“Ohakune’s a great place to live,” said Angelo, slapping the table. “Not too big, not too small, and lots to do. And I’m telling you, Lori, we feel safer living next door to a volcano than we did walking down the street back home. There are too many angry people in the States and way too many guns.”
“It’s not a good combination,” said Renee. “I should know. I’m a nurse.”
“Here they use guns to kill possums and deer and wild pigs—not each other,” Angelo went on. “And let me tell you, possums are a real problem in this country—they demolish native trees—so don’t go feeling sorry for them.”
Cameron made a gallant attempt to get the conversation back on track. “So you spent six months in Takapuna . . .”
“Rented a nice little beach house,” said Angelo, without missing a beat, “right around the corner from the Pyms. Used to run into Bree all the time on her way home from school. Nice kid—good manners and sharp as a tack. We kept in touch with her for a while after we moved to Ohakune.”
“What’s all this about ‘we’?” Renee demanded. “I was the one who kept in touch with her.”
“And I kept in touch with her through you,” her husband retorted. He turned back to me. “Her grandma died about a year after we left—God rest her soul—and we stopped hearing from Bree after that. You know how it is. Kids are so busy these days.”
“Since when is a person too busy to send e-mail?” Renee grumbled. “It takes two seconds.”
Angelo ignored her and continued talking to me. “You cannot imagine how shocked I was when Bree walked into the café, Lori. I’m telling you, I was floored.”
Renee snorted derisively. “You didn’t even know who she was until she told you.”
“True,” Angelo admitted. “Bree’s not a little girl anymore, and when we lived in Takapuna, she didn’t have short hair.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Bree cut her hair?”
“It looks like she sawed through it with a butter knife,” Renee informed me. “If she had it done at a salon, she could sue for damages.”
“That’s the style,” Angelo objected. “It’s cool.”
“If looking like an escaped lunatic is cool, then her new hairstyle is cool,” Renee conceded.
“Enough about her hair already,” said Angelo, giving his wife an exasperated glare. “A girl like that, she could shave her head and she’d still be a knockout.”
“Bree’s a pretty girl,” agreed Renee.
“She was looking for work,” Angelo continued, “so we fixed her up with a job cleaning rooms at The Hobbit.”
“The Hobbit?” I said.
“The Hobbit Motor Lodge,” Renee clarified. “It’s up the road. You passed it on your way to the Powderhorn.”
“And let me point out that The Hobbit’s been around for a long time,” said Angelo. “The original owner was a Tolkien fan way before they started making these movies.”
“A lot of us were,” I said. I hesitated briefly, then asked, “Why didn’t you give Bree a job at your café?”
“I had a full crew,” Angelo replied. “Besides, the season was winding down. Renee and I were getting ready to close up shop here and head for our condo in Wellington.”
“We like the theater,” said Renee. “And the restaurants.”
“And the museums and the night life,” Angelo added.
“It makes a change from Ohakune,” Renee concluded.
Two waitresses arrived with our dinners, sending Angelo into a spirited digression concerning the freshness of the locally grown produce and the rich flavors of the hormone-free meat.
“No hormones, no antibiotics, no factory farms,” he said. “They don’t mess with Mother Nature in New Zealand.” He slapped the table again. “In this country, food tastes the way it’s supposed to taste.”
He waited until Cameron and I had tried each other’s dishes and given them rave reviews—which was easy to do, because both the duck and the venison were sensational—before he returned to the topic of Bree.
“We let her use our guest room while she was here,” he said. “To tell you the truth, we were a little concerned about her. She seemed kind of . . . moody.” He paused to savor a forkful of caramelized leeks before going on. “When we asked how things were going in Takapuna, she didn’t have much to say. Never talked about her grandpa or school or anything. She used to be as perky as a fantail, but now?” He shook his head. “Do you know what’s up with her, Lori?”
“A lot,” I said. “More than any eighteen-year-old should have to handle on her own. First of all, her grandfather died six weeks ago. . . .”
