“Has Cameron ever told you a story about someone saving his life?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Aidan. “He claims that Donna saved his life when she married him.”
My spirits, which had risen briefly, settled back into their original, frustrated position.
“Just his wife?” I pressed. “No one else?”
Aidan tilted his cowboy hat back and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he mulled over the question.
“I hauled him away from a bar fight once,” he said finally. “If Donna ever found out that he’d been stupid enough to get himself into a bar fight, she’d kill him, so I guess you could say I saved his life.”
I forced a smile, bit into my cookie, and chewed. It was healthier than grinding my teeth.
My prickly mood vanished as soon as Cameron and I were airborne. It was impossible to remain irritable while gazing down on the sparkling waters of Lake Taupo and the strange, crinkled landscape of Tongariro National Park. As we flew farther south, Cameron pointed out the green spines of the Ruahine and the Tararua ranges to the east and the telltale cone shape of Mount Taranaki to the west. He also drew my attention to a variegated patch of green in the Tasman Sea.
“Kapiti Island,” he informed me. “It’s a nature reserve. More of an ark, really. It’s the last best hope on earth for some of our most endangered species.”
I enjoyed the flight so thoroughly that I felt a jab of disappointment when he informed me that we were about to land. I was also confused. Although Angelo had described Wellington as a small city, I was certain that it had to be bigger than the farmstead Cameron was circling.
“Where’s Wellington?” I asked.
“About fifty kilometers farther south,” he said. “We’ll leave the plane here and drive into town.”
“I get it,” I said, as understanding dawned. “Whose car are we borrowing this time?”
“Mine,” said Cameron. “Hold on tight, Lori. You’re about to experience your first paddock landing.”
I had no time to panic or to plead with him to find a paved runway. One minute we were in the air and the next we were bouncing along the grass in the center of a fenced field. The bounces were surprisingly gentle and we seemed to have plenty of room, so on the whole I preferred the paddock landing to the one we’d made on the shores of Lake Taupo.
“Well done,” I said, when the plane came to a halt.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve had a fair amount of practice landing in this particular paddock because I live here. Well, actually . . .” He pointed to a large and handsome one-story brick house a few hundred yards away from us. “I live there.”
I unbuckled my seat belt in record time, lowered myself onto the grass without Cameron’s assistance, and took a good look at my surroundings. Although I was anxious to get to Wellington, I wasn’t about to waste a golden opportunity to see the place my native guide called home.
Cameron’s house stood on a rise with its back to a range of rolling green hills, facing acres of tree-fringed fields that sloped gradually down to the sea. Dozens of exquisite horses grazed or galloped in the verdant pastures adjacent to the one in which we’d landed. The pastureland was dotted with tiny yellow flowers, and Kapiti Island floated offshore, swathed in a faint haze that made it appear dramatically remote and mysterious.
Cameron hopped out of the plane, retrieved our bags, and came to stand beside me.
“Will and Rob would go googly over this place,” I said. “A horse-filled pasture is their idea of paradise.”
“You’ll have to bring them with you next time.” He pointed to a dense avenue of trees to our right. “The stables and the training facilities are behind the shelterbelt.”
“What’s a shelterbelt?” I asked.
“A really big hedgerow,” he answered, grinning. “The trees protect my outbuildings from the gales that blow in off the Tassie.” He swept an arm through the air to indicate pretty much every square inch of land in sight. “My property runs from the hills down to the sea. Nice view, eh?”
“Nice?” I cried. “Cameron, the view is astounding.”
“It’s all right,” he said with a diffident shrug. “Come on. Donna’s waiting for us.”
I followed him through a gate in the two-bar wooden fence surrounding the field and up a dirt driveway to his house. We’d scarcely set foot on the verandah when the front door opened and a frisky black-and-white Jack Russell terrier scampered outside to greet us.
Close on the terrier’s heels came a diminutive, dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her early thirties. She was dressed in jeans, a navy blue track jacket, and white sweat socks, and she carried a duffel bag similar to Cameron’s. While the dog sniffed his master’s cat-scented shoes, the woman stood on tiptoe to give Cameron a peck on the cheek, then nodded to me.
“Donna Mackenzie,” she said.
“Lori Shepherd,” I responded. “Thank you so much for the Anzac biscuits. I hope you won’t mind if I pester you for the recipe. My sons will gobble them up.”
“I’ll e-mail it to Bill,” she said, smiling. “As a matter of fact, he sent an e-mail to me this morning, to give to you.” She handed me a white business envelope addressed to Aubrey Aroha Pym. “It’s a letter,” she explained, “from the Pym sisters to their great-grandniece.”
“They must be feeling better, if they’re dictating letters,” I marveled, slipping the envelope into my day pack. “Thanks a lot, Donna.”
“No worries,” she said. “Cam’s told me what you’re doing and I think it’s fantastic.”
“I’m sorry it’s taking so long,” I said.
“Take as long as you like,” she said, waving aside my apology. “It’d be a shame to come all this way for nothing. Besides, Cam needs a break. Stay right where you are,” she growled at her husband, who’d been sidling furtively toward the door.
Though soft-spoken and small of stature, Donna had the command presence of a five-star general. Cameron froze as if he’d been zapped by a stun gun and peered timidly at his wife. The Velesuonnos, it seemed, weren’t the only ones living near an active volcano.
“Donna,” he began.
She overrode him. “If I let you into the house, you’ll take one look at the week’s schedule and go straight back to work. Do you want Lori to walk to Wellington?”
“No, but—”
“Do you want to break your promise to Bill?” she demanded.
