Murder in the Outback

  Murder

  in the

  Outback

  Anisa Claire West

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, either living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

  Packing Checklist for Rita’s Australian Adventure

  Sunscreen with SPF 15,000,000

  Wide-brimmed straw hat

  Insect repellant (lots of it)

  Grape flavored lip balm (with more SPF)

  Cute sundresses (for possible dates with Aussie hunks)

  Canteen for water

  Writing journal

  Sunglasses

  Camera & equipment

  Binoculars

  Bill Bryson’s indispensable & hilarious guide, In a Sunburned Country

  Enough courage to make the Great Barrier Reef look minuscule…

  Prologue

  Santa Monica, California

  Packing for the Australian Outback…

  Zipping up my duffel bag, I slung the pack over my shoulder and promptly collapsed face first onto the floor from its staggering weight. Maybe I should have packed more lightly? Reluctantly I unzipped the bag and removed a few paperback books and other non-essentials, but I couldn’t bear to leave my adorable, flirty, breezy sundresses behind. Never mind that I would be spending most of my four-week trip behind the zoom lens of my camera; who knows who I might run into? Famous for its rugged, laid back, sun-kissed men, Australia beckoned to me as much for the possibility of new romance as for the exotic photo ops in the bush. Travelogues had taught me that Australia is the deadliest country in the world with the threat of snakebites and other critter attacks constantly looming, but I was sure nothing could be as toxic as the two year relationship I had just ended with a man who thought my first name was You Stupid Idiot.

  “Here boy!” I called to my loyal toy poodle named Pouf.

  Standing on his hind legs, he ardently gobbled up the milk bone I offered him. “Good boy.” I patted his little head, elated that he would be joining me on my adventure. All my friends told me I was crazy for bringing Pouf with me, but then again they thought I was daft for taking this trip at all and quitting my cushy but lackluster job as photo editor for a food magazine. My closest friend, Amy, warned me about the abject misery of being stung by a box jellyfish and the poisonous perils that lurked in every savage corner of the Outback.

  Brushing my rising fears aside, I grabbed Pouf’s kennel and whispered to my buddy, “Time to go, boy. We have a flight to catch.”

  If only I had known when the 747 soared out of LAX that day into the smog-filled sky that the venomous snakes and omnipresent insects would be the least of my worries. As I settled in with a good book for the grueling 14 hour flight, I never would have guessed that it was the people, or rather one person in particular, whom I needed to fear…

  Chapter 1

  Sydney, Australia

  Many Hours Later, Jetlagged & Jittery

  “I don’t understand what day it is,” I fretted to my highly amused taxi driver.

  “You crossed the International Date Line, miss, so there’s bound to be a little confusion. You lost a whole day during your flight from America,” the scruffy driver explained with an unnecessary wink through the rearview mirror.

  “So what day is it?” I persisted, my head awash with murky clouds and my ears still popping from the extended period at an unnatural altitude of 30,000 feet.

  “It’s Sunday, October 4th,” the driver drawled slowly as though he were imparting some bit of sophisticated knowledge to an utter moron.

  “October 4th,” I repeated in a daze. “Got it.”

  My mental fog warded off any further conversation from the cabbie as I clutched Pouf to my chest and stared out the window at the myriad of unfamiliar sights. Pouf had been a yapping wreck for most of the plane ride, apparently deeply insulted that I had stored him like luggage under my seat. I can only imagine how the spoiled pup would have reacted if I had transported him in the notoriously loud and miserable cargo section of the plane. But now as I drank in the Sydney views like fresh water from a wishing well, Pouf blinked his eyes and nodded off to sleep in my lap.

  Sydney was an elegant city with the landmarks of Harbour Bridge (the world’s tallest steel arch bridge) and the uniquely designed Opera House thrilling me as the taxi cruised along. In the distance, the roof flaps of the Opera House appeared like a cluster of golden dolphin tails as the sun beat down powerfully from a sheer aquamarine sky. I couldn’t wait to dump my bags at the hotel and get my feet dirty in the Outback.