Angelo’s expressive brown eyes became somber as I told him and Renee everything Cameron and I had learned about Bree’s splintered family. When I finished, Renee folded her arms, tossed her head, and let out an explosive sigh.
“I knew it,” she said. “I knew there was trouble at home. The minute I saw her hair, I knew there was trouble at home. Didn’t I tell you there was trouble at home, Angelo?”
“You did,” Angelo acknowledged. “Poor kid. Sounds like her dad was a real piece of work. He wasn’t in the picture when we knew her. Just her grandma and grandpa.”
“And she still doesn’t know her dad’s dead?” Renee inquired.
“Not unless she’s gone back to Takapuna,” I replied.
“She told Renee she’d never go back to Takapuna,” Angelo informed me.
“Which is another reason I knew there was trouble at home,” said Renee.
“She stayed with us for ten days,” Angelo continued, “then she quit her job and took off for Wellington. That was about . . . what?” He glanced at his wife for confirmation. “Three weeks ago?”
“More like a month,” Renee corrected him.
“She left with two Finnish girls she met at The Hobbit,” said Angelo.
“Kitta and Kati,” said Renee. “Ringers.”
“Lord of the Rings fans,” I said knowledgeably.
“Fanatics,” Renee corrected me. “Do you know what they call Mount Ngauruhoe? Mount Doom. And Ruapehu, according to them, is Mordor. I ask you. . . .” She clucked her tongue and peered heavenward.
“Kitta and Kati are hardcore Ringers,” Angelo agreed. “The only reason they came to New Zealand was to visit movie locations. To tell you the truth, it’s not a bad idea. The crazy director is using the whole country as a soundstage—North Island and South Island both. He’s filming in all sorts of back-of-beyond places you’d never see on a normal tour.”
“Kitta and Kati have seen more of New Zealand than we have,” Renee added.
Angelo nodded. “When they were done climbing around on Ruapehu—”
“Mordor,” Renee interjected, rolling her eyes.
“—they headed for the film studios down in Wellington,” Angelo went on, “and Bree tagged along with them. We gave her a few bucks and told her to have a good time. It beats scrubbing toilets, and if you don’t have fun when you’re young—”
“—you’ll have fun later on and your husband won’t like it,” said Renee.
I groaned. “We’ll never be able to find Bree in Wellington. It’s a big city, isn’t it?”
“It’s the capital city,” said Angelo. “But New York it isn’t. And we can tell you exactly where the girls are staying because we gave them the keys to our place.”
I blinked at him, nonplussed. “You gave three teenaged girls the keys to your condo?”
“Kitta and Kati aren’t teenagers,” said Renee. “If you ask me, they’re a little long in the tooth to be chasing elves, but”—she shrugged—“to each her own.”
“They’re nice women,” Angelo declared. “Sure, they’re a little whacky when it comes to Tolkien, but they’ve got their feet on the ground. We wouldn’t have encouraged Bree to go with them if we thought they were bad news.”
“We rent out the condo in the winter,” said Renee, “but our tenants left early, so we figured, why not let the girls use it? It’s better
to have someone there than to leave the place empty.”
“And it beats sleeping on a park bench,” Angelo put in.
“Have you been in touch with Bree since she left?” I asked.
Angelo shook his head. “You know how it is. When a girl’s having fun, she doesn’t stop to think that people might want to hear from her.”
“Have you tried calling her?” I asked.
“Can’t,” said Renee. “We don’t have phone service at the condo.”
“Renee and I use cell phones,” said Angelo. “You’d think Bree would have one, wouldn’t you? Most kids walk around with cell phones glued to their ears these days, but not Bree.”
“She probably can’t afford one,” I said. “Her father liked to gamble.”
“A real piece of work,” said Angelo, pursing his lips in disgust. “Bree deserves better than that.”
“Her great-grandaunts are two of the finest people you could ever hope to meet,” I assured him. “I think it would give Bree a boost to know that a pair of little old ladies in England care very much about her.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” said Angelo. “So you’re going to Wellington?”
“No other choice,” I replied. “I just hope she’s still using your condo.”
