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CHAPTER
13
Kirsty finished dressing, twitched the mustard chenille bedspread into place, then sat on the sofa—also mustard, but spruced up with a cream pillow covered in olive-green pineapples—in her room at the hotel motel.
She’d flung open the doors to the tiny, tiled patio and she could hear music playing somewhere in the distance. An AM radio station playing its morning drivetime show perhaps, because the songs were a repeat of the ones that had kept her company on her road trip north: ‘Lyin’ Eyes’, ‘Khe Sanh’, ‘Hopelessly Devoted to You’.
She had a decision to make. Well, lots of decisions, actually, but she didn’t want to think aboutthem, which was why all the missed calls on her phone had dimmed her mood.
A lot.
Her mother, of course … only Terri didn’t leave messages exactly, but a string of photographs with unnecessary descriptions:tea cosy in orange with white pompoms, striped tea cosy, tea cosy in moss stitch. Hermum’s head clearly was in a bad way if this much craft had been necessary.
Relax, she’d texted back.It’s the Bluetts I’m finding out about up here, not whatever you got up to.She’d added a picture ofDoreen Anne.You’ll be pleased to know I just found my own craft project. Not sure knitting needles will be the right tool for the job.
A bird hopped down onto the little table on her patio and inspected a crumb Kirsty must have dropped, then pecked at it with its beak. If only the decisions facing her were so easy. Was she being rash, giving up her time and savings for the relic she’d found? Carol was so sure a museum would want the plane … and it would make a much more interesting exhibit if it wasn’t filthy, and if the paint hadn’t faded, and if the vinyl in the cockpit wasn’t all split and moulting its kapok stuffing.
And she’d bebusy. Messing about in a shed, playing with a warbird … this would be anadventure.
The other two missed calls were from her boss, Mike.
She could head out to the farm and pretend she hadn’t charged her phone. Or was out of range. Or—
Shoot. This running away caper was harder than she’d thought. She couldn’tnotcall her boss back, but there was no way she was ringing him back without some clue why he was chasing her. She needed intel, and for that she needed John Mann. Luckily for her, he was always the first to answer the phone.
‘Mediflight West, Port Augusta; John speaking.’
‘John, it’s me.’
‘Kirsty! Well, my girl, you’ve stirred up a storm this time.’ The sting of his words was alleviated by the giant Santa laugh that bellowed into her ear.
She felt homesick all of a sudden. The office, John and the gold in his filling gleaming every time he laughed; even the sticky tinof catering coffee out in the break room. She missed the busy. The routine.
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘You heard I’m grounded, right?’
‘I hear everything in this place; I have the ears of a dingo. For instance, I heard you didn’t tell Mike about that irate husband who roughed you up.’
She cleared her throat.
‘But that cat’s out of the bag. Bloke’s been ringing here every three seconds looking for you to say his sorries in person.’
She closed her eyes. Damn, damn,damn, that hiccup in her chest wasback. Maybe there was carbon monoxide in this hotel room, too. Maybe her concussion had crept back into her head to cuddle up to her brain lesion while she slept. ‘I don’t blame him for that. If I hadn’t …’
John had the voice of a bloke who’d dealt with a lifetime of drama with a minimum of fuss. Maybe he was so expert he could tell he was talking to someone who was three shakes of a lamb’s tail away from losing it, because his voice softened. ‘Things go wrong, Kirsty. Good decisions can go pear-shaped in a split second and that’s what happened, so no use beating yourself up over it. And’—he dropped his voice to a growl—‘no bloody excuse for Ullrich to beat you up over it.’
She forced the words out. ‘He didn’t—’
‘Don’t bullshit me, young lady.’
John’s advice was well meant. Maybe she’d be able to listen one day soon, when she was feeling a little less … poisoned. Besides, the marks on her arm were fading. ‘How’s the B200 doing?’
‘New starboard propellor, repair of the nosecone, and engineering had to weld up a wheel strut. She’s back in the air. Brettopicked up Maggie yesterday and flew her down to Ceduna for her monthly chemo.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Maggie was asking after you. Wants to know when you’ll be back so she can whip you up some shortbread.’
