“I would rather the object not be stolen in the first place or that looters not profit.”
“I hardly see how buried treasures can provide knowledge of cultures and educate the public. A museum’s purpose is noble.”
“A thief ’s is not,” Alexa countered. “What can you tell me about the dig on Pirongia two years ago? We know you were involved.”
Dittmer went still. “Hardly worth the effort. All that was found was broken pottery and fish bone.” It was possible that his pale skin had paled further.
“Why did you leave the museum?”
“I make a better living in antiques. I don’t see how I can help you with your investigation.”
“I need to know if you have been approached recently by someone selling Maori artifacts.”
“Ah, the computer is ready. Just a moment.” Dittmer appeared to be searching. “Yes. This is it. A bill from three years ago. Shall I print it?” Without waiting for an answer, he left the small room again. In a moment, he was back, standing above her with a sheet of paper. “Here.”
“Thank you.” She read the printout, noting the Bailey & Barre name again. “I’ll share it with the Detective Inspector in charge of the investigation. But wait.” She reread. “This is just for one of the clubs. Do you have a bill for the other?”
“I don’t see it in my records. I’ll keep looking. But I have to leave now.”
She stood, and now Dittmer was eye-to-eye with her five feet seven inches. “Have you been approached recently?”
Steel-gray eyes darkened to slate. “No one has come to my shop with Maori antiquities in recent months.” He stepped back against his desk.
“What can you tell me about this Bailey & Barre?” The slightest of muscle fasciculation in his left eyelid. Maybe she had imagined it.
“It’s an international auction house in Auckland. They specialize in militaria and Maori and Pacific artifacts.” He gathered steam. “They handle appraisals, restorations, and estate sales. I make several trips a year to their auctions.” He made a point of checking his watch.
“I’m sure you want to help with our investigation. If someone in the area had Maori items for sale and did not proposition you, whom would they turn to?”
Dittmer straightened his compact body. “I don’t know. Are we done? I have an appointment.”
“A final question. Did you know Paul Koppel?”
Another twitch, she was sure this time.
“No.”
Alexa returned to her car parked across the street. It was half past three on a sunny afternoon in downtown Rotorua, the day after Ray Herera’s body washed up on the banks of the lake. A woman and a tot in purple gum boots walked by hand in hand, their singsong laughter seeping through the cracked window a reminder that life goes on even in the midst of murder. Alexa knew it was time to head to the lab, but something William Dittmer said bothered her. A niggling irritant.
What?
She jotted down notes, trying to jar her memory, and shifted her throbbing knee.
Nothing.
Just as she decided to head to the station, Dittmer emerged from his shop.
She watched as the antiques proprietor looked both ways down the street, locked the shop door, and scurried around the corner. What was there to do but follow?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dittmer’s snow-white head bobbing down the sidewalk made him easy to keep an eye on; driving the car at walking pace with traffic breathing on her bumper was not. Should she park and tail him on foot? But what if he was heading to his car? She was about to pass him when Dittmer stopped by a black Honda Accord, unlocked it, and slipped in.
It was then she figured what was bothering her.
Monday afternoon traffic in Rotorua, the fourth-largest city on the North Island, was congested; Alexa took advantage of that by staying two cars behind the Honda and concentrated more on the driving than the mission.
What was the mission? Should she notify DI Horne? If Dittmer was merely getting a haircut or going to the gym, she’d waste his time.
But Dittmer had mentioned antiquities “buried in a cave.” That was what had bothered her. I never mentioned a cave.
After ten minutes, the Honda turned right onto Queen’s Drive near Lake Rotorua. A colorful billboard touted Polynesian Spa: Open Daily. The Honda turned into the spa entrance. Alexa waited for two cars to pass before doing the same.
An appointment at the spa?
Slowly cruising the half-full parking lot, Alexa watched Dittmer open his trunk and extract a gym bag. From her rearview mirror, she watched him scurry to the entrance. Parking one row over, Alexa jotted down Dittmer’s license number, which she had memorized, and then opened the door.