Renee pulled a pen and a pad of paper out of her purse. “I’ll give you the address and our phone numbers. Call us when you get there, will you?”
“Of course,” I said.
“If we’d known Bree was in trouble,” Angelo said soberly, “we would have done more for her. But you know how it is. If a kid doesn’t want you to know something, you’re not going to know it.” He waved the waitress over, ordered English toffee pudding with custard for all of us, and sat back as she began clearing the table. “So, where have you two been so far?”
The Velesuonnos regaled us with travel stories until eleven o’clock, when I could no longer keep my eyelids from drooping. We thanked them for a splendid dinner, walked them to the chateau’s main entrance, and waved good-bye as they disappeared into the fog.
“What’s a fantail?” I asked Cameron as we strolled across the lobby.
“A chatty little bird,” he replied. “If you ever hike through a New Zealand forest, chances are a fantail will accompany you. They flit around like fairies, eating the bugs stirred up by hiking boots. Very personable. Very cute.”
“Sounds like it,” I said, and as we waited for the elevator, I found myself wishing that we could stay in Ohakune long enough to explore the forest cloaking Mount Ruapehu’s lower slopes. It would be worth the risk, I thought, to have a chatty little bird flit around me like a fairy while we hiked.
“Bree’s hair worries me,” said Cameron.
“Me, too,” I said, coming out of my reverie. “If you ask me, she chopped it off because she doesn’t want to look like her mother.”
“If so, she’s rejecting her mother by disfiguring herself,” he said. “It’s a self-destructive act. Do you remember what Alison said to us at the Copthorne?”
“Alison, the waitress?” I asked after a moment’s thought.
Cameron nodded. “She said, ‘Someone needs to find that girl before she does something stupid.’ I thought she was being melodramatic, but after hearing about Bree’s hair, I’m not so sure. She’s cut her hair. What if she cuts herself next?”
We stood aside as an elderly couple tottered slowly out of the elevator. As we stepped aboard, the hotel cat appeared out of nowhere, darted into the elevator with us, and proceeded to polish Cameron’s shoes with her head. I wondered fleetingly if the cat’s name was Teresa.
“Bree must have a lot of anger bottled up inside her,” Cameron said. “If you ask me, she’s a ticking time bomb. We have to find her before she explodes.”
“Wellington tomorrow,” I said. “It’s the best lead we’ve had yet.”
“Can you be ready to leave by nine?” he asked.
I nodded. I would have preferred to stay in bed until noon the next day, but I told myself that I could catch up on sleep as soon as we’d caught up with Bree.
Cameron and the cat left the elevator when we reached his floor, but as the door began to slide shut, I stuck my hand out to stop it and hopped into the hallway after them.
“Wait a minute,” I said in an urgent whisper. “How did my husband save your life?”
“Ask him,” Cameron replied. He smiled enigmatically, leaned past me to push the call button, and strode down the dim, plaid-carpeted corridor, with the cat padding faithfully at his heels.
“You bet I will,” I murmured, gazing at their retreating backs.
“And Bill told me to ask Cameron,” I grumbled.
An hour had passed since Cameron and I had gone our separate ways. I’d spoken with Bill after returning to my room, then changed into my nightgown and climbed into bed with the blue journal. Although I was more tired than I’d ever been in my life, sheer frustration was keeping me awake. I tossed my head scornfully as Aunt Dimity’s handwriting scrolled across the page.
Men aren’t like women, Lori. They tend to be reticent about personal experiences, especially if the experience in question involves an element of heroism.
“Are you trying to tell me that men don’t brag?” I demanded.
Adolescents brag, Lori. Mature men don’t feel the need to advertise their good deeds. I’m happy to say that you are married to a very mature man.
“Mature? Ha!” I snarled. “Bill isn’t being mature, Dimity. He’s having a little fun at my expense. He knows how much I hate puzzles. He and Camo are behaving like a pair of schoolboys, keeping secrets and giggling behind my back.”
Bill and Cameron were schoolboys together. I suppose they could be regressing.