  “Here’s your hotel, miss,” the cabbie announced as we pulled up to a chic four-story edifice with the name Pacific Cove emblazoned on the front.

  Gently I jostled Pouf awake and scooted out of the taxi, handing the driver a fistful of bills in Australian currency and bidding him a friendly goodbye. Grabbing Pouf’s leash, I led him into the spacious lobby that boasted crystal chandeliers, abstract art, and shining skylights. Blonde and perky, the front desk agent greeted me with a pearlescent smile.

  “G’day,” she said as I noted that she didn’t call me “mate.” That appellation was just one of many American stereotypes about our Aussie friends that bordered on absurd. Sure, I was in the gritty land of Crocodile Dundee, but I didn’t expect to meet the fictional hero. Maybe some people called each other “mate” in Australia the way some used the term “dude” in the United States, but it would be wrong to lump everyone together.

  “Hi! I have a reservation for Rita Stanford. And him,” I added, pointing to my panting dog. I needed to get the little guy a heaping bowl of cold water ASAP.

  “Great. I’ll just need to see your passport and his certificate of health with proof of micro-chipping,” the young, freckle faced woman requested formally as I swiftly pulled the documents from my duffel bag.

  “Do you have any maps of the bush? I brought one with me, but I could always use some more.”

  “Of course. There’s a whole rack full of maps over there by the excursion desk. We can arrange for a bush tour if you’d like. We offer group adventure tours daily…”

  “Oh that’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’m not planning on going with a group.”

  Halfway between appalled and amused, the clerk raised a tawny brow. “You’re joking, right?”

  “No, not at all. I’m a photographer and…”

  “Nobody goes into the bush alone,” the woman interrupted sternly, her pale blue eyes darkening as she issued the warning.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine…”

  “Perhaps you’re not understanding me,” she inhaled sharply. “But no one goes into the bush alone, especially not a foreign woman like you.”

  “Well then I guess I’m about to rewrite the rule book,” I said with a touch of pompousness that would later haunt me. Glancing at the clerk’s name tag, I said softly, “Heidi, I appreciate your advice, but I just quit a job that kept me shackled to a cubicle 10 hours a day. I’m ready for a little adventure.”

  “And you’ve come to the right place! You don’t have to look very far in our country to find adventure. But going to the bush alone…all you’re asking to find there is trouble.” Heidi handed me my documents and pursed her Kewpie Doll lips in blatant disapproval.

  “Thanks Heidi,” I murmured, shooting away from the desk with Pouf giddily prancing behind me.

  While I didn’t doubt that the concerned woman had offered sound advice, I wasn’t in the frame of mind to listen to anyone or anything other than the pulsating drumbeat of my own heart. Two years of being pushed around, taken for granted, and verbally be
littled by a man who claimed to love me had left me willful, perhaps foolishly so. Never mind that my closest encounter with the Land Down Under was a creamy seafood dish known as Toowoomba Pasta at the local Outback Steakhouse back home; I still felt equipped to tackle the beguiling wilderness.

  “Here’s our room,” I breathed, opening the door with a dramatic flair as though the Wizard of Oz were inside waiting for me. “It’s beautiful!”

  Sparkling views of Sydney Harbour and the city skyline greeted me from a wide picture window. Pouf ran ahead of me and immediately began sniffing every square inch of the room while I stared mesmerized at the priceless view. As I prepared a bowl of water for my poodle, I considered taking a shower before embarking on my first bush exploration. But what would be the point of freshening up? I’d be a sweaty, muddy, sunburned mess after leaving the Outback, so I might as well hold off on the shower.

  Unrolling a map like a Dead Sea Scroll, I examined the distance between Sydney and the nearest barren bush area. Startled, I narrowed my eyes, wondering if I was reading the measurements correctly. From the colored lines on the map, the nearest wild area was a forbidding 6 hour drive from the city.

