G'Day to Die by Maddy Hunter Page B

of the Red Hill Photographic Rooms to admire the souvenir shots of tourists dressed in period costume. Then, spying a bench outside the Post Office, I sat down to devour my tart.
    “Do you think if we wait here long enough, a gunfight will break out, and Chester will limp down the street yelling, ‘Mr. Dillon! Mr. Dillon!’”
    With my mouth full of boysenberry tart, I nearly choked when I realized the man who’d stopped beside my bench was Roger Piccolo. He was short and square, and even though his face ballooned with almost steroidal puffiness, the rest of him looked hard as a sack of grain.
    “I remember my granddad watching that show when I was a kid,” he went on. “ Gunsmoke, starring James Arness as Matt Dillon and Amanda something-or-other as Miss Kitty.”
    “Blake,” I mumbled around my tart. “Amanda Blake.”
    He swung his body around to face me. “I’m impressed you knew that. You don’t look old enough to remember the Gunsmoke days.”
    Such a charmer. I swallowed what was in my mouth and smiled. “I used to watch reruns when I visited my grandparents. Grampa ate up Westerns. The Rifleman. Cheyenne. Bronco Lane . He loved watching men in ten-gallon hats blow each other’s heads off. I think it’s a guy thing.”
    He eyed my half-eaten pastry. “Is that the boysenberry tart? I almost bought one, but the hot cross bun beckoned seductively from behind the glass.” He shook the brown paper sack he was carrying. “Mind if I join you?”
    I slid to my right to make room. “Has your name on it.”
    “I know you’re on the tour,” he said as he opened his bag, “but you haven’t worn your name tag long enough for me to see your name.”
    “Emily Andrew. Sorry. My name tag never seems to match what I’m wearing, so it spends most of its time in my suitcase.”
    “I’m Roger.” He bit into his bun, a heavenly smile appearing on his face. “Unh. Unnnnh . God, I’d forgotten how good fresh food can taste.”
    “Yeah, frozen can be a little hard on the teeth. What do you normally eat? Takeout?”
    “Nutritional shakes—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They’re all the body needs. Plus a truckload of dietary supplements. It’s one of the perks my company offers. Free product as long as I work for them. I can’t remember the last time I visited a grocery store.”
    I tried to suppress my horror. “You drink all your meals out of a can?”
    “Bottle, actually. They redesigned the containers a couple of years ago. But you wouldn’t believe how much time and money a liquid diet can save you. My productivity has increased by twenty percent since I made the switch.”
    “Yeah, but no pizza, no fudge, no soft serve ice cream with colored sprinkles. What kind of drugs are you on for withdrawal?”
    “I’m not suffering withdrawal. Believe it or not, I actually like my diet.”
    Sure he did. That’s why he was scarfing down his hot cross bun as if he’d been given the two-minute warning before the start of the Rapture.
    He held up the final scrap. “Just so you won’t think I’m a total hypocrite, the only reason I’m eating this is because it’s impossible for me to travel with my own food supply, so when I’m on vacation, I’m forced to eat what everyone else does. But once I’m back home, it’ll be shakes and supplements again.”
    “Can you honestly say that drinking nutritional shakes is better for your health than eating steak and potatoes?”
    “Spoken like a person who’s never heard of GenerX Technologies.”
    I feigned deep thought by wrinkling my brow. “I’ve heard of GenerX. Isn’t that the company who’s developed a new vanishing cream? What’s it called? Perfecta?”
    “Bite your tongue! GenerX is not, I repeat not, the makers of that bogus vanishing cream. You’re thinking of Infinity Inc., our scab competitor whose main objective is to peddle snake oil to an unsuspecting public. Bunch of con artists. They’re unfit to lick our corporate boots!” He speared