against my neck. “It’s part of the programming software that goes with the Y chromosome.”