“It’s like having an itch I can’t scratch,” I seethed.
I’m certain that they’ll tell you the whole story eventually. In the meantime, try to focus on Bree’s problems, which are far more serious than your own. I must say that I agree with Cameron’s assessment of the situation. The child seems to be in a very fragile state.
“If the child would sit still for two minutes, I might be able to help her,” I said. “But until she stays put long enough for Cameron and me to pin her down, there’s not a darned thing I can do about her fragile state.”
Concentrate, then, on Bill’s splendid news. Dr. Finisterre has taken Ruth and Louise off oxygen. Nell’s nursing and their fascination with your journey have given them a new lease on life. You’ve made a significant contribution to their unanticipated progress, Lori. It must warm your heart to know that they’ve regained some of their strength.
“It’s the best news I’ve heard since they fell ill,” I acknowledged.
And think of how much you’ve learned about the New Zealand branch of the Pym family.
“Hold on a minute,” I said. I looked up from the journal and peered intently into the middle distance. Aunt Dimity’s words had triggered a memory, but I needed a moment to capture it. “Amanda said something strange this morning, Dimity. I’d forgotten about it until now, when you mentioned the New Zealand branch of the Pym family.”
What did Amanda say?
I glanced down at the journal, then looked away again, frowning in concentration. “She said that, when Ed Pym was drunk, he’d talk about ‘the English aunts.’ He ‘cursed them’—those were her words,” I went on, nodding. “Amanda thought he was delusional.”
A reasonable assumption, given his inebriated state.
“He wasn’t delusional, though, was he?” I said. “He must have been referring to Ruth and Louise.”
He may have heard his father speak of them.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “So Aubrey Pym, Senior, tells his son A. J. about the twin sisters he left behind in England. And A. J. passes the story along to his son, Ed. And Ed ends up cursing the English aunts. What story did Ed hear, Dimity? What made him think that Ruth and Louise were the bad guys?”
As I’ve indicated before, family feuds can span ma
ny generations.
“Yes,” I said, “but Aubrey’s dispute was with his father, not with his sisters. Ruth and Louise didn’t kick him out of the house. His father did. I could understand it if he told nasty stories about his dear old dad, but why would he paint his sisters as villains? They’d done nothing to harm him. They were innocent bystanders in the whole affair.”
Perhaps the story became garbled as it was passed down from father to son.
“Or from father to daughter,” I said. “I wonder what Bree knows, or thinks she knows, about her great-grandaunts?”
I expect you’ll find out when you and Cameron reach Wellington.
“I expect so,” I said, “unless Bree has taken off for Rio or Nairobi or Minneapolis. . . .”
I sincerely doubt that Bree can afford to go to any of those places. Have faith, Lori. You will find her. Good night, my dear.
“Good night.”
I watched Aunt Dimity’s handwriting fade from the page, placed the journal on the bedside table, twiddled Reginald’s ears, and turned out the light. As I snuggled my head into the pillows, however, a small part of my brain was still chattering away like a fantail.
How would Bree react to the Pym sisters’ letter? I asked myself. Would she rip it to shreds, or weep tears of joy over it?
And how, I wondered, had my husband saved Cameron’s life?
Thirteen
The fog had lifted by the time I met Cameron for breakfast in the Matterhorn the following morning. When we checked out of the hotel, Teresa urged us to return soon and to stay longer. I responded with a courteous nod, even though I was dead certain that she wasn’t talking to me.
I was faintly shocked when the hotel cat failed to follow us to the jeep. Eau de Cameron combined with the fragrance of dead trout should have been irresistible to her, but she stayed in her grotto, intent, no doubt, on seducing the next good-looking stranger who walked into the chateau.
It took us a little over an hour to drive back to the Taupo airport, where Aidan Dun was waiting for us, clad in brown corduroy trousers, a green oiled-cotton jacket, and a beat-up straw cowboy hat decorated with fishing lures. I shared the last of the Anzac biscuits with him—they didn’t seem to get stale—and we shot the breeze while Cameron refueled the plane.
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