  “Warrumbungles,” I muttered. “It’s so far.” The word sounds like the name of a strange character from Alice in Wonderland, but it’s actually a remote area of Australia renowned for its day hikes, glowing sunsets, and awesome kangaroo sightings. Warrumbungles is where I wanted to be. It was the whole reason for my odyssey from California to the Land Down Under. But somehow, in my haste to escape my mundane existence, I had miscalculated the distance between Sydney and the bush. Ridiculously, I had thought that Sydney was just an hour or two away from the Outback, rather than half a day’s drive. “I should have paid more attention in math class,” I grumbled to myself.

  Defeated, I yanked off my sandals and plopped onto the king size bed. “Okay, Pouf. We have two choices. We can either take a taxi right now to a hotel near Warrumbungles…or we can sleep off this jet lag and I’ll rent a car to drive there bright and early. What do you say? Coin toss?”

  Suddenly my eyes felt impossibly heavy, as though someone had covered them with rock paperweights. My stomach rumbled even though I had no appetite. Jet lag was setting in. I had spent too many oxygen-deprived hours in that “pressurized” air cabin (I’ve never really understood how that works, but all I know is that people cannot naturally breathe at that lofty altitude, hence the oxygen mask lecture that no one listens to at the beginning of each flight).

  Suppressing a tremendous yawn, I mumbled, “Heads, we go to sleep. Tails, we go to sleep.”

  Synching with my natural rhythms as he always did, my furry friend leaped on the bed and curled up alongside me. “Good night, Pouf,” I whispered even though it was only about 3:30 in the afternoon. Within seconds, I had tumbled into the deepest, sweetest slumber of my life.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning I awoke groggier than I had been even in the throes of the wickedest party hangovers of my college days. Not even during a debilitating bout with the flu five years ago had my head ever felt so funky. Pouf, in contrast, was a flying ball of energy as he circled the room and yelped in his shrill canine language. Instinctively the pup darted over to the door as a signal that he desperately needed a walk.

  Forgetting that I was wearing the same pit-stained apparel that I had left Los Angeles in, I grabbed Pouf’s leash and hurriedly walked him through the lobby before he had an accident. Rushing through the double glass doors, I led Pouf to a discreet section of the parking lot. A few moments later, I heard a familiar Aussie-accented voice calling to me.

  “Good morning, Rita!” The only person I knew on the entire continent waved and offered a sunny smile.

  “Hi Heidi!” I hollered as she zig zagged through the parking lot to where Pouf and I stood.

  “If you’ve had a change of heart about one of those group tours, I’d be glad to hook you up,” she said hopefully.

  “Thanks, but I actually think I might be checking out today. I want to stay at a hotel closer to Warrumbungles.”

  In the stark morning sun, Heidi appeared older than she had in the artificial light of the hotel lobby. Delicate crow’s feet lined the edges of those Caribbean blue orbs and faint indigo circles underscored her eyes. I roughly estimated that she was somewhere in her 40s, perhaps about 15 years my senior.

  “Do your parents know you’re here? Does anyone know you’re here?” She probed with raw apprehension.

  Skirting her questions, I said, “You’re very sweet, but I can manage on my own.”

  “How old are you? About 20? I didn’t pay much attention to your passport,” she admitted.

  “I’m 28,” I replied crisply. “And for the record, my parents know exactly where I am.”

  “Well they won’t know exactly where you are when you’re in the bush. No one will.” With that grim statement, Heidi glanced at her watch and announced, “I need to start my shift now. Be careful, Rita. Navigating the Outback can be a matter of life and death.”

  ***

  Heidi’s forewarning rang in my head all throughout the neck-stiffening drive towards Warrumbungles. The air conditioner of the banana yellow Jeep Wrangler I had rented was on full blast, but I was still dripping sweat. Australians drive on the left side of the road just like the English do. This little modification caused me to jerk through a series of close call flubs before I (sort of) got the hang of it.

