G'Day to Die: A Passport to Peril Mystery - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,73
me living with you and all your creepy crawlies? My big sisteh reels in a dintist. My baby sisteh nabs a pilot. Who do I git? The king of pist control! Tin years of bloody—”
“Eleven.”
“Tin!”
“Eleven!” he yelled. “Oops, my mistake. Stupid people can’t count that high! Not enough fingahs!”
“You—!”
“How about a little traveling music?” our driver interrupted.
“ROLL OUT THE BARRE-LL…” I slapped my hands over my ears as the tune exploded through the speaker system. “WE’LL HAVE A BARRE-LL OF FUN…”
Lola grabbed a fistful of Jake’s tank top. “You hear that, you miserable bahstid?” She broke into a sudden smile. “That’s our song!”
We climbed off the bus at Stokes Bay dazed and punchy. I sighed with exhaustion. “Who would have guessed that She’ll be Comin’ ’Round the Mountain had so many stanzas?”
“It wasn’t meant to be sung in rounds,” said Duncan. “I think Henry got it confused with Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Damn, I could use a cold beer, or”—he smiled with roguish charm—“we could make it champagne if you’d say yes.”
Champagne wouldn’t cut it. I needed Valium. “I’m not being coy, Duncan. Honest. But please give me a little time to think. I feel all scattered.”
“How’s that for timing? I make my big play for the girl during the planet’s loudest shouting match and singalong. Just call me Mr. Romance.”
“It could have been worse.”
“I realize that. You could have said no.” He eyed me with sober resignation. “I’ll give you all the time you need, Em, and if you decide the ring belongs on your finger, it’ll be right here waiting for you.” He patted the deep front pocket of his shorts. “All you have to do is say the word.”
“Thanks,” I said, meaning it sincerely.
He winked. “No worries.” He scanned our surroundings, easing the emotion of the moment. “So this is our spectacular beach, is it?”
The shore was cobblestoned with rocks the size of melons, smoothed and polished by the surf and strewn in a rough mosaic between surly headlands. Duncan let out a low whistle. “This place has ‘broken leg’ written all over it. I hope no one’s planning to take a dip. Was the other beach this rugged?”
“You didn’t see the other beach?”
“I was a bit preoccupied embellishing your sea lion.”
“You were in the gift shop the whole time?”
He ticked off points on his fingers. “First, the clerk had to find ribbon. Then we argued about how to tie it into a pom-pom. You know what the biggest problem was?”
“He wouldn’t listen to your suggestions?”
“He wasn’t gay.”
Yeah, no way could two straight guys ever figure out how to fluff a bow.
“And when those two detectives arrived with Diana Squires in handcuffs, I got too intrigued to leave. Who knew, huh?”
I pushed gravel around with the toe of my sandal. “I, uh, I suspected her all along.”
“You’re kidding me. How’d you know she was a thief?”
My foot came to a grinding halt. “Excuse me?”
“I heard the officer tell her she was being arrested for theft.”
“Theft? They were supposed to arrest her for murder!”
He studied my face. “Oh, no. You’ve been doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Imagining that everyone who leaves the earth is doing so by unnatural means. Listen to me, Emily: not everyone who dies has been murdered. Did the coroner give you any reason to believe the Bellows woman was a victim of foul play?”
“No, but I have a call in to him. Coroners can miss things at a crime scene, especially if they don’t realize it is a crime scene.”
“So you think Diana killed Claire?”
I worried my bottom lip. “I did until the police arrested her for theft. I don’t get it.”
He gave my nose a playful tweak. “When we get back to the hotel, I’m treating you to a full body massage. No wonder you’re feeling scattered. You’re pulling double duty as Nancy Drew. Let the police do the investigating, Em. You need to get the relaxation juices flowing, and there’s nothing better than deep muscle massage to do it. Warm oil. Body heat. Fluffy towels. It’ll be better than a spa. What do you say?”
I pulled the sympathy card from my shoulder bag and smiled. “Have you signed this yet?”
Chapter 17
Theft? What had she stolen? The angiosperms? Nana’s photos?
As hungry guests hustled toward a weathered hut called The Rockpool Café and staked claims on nearby picnic tables, I lagged behind, trying to sort out the puzzle.
She couldn’t have been hauled off for stealing Nana’s Polaroids. I mean, we hadn’t even filed a police