But wait.
A disguise. He would recognize her. Lucky the Monet scarf from last night was stuffed in her tote. She wound it turban-like around her hair, shoving stray tendrils underneath, put on sunglasses, and, before she could back out, walked to the entrance, trying not to limp.
Inside smelled of sulfur and salt. Bird tweets, palm trees, and reggae music created a pseudotropic. All kinds of people, some in swimsuits and jandals, some in robes, some in street clothes, queued at two ticket lines. Dittmer stood in the left line. A family of four clustered behind him. Two towheaded boys were tugging at their parents’ arms, yammering excitedly.
Brightly colored menu boards lined the wall above the ticket windows. A variety of hot pool packages were available: luxury, private, adults only, family fun. Next to this were spa therapy choices. For $180 a person could choose mud treatment body wraps to tighten and tone skin, improve and increase blood circulation, and eliminate toxins.
Alexa, with a surge of anger, thought of Paul Koppel’s mud treatment. Of his wife defending him. Of his little boys thinking death was a game and Daddy would come home.
She pushed her sunglasses farther up her nose and crowded behind the family, who were speaking German. Keeping her head down, she edged behind the large mother and listened to Dittmer speak to the agent.
“Private pool number three, one hour.” He sounded like a regular. “I have a reservation.”
Alexa glanced up and read the description: The Deluxe Private Mineral Pools Offer Complete Privacy and Open-Air Lake Views, $30 for 30 minutes.
Bargain.
The ticket agent, who wore a Hawaiian shirt, scanned her screen. “Yes, welcome back.” Dittmer paid cash, received key, slippers, towel, and robe, and sidled off toward the men’s dressing area.
“The sliding board, Papa,” one of the little boys said and then switched to German. “Gleitbrett!” The parents debated between themselves, scrutinized the coupons they had in hand, and argued with the ticket agent. Alexa clenched her fists, mentally screaming “Decide, morons.”
Finally, they purchased their family fun pack. “How may I help you?” the ticket agent asked Alexa.
“Private pool number four, please, one hour.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No.”
The woman scanned her screen. “That pool is not available.” She smiled pleasantly at Alexa. “Would another of our private mineral pools work?”
“Is number two available?”
“Yes, it is.” Her smile broadened. “Anything else? A spa treatment? Bathing costume?”
Alexa shuddered at the thought of a rented bathing suit, hated bathing suits, hated anything that showcased her lovely scars. But then she considered the alternative: sleuthing naked. “One suit, please.”
“Size?”
Her mind blanked. What sizes did New Zealand use? “Medium.”
The agent handed Alexa a locker key, towel, white robe, slippers, and shrink-wrapped red tog and gave instructions. “I hope someone is joining you,” the agent added. “It’s very romantic.”
“Ah, yes, no, thanks,” said Alexa,
shoving an escaped hank under her turban. She put the sixty-five dollars on her credit card, took a deep breath, and looked around. Danger in a popular tourist attraction with singing birds and fake waterfalls was ludicrous.
In the dressing room, she struggled into the rented tog, worried about its provenance. The spandex fought back, and the result was tight in the butt, loose in the bust, and left her upper back exposed. But who would see? Bruce Horne flashed in her mind. She figured he’d be angry at this wild goose chase.
But not if she discovered something important.
Following instructions, she showered, flinching as the spray hit her wrist and swelling knee. She wrapped up in the robe, stuffed her feet into too-small slippers, stowed her tote in a locker, stashed key and cell in her robe pocket, and—finally—stepped into a waiting lounge of dim light, soft music.
Panic.
She looked around. But the lounge was empty.
What if Dittmer had been here? She’d left scarf and shades in the locker.
After a few minutes, a stout Maori woman in a bright red sarong entered. Her lustrous black hair, in a thick braid, hung heavy over her right shoulder. “Kia ora. I am Hanna, your escort. Are you ready?” Like Officer Cooper’s, Hanna’s lips were blue, and spirals covered her chin.