  As the stylish charm of Sydney faded into the dust, I was struck by how desolate the Australian countryside was. Eerily, I drove countless miles without glimpsing a single human being. At one point, I did spy a gorgeous pair of wild horses, known as brumbies to Australians, so I pulled over to the curb for a series of animated shots. Climbing back into the Jeep, I glanced over at my companion animal; even though we couldn’t “talk,” we had our special ways of communicating.

  “This is a lonely country,” I observed with an involuntary shudder as Pouf yapped in response.

  Vast open road stretched for fathomless miles as I searched in vain for any sign of life. My heart raced nervously as I realized the tank was getting low on gas. Gulping, I thought how the last time I had seen a service station was at least an hour ago. What would I do if the Jeep ran out of gas? I was literally in the middle of nowhere. Even worse, my cell phone had lost its signal shortly after I left the boundaries of Sydney. If the vehicle broke down, I would be stranded on a hot, arid highway and completely at the mercy of strangers. Pumping the gas pedal harder, I pressed on, desperate to be somewhere, anywhere, other than where I was in that moment.

  I endured the next hour with my heart painfully lodged in my throat until finally coming upon a gas station. With less than 1/8 of a tank of gas, it felt like no small miracle that I had found the service station. After making a quick restroom stop and chugging an ice cold bottle of Pasiona (a popular Aussie soft drink that tastes like Mountain Dew) I felt refreshed and ready to tackle the road again.

  By the time I reached my new hotel, I was in dire need of a full body massage, preferably with smooth basalt lava stones heated to soothing perfection. Ahhhh. But no, I didn’t travel halfway around the world to get pampered. I came to Australia with the explicit purpose of experiencing the wilds of the Outback. And I intended to do just that.

  “Come on, Pouf!” I guided my dog inside the rustic looking hotel and approached the front desk.

  An eccentric looking middle aged man with shaggy shoulder length locks greeted me with a crooked grin. “All by yourself, miss?” He asked as that toothy smile broadened and his eyes glittered disturbingly.

  “No, I have my dog,” I said defensively, wishing for a split second that Pouf were a German Shepherd or Rottweiler. I shoved my passport and documents across the desk before the man had a chance to ask for them.

  “Everything here looks in order,” he muttered, barely glancing at the documents. “Here’s your key, miss. Welcome to the Wallaby Inn.”

  Whereas the
Sydney hotel had produced a magnetic card, this backwoods dive offered an actual key. The old fashioned kind. Mumbling a cursory “thank you,” I snatched the key and went in search of an elevator. Of course, there was no elevator and I was forced to enter a musty stairwell that looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned since Australia gained independence from Britain (which was in 1901 to offer a bit of perspective).

  Coughing on a hideous variety of allergens, I raced up the stairs with Pouf at my feet wheezing. “You okay, baby?” I murmured as the pup sneezed in quick succession.

  Almost afraid to open the door to my room, I hesitated in the maroon carpeted hallway, tempted to get right back in the Jeep and make the return drive to Sydney. To civilization. Then I indulged a little fantasy of one of my photographs being published in a magazine like National Geographic or Smithsonian and I resolutely opened the door. I instantly breathed a sigh of relief.

  With a low humming air conditioner and cotton sheet-wrapped bed, the room was basic but adequate. There were no amenities like wet bar or even a television set, but I didn’t care. In the Death Valley-esque temperatures of inland Australia, a functioning air conditioner was the main priority. Preparing dual bowls of food and water for Pouf, I hastily changed my clothes and laced up a pair of old sneakers.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours, Pouf,” I said as he whined, sensing my imminent departure. “Don’t cry. You’ll be much safer here. And more comfy too. See all this kibble and water I’m leaving for you!” I consoled as Pouf defiantly lay down at my feet and looked up at me with irresistible puppy dog eyes. “I promise we’ll go for a long walk as soon as I get back!”

  Patting his head and tossing him a few of his favorite chicken treats, I grabbed my camera and scampered out the door before Pouf could try to stop me by digging his claws into my calf and whimpering. I tried to evade the questionable man at the front desk, but he caught me on the way out. “Going on a little adventure?” He surmised. “I’m Paul, by the way.”