G'Day to Die: A Passport to Peril Mystery - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,74
report! And how could she be arrested for digging up a plant no one could prove existed? Detectives wouldn’t cross state lines to drag her back to Melbourne for that, would they? And why the Melbourne authorities? If she committed a crime in Port Campbell, wouldn’t the local authorities be responsible for transporting her back?
Why wasn’t this making any sense?
I surveyed the grounds, keeping an eye peeled for Jake, Conrad, and Roger. This wasn’t good. If Diana hadn’t killed Claire and Nora, someone else had, and that someone was still running around free as a bird.
My stomach sank to my knees. Now what?
“If you don’t git in the queue, you’ll niveh git served,” Henry cautioned on his way by. “Don’t be fooled by the ramshackle looks of the place. The Rockpool has the bist seafood on the entire island—whiting, yabbies, crays. My favorite is the crays.”
“Crayfish?”
“Caught locally.”
“Shelled or unshelled?”
“Unshilled. That’s the only way to eat a crustacean.”
Not to a Midwesterner. We didn’t even like our peanuts in shells because of the time we wasted fighting to get them out. “Um, my group could have a problem with the crayfish.”
“Allergies?”
“Patience.”
“You’d bist warn thim then. Whin the café caters to tour groups, they cast the orders in stone.”
I found most of them gathered around a picnic table, shooting pictures of each other beside a seabird who’d landed on the barbecue grill. “Are you sure it’s a rare species?” asked Helen Teig as she focused her camera on Dick.
“Helen, will you take the picture already?”
“I don’t want to waste any more film if it’s not a sure thing! Emily, what kind of bird is that?”
I eyed the majestic bird with the white breast and gray wings. “Seagull.”
“You hear that, Dick? It’s a seagull. Seagulls aren’t rare!”
“They are in Iowa,” said Margi.
“Can I see a show of hands? How many of you have ordered your food already?” Everyone’s hand went up.
“Our bus arrived three minutes ahead of yours, so we beat everyone else out to be first in line,” crowed Lucille.
Oh, yeah, big surprise there. “So what did you order?”
“CRAYFISH!” they yelled in synchrony.
“It’s caught locally,” said Dick Stolee.
“And the person who took our order said it’s the best thing on the menu,” added Alice. She clutched a slip of paper as she checked her watch. “They should call our numbers any minute now.”
“They serve it with feta cheese and island-grown olives,” said Osmond.
“Does anyone want my feta cheese?” asked Margi. “Feta doesn’t sound like something I’m going to like.”
“Show of hands again,” I said. “How many of you have had crayfish before?”
No hands went up.
Uh-oh.
“What a dump,” Bernice whined as she waltzed over to us on Etienne’s arm. “They call this beach spectacular? Maybe to another rock. All I have to say is, the crayfish better be good.”
She’d ordered the crayfish. I hung my head. There was no God. There was no God.
“This isn’t the good beach, luv,” Henry announced as he passed out packets of disposable hand wipes. “The swim beach is on the other side of those rocks.” He nodded toward a headland of boulders to our east. “The tide’s low, so it’ll still be accissible if you don’t spind too much time eating.”
I saw the uncertainty in people’s faces as they exchanged looks with each other. Talking tides to Iowans was like talking snowshoes to Pygmies.
“Forget that tide business,” groused Bernice. “We don’t have tides in Iowa. You know why?”
“I know, I know.” Margi shot her hand into the air.
“Because tides are stupid!”
Margi looked confused. “I thought it was because we don’t have a coastline.”
“What’s so special about the beach?” asked Etienne as he seated Bernice at the table.
“It’s a little piece of paradise,” said Henry. “A criscent beach at the foot of limestone cliffs. Sand like sugar. And there’s a rock-inclosed pool that proticts the kiddies from the rips and occasional shark. It’s a favorite with the locals, especially whin the surf in the southern beaches gits too wild.”
“Does it have toilet facilities?” asked Osmond.
“There’s nothing but sand and water, and you’re asked to leave nothing behind but footprints.”
I could feel their excitement start to build. Dick Stolee surveyed the mountain of boulders with a critical eye. “How in tarnation do we get over there? Drive?”
“Tunnel. Goes clear through to the other side. It used to go only halfway, but after World War II a couple of farmers decided to finish the job, so they dynamited their way through.”
The Dicks let out high-spirited whoops, obviously tantalized by the idea