“Yes.”
“I’ll show you to your personal spa pool.”
Alexa followed. “Are most of the private pools rented out this afternoon?”
“Just a few,” the woman replied. “Yesterday was much busier.”
They were in a narrow hallway with numbered doors lining the left. The woman stopped at Number Two, unlocked it, and stepped inside, saying something about a complimentary drink. Alexa didn’t follow but ventured farther down to Number Three and pressed her ear right to the door. Faint music. No voices. She tried the knob.
“I said in here.” Hanna stood back in the hall, frowning.
“Oh dear. I wasn’t paying attention.” Alexa followed her into Number Two. “Long day.”
The room was enclosed on three sides by bamboo walls, tropical plants and vines. Straight ahead, it was wide open to the lake. “It’s gorgeous,” Alexa said, watching a sailboat skim by.
The spa pool, encased in fake rocks, took up most of the space, and there was no ceiling, just infinite blue sky.
I could get used to this.
“The bath is filled with alkaline mineral water to leave your skin soft and supple,” the escort explained, scanning Alexa’s face and legs.
Alexa pulled the robe tighter.
“Is thirty-eight degrees warm enough?” Hanna asked.
“Too warm,” she said automatically, although the breeze from the lake had given her dampened skin chill bumps.
“I’ll turn the temperature to thirty-six then, and the jets to medium. You can adjust the pressure here.” A control panel was hidden behind a fern. “Would you like music?”
“No thanks. I like the sound of the bubbles,” Alexa said. A seagull flew overhead, screeching. “And birds.”
“If it begins to rain, you can close the retractable ceiling, but most guests leave it open.” Hanna smiled, her teeth gleaming white against the Kool-Aid blue of her lips. “Here is a menu. Would you like some nosh and drink?”
Wouldn’t it be nice to dangle my feet in the water and scarf nachos supreme and a piña colada?
“A water, please.”
“I’ll be right back,” Hanna said, leaving the door ajar.
Alexa had never sat in a spa pool in her adult life. Didn’t even take baths ever since “the accident.” Showers only.
Deep breath.
She had to act as a tourist for her escort’s behalf. She disrobed down to her rented bathing suit. Most people probably soak nude, she thought, tugging the rear material to cover her cheeks and dipping a toe. There were steps and seating in and around the spa. Inch by inch, Alexa descended, and for a moment, stunned by the sensations, she let the bubbles and jets ease her tension. She sank onto a bench seat, her marred back hidden against the fake rocks, water up to her breasts, and stared at Lake Rotorua until Hanna returned with a bottled water.
“Will anyone be joining you?” the escort asked.
What was it with these nosy people?
“No. I’m on my own.”
“Here is a buzzer to ring if you need anything.” She pointed to a button next to the door. “I’ll knock when you have five minutes left. Kia harikoa. Be in high spirits.” Hanna bowed her head and slipped out, closing the door firmly.
Ah. Why have I been avoiding this?
Temptation was strong to settle and soak. The jet pummeling her scar tissue felt good, therapeutic, and Alexa allowed herself sixty sensuous seconds, sipping Pure Rotorua Spring Water, toying with an image of Bruce—she let herself use his first name—joining her, no rented togs, and then chastised herself for fantasizing about a man she’d known for a scant week and who wasn’t particularly friendly.
But those eyes.
The silencing of the jets jarred her back to reality. Why had they stopped?
She waded to the steps and climbed out. Dripping, she pulled on her robe, patting the pocket to make sure her cell was still there, and discovered the jets were on a timer.
Mystery solved.
She jammed her wet feet into the slippers and pressed her ear to the bamboo wall shared with Spa Three. Faint music—Bob Marley, maybe—still no voices. Looking down, she noted a five-inch gap between wall and floor. Spreading out the towel, Alexa lay flat, wincing when her knee hit the concrete floor.
