Herefords on the old ranch-you remember, Johnny.”
“Sure do,” John said.
“But in the last few years we’ve phased them out. White-faced cattle don’t bring as much on the market. Isn’t that interesting? Nobody knows why. You know what I think? I think it’s because they make people think of milk cows, not beef cows.”
“Yeah,” John said. “I guess nobody wants to eat Elsie.”
At the bottom of the hill they separated, with Axel going to the back of the house to bring around a truck for the short drive to Inge’s. John looked at Gideon and made an odd face.
“What?” Gideon said.
John screwed his mouth up into a little knot and put on what he must have thought was a professorial tone of voice, throwing in a prissy English accent for good measure and tipping his head back as if he were looking through a monocle. “I see thet yaw raise Jehseys heah. Do yaw heve Heffahds as well?” he said.
And then dissolved in laughter. “I love it.”
Gideon laughed, too. “I think I got away with it.”
“This place, Maravovo Atoll, where they found the plane,” Inge began when she’d finally got everyone settled, “is part of something called the Republic of Kiribati-”
“Actually, it’s pronounced kiribass, ” Axel said. “Not kiribati. It used to be the Gilberts, you see, but when they changed the name, they had no way to spell-”
Felix exploded with a shout. “Axel, for God’s sake! I mean, Jesus Christ!”
“Sorry,” Axel said, blinking, clearly wondering what Felix was so upset about.
Inge covered her mouth. It was hard not to laugh. It was so like Axel, so like Felix. What a pair.
“This island, or atoll, or whatever it is,” she continued, “is totally uninhabited. No one ever went there until two months ago, when Odysseus Cruise Lines started offering a ten-day Hawaiian Islands cruise out of Honolulu and included a two-day round trip to the place for a beach picnic. See, they have to do that because Odysseus is Greek-owned, and non-American ships aren’t allowed to travel between American ports without including at least one foreign call on their itinerary, and Maravovo Atoll was the closest-”
“For God’s sake, Inge,” Auntie Dagmar snapped, “we don’t need a lecture on United States maritime law. You’re getting as bad as Axel. Get to the point.”
“What did I do now?” Axel bleated.
“Dammit, Auntie,” Inge said, “all I’m trying to do… all right, okay, yes, sorry.” When Dagmar was in one of her cranky moods there wasn’t much point in trying to reason with her. Besides, it was natural enough for everybody to be a little edgy.
A week ago, she explained, a group of snorkelers from the cruise ship had paddled in an inflatable boat to a relatively distant part of the atoll’s lagoon, where they had seen the old Grumman sunk in five or six feet of water, its tail protruding. They had dived down to it, looked through a missing window, and seen some bones inside. The doors had been jammed or rusted shut, and since they didn’t have underwater flashlights or breathing equipment, and everything was a jumble inside, they hadn’t been able to see much else.
“Jesus,” Hedwig breathed. “As if we needed this.”
The snorkelers, Inge went on, had gotten the plane’s registration number from the fuselage and reported it to the ship’s captain, and eventually the number was traced back to the plane’s Hoaloha Ranch ownership. The Waimea police department was notified, and they were the ones who had called Inge with the news.
“N7943U,” Axel said from memory.
Inge checked her notes. “That’s it.”
“What do they want us to do?” Dagmar asked.
“The police?” said Inge. “They don’t want us to do anything. They just called to tell us. But the Kiribati-pardon me, Axel, Kiribass-officials want to know if we want the remains back. Personally, I think the best thing to do would be to just leave them where they are. The less attention we
“Sure do,” John said.
“But in the last few years we’ve phased them out. White-faced cattle don’t bring as much on the market. Isn’t that interesting? Nobody knows why. You know what I think? I think it’s because they make people think of milk cows, not beef cows.”
“Yeah,” John said. “I guess nobody wants to eat Elsie.”
At the bottom of the hill they separated, with Axel going to the back of the house to bring around a truck for the short drive to Inge’s. John looked at Gideon and made an odd face.
“What?” Gideon said.
John screwed his mouth up into a little knot and put on what he must have thought was a professorial tone of voice, throwing in a prissy English accent for good measure and tipping his head back as if he were looking through a monocle. “I see thet yaw raise Jehseys heah. Do yaw heve Heffahds as well?” he said.
And then dissolved in laughter. “I love it.”
Gideon laughed, too. “I think I got away with it.”
“This place, Maravovo Atoll, where they found the plane,” Inge began when she’d finally got everyone settled, “is part of something called the Republic of Kiribati-”
“Actually, it’s pronounced kiribass, ” Axel said. “Not kiribati. It used to be the Gilberts, you see, but when they changed the name, they had no way to spell-”
Felix exploded with a shout. “Axel, for God’s sake! I mean, Jesus Christ!”
“Sorry,” Axel said, blinking, clearly wondering what Felix was so upset about.
Inge covered her mouth. It was hard not to laugh. It was so like Axel, so like Felix. What a pair.
“This island, or atoll, or whatever it is,” she continued, “is totally uninhabited. No one ever went there until two months ago, when Odysseus Cruise Lines started offering a ten-day Hawaiian Islands cruise out of Honolulu and included a two-day round trip to the place for a beach picnic. See, they have to do that because Odysseus is Greek-owned, and non-American ships aren’t allowed to travel between American ports without including at least one foreign call on their itinerary, and Maravovo Atoll was the closest-”
“For God’s sake, Inge,” Auntie Dagmar snapped, “we don’t need a lecture on United States maritime law. You’re getting as bad as Axel. Get to the point.”
“What did I do now?” Axel bleated.
“Dammit, Auntie,” Inge said, “all I’m trying to do… all right, okay, yes, sorry.” When Dagmar was in one of her cranky moods there wasn’t much point in trying to reason with her. Besides, it was natural enough for everybody to be a little edgy.
A week ago, she explained, a group of snorkelers from the cruise ship had paddled in an inflatable boat to a relatively distant part of the atoll’s lagoon, where they had seen the old Grumman sunk in five or six feet of water, its tail protruding. They had dived down to it, looked through a missing window, and seen some bones inside. The doors had been jammed or rusted shut, and since they didn’t have underwater flashlights or breathing equipment, and everything was a jumble inside, they hadn’t been able to see much else.
“Jesus,” Hedwig breathed. “As if we needed this.”
The snorkelers, Inge went on, had gotten the plane’s registration number from the fuselage and reported it to the ship’s captain, and eventually the number was traced back to the plane’s Hoaloha Ranch ownership. The Waimea police department was notified, and they were the ones who had called Inge with the news.
“N7943U,” Axel said from memory.
Inge checked her notes. “That’s it.”
“What do they want us to do?” Dagmar asked.
“The police?” said Inge. “They don’t want us to do anything. They just called to tell us. But the Kiribati-pardon me, Axel, Kiribass-officials want to know if we want the remains back. Personally, I think the best thing to do would be to just leave them where they are. The less attention we
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