A slice of Room Three: bench, rocks, greenery, slippers. As her ears adjusted, she could hear bubbling jets in addition to the music. No feet. Dittmer was soaking. Just as she was pushing herself up, Alexa heard a knock.
Was Hanna about to open the door?
But the knock was for Room Three. Alexa lay back down and watched dripping pink feet emerge from the spa and walk to the door. “Yes?” she could hear, but not the response. Another pair of feet, bare, larger, hair on toes, entered the room.
“Why are you late?” Alexa recognized Dittmer’s voice.
“Not to worry. We were busy at the house,” came a Kiwi response. “Let’s talk in the pool. Have you ordered?”
Something something paninis, something something smoothie. Was this Dittmer’s boyfriend? A robe dropped to the floor, and four feet disappeared into the spa.
Damn.
Trying hard and failing to hear above Bob Marley crooning “No woman no cry” and pressure jets, Alexa scrambled to Plan B. To spy from the open lakeside, she would have to climb back in her spa pool and clamber out the other side, over fake boulders, onto grass. Then she could peer around the privacy wall that jutted out between Spa Room Two and Spa Room Three. Lake Rotorua, eerily flat, lapped the shore meters away.
Placing cell and slippers on the bench, Alexa waded back into the pool, hot water shocking her cooled skin. She tried keeping the robe dry, but at the far end, where she hoisted herself up over the fake boulders, the robe dropped into the water.
What the hell.
She clambered over and crouched down as soon as both feet were on the grass. Inching forward on all fours, ignoring the knee pain, she reached the jutted wall and crouched against it, hoping nobody would choose this moment to sail by on the lake and spy a crazy woman.
“Strawberry kiwi,” she heard.
Damn.
Had she risked her dignity to hear men discussing fruity drinks?
“Refreshing,” came the reply.
Alexa inched forward and peered around the wall. Dittmer was alarmingly near, his back to her. He was naked, dangling legs in the water, his slippery skin poached red. A sandwich on a plate next to him was half gone. The visitor, the lower half of his body submerged, sipped from a straw disappearing into frothy pink and appeared to be l
ooking directly at her.
She snapped back.
Had he seen her? Alexa held her breath, squeezed water from the robe hem.
That face. Did she recognize that man’s face? Fifty-ish, bald, clean-shaved, brown eyes under dark, thick brows.
No. A stranger. She leaned forward again.
“What have you got for me?” the stranger asked.
“Whale bone spear, intricately carved…”
“Whale bone? Do you know the Maori Trojan horse story?”
“But of course, Philip. So clever. Hawke’s Bay, right? The warriors lay under black mats to look like beached pilot whales. When the villagers left the pā to harvest the whales…”
“Yes, yes. Attack. Violence and death. A second Troy. What else?”
“Club. Greenstone.”
Alexa felt again the shock in her hands at the touch of that club in the shop. That greenstone club.
“And…”
Silence except for bubbles.
“Don’t keep me waiting, William. You’re teasing.”
Alexa risked another look. The stranger had stood, water cascading down his sleek toned chest and thighs. His stark nakedness jarred Alexa back behind the wall again.
Dittmer laughed, spouted something about serendipity. “I have a skull.”
Alexa thought of the raided tomb and the headless skeleton. She pressed her ear to the bamboo wall, strained to hear more.
The stranger’s voice turned animated. “Split twenty thousand. Pay your source from that.” His voice was louder. He must have waded over to Dittmer.
Alexa held her breath.
“No need,” Dittmer’s voice, bubble, bubble, bubble, “terrible accident.”
“How unfortunate,” came the bald man’s reply. “But a little bonus for you, n’est-ce pas?”
The sound of bubbles got louder. Her phone! Why hadn’t she been recording the conversation?
Alexa scurried backward and clambered into her pool. She didn’t even try to be quiet. Her heart was pounding as she slopped back through and out, grabbing her cell. How much of her sixty minutes was left? Her thoughts jumbled. A couple of photos. Or video. Then to the parking lot. Get the baldy’s license number.
Molten Mud Murder Page 23