“No, but—”
“Then stay where you are.” Donna folded her arms and glared at her husband, then appealed to me. “Cam hasn’t taken a day off since they started making those Lord of the Rings films. He’s earned a holiday.”
A devilish smile curved my lips as I glanced at Cameron, whose face had turned crimson.
“Your husband didn’t tell me that he was involved in the films,” I said.
“He’s not,” said Donna, “but every other professional horseman in New Zealand is. When they ran off with the circus, their regular clients came running to us. Cam’s never been busier. He’s training horses, instructing riders, flying all over the country to judge competitions. . . . He’s working himself to death while his mates are prancing around in capes and wigs and armor and I-don’t-know-what. If he doesn’t slow down, he’ll end up in hospital.” She cast a fierce, protective glance at her husband. “Well, I won’t have it. His crew can manage without him for a few days, whatever he may think. He needs a break.”
“I understand,” I said, and I truly did. Bill’s work ethic was, alas, very similar to Cameron’s.
“I’ve made reservations for you at the Copthorne on Oriental Parade,” Donna said to her husband. “If you need the plane, Trevor can fly it down to you. I’ve packed enough clean clothes to last a week.” She exchanged her duffel bag for Cameron’s, then pointed imperiously to the attached garage. “Get in your car and go, Cam. I don’t want to see you back here until you’ve done what you set out to do. Nice to meet you, Lori. Good luck finding Bree!”
&n
bsp; She kissed her husband, scooped up the exuberant terrier, went back into the house, and slammed the door. A moment later, the garage door swung open. Cameron heaved a heavy sigh and trudged toward it. I took a last look at the misty outline of Kapiti Island and followed him.
Cameron’s black Land Rover looked as though it had been driven through every mud puddle in New Zealand, its seats were liberally sprinkled with wisps of straw, and it exuded a bouquet of fragrances I normally associated with horses, but it didn’t stink of fish. As an added attraction, a shiny, chintz-patterned biscuit tin sat on the dusty dashboard. A peek inside confirmed my suspicion that Donna had baked a fresh batch of cookies for us.
I clambered into the passenger seat and swapped the full tin for the empty one in my day pack while Cameron deposited our duffel bags in the back. When he slid into the driver’s seat, I nudged him with my elbow.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Considering the fact that my wife has just given me a royal bollicking,” he said, “I’m not doing too badly.”
“It’s none of my business,” I said, “but she does seem to have your best interests at heart. She wants you to take a break because she loves you.”
“I know.” He rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared pensively through the windshield. “But there’s no need for her to act as though I’m the only responsible horseman in New Zealand. Film work isn’t as easy as Donna makes out, Lori. It’s a demanding, difficult, and dangerous job. It takes expert riders to pull it off without injuring themselves or their horses. I have nothing but respect for the men and women who are working on the Ring trilogy. They’re earning their pay.”
“So are you,” I said. “If everyone traded real life for the movies, who would teach the police commissioner’s granddaughter how to ride? ”
Cameron managed a weak smile.
“Listen,” I said, pivoting to face him. “If you have more important things to do—”
“Forget it,” he interrupted. “If I go back to work right now, Donna will chop me into little pieces and feed me to the dog.” He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and turned the key in the ignition. “Next stop, Wellington.”
Fourteen
Our next stop was, in fact, Paekakariki, a seaside village with a long, sandy beach, a multitude of art studios, and a café where we ate lunch before hitting the road again. We reached New Zealand’s capital at two o’clock.
After spending so much time in rural settings, it was a bit jarring to enter a distinctly urban environment, but Wellington, as Angelo had intimated, was not New York. Though its suburbs crept outward in a far-reaching sprawl, the city proper was amazingly compact, nestled snugly between steep, heavily forested hills and a massive bay known, appropriately, as Wellington Harbor.
There weren’t many tall buildings, and even the tallest didn’t come close to scraping the sky. Wellingtonians lived as well as worked in the center of town, where modern glass-and-steel office blocks rubbed shoulders with Victorian holdouts housing an eclectic collection of cafés, restaurants, bookstores, and funky boutiques. The sidewalks and bike paths were crowded with so many young people that we could have been driving through a college campus.
Cameron, who knew the city well, identified various places of interest along the way, the most striking of which was the Beehive, a bristling, dome-shaped edifice that housed New Zealand’s parliament. I didn’t care for the Beehive, but I was drawn to Te Papa, the Museum of New Zealand, which brightened the waterfront with its colors, its curves, and its angles. Te Papa, I thought, had been designed by someone who knew how to throw a good party.
“What does Te Papa mean?” I asked while we waited in front of the museum for a traffic light to change.
“It’s short for Te Papa Tongarewa,” Cameron replied. “It’s a Maori phrase, of course, and an extremely literal translation would be . . .” He took a deep breath before reciting, “ ‘Our well-loved repository and showcase of treasured things and people that spring from Mother Earth here in New Zealand.’ ”
“Wow,” I said, impressed. “I can see why they use the Maori phrase. They’d have a hard time cramming the English version onto a bumper sticker.” The traffic light turned green and we pulled away from the museum. “I assume we’re going straight to the condo.”
“Faulty assumption,” said Cameron. “We’re not in Ohakune anymore, Lori. It makes more sense to leave the car at the hotel and walk than it does to waste time hunting for a parking space near the condo.”
Approximately two seconds later, he handed his car keys to a valet while a bellman placed our bags on a luggage cart. We’d arrived at our second Copthorne Hotel.
The Wellington branch of the Copthorne chain occupied a prime chunk of waterfront real estate directly across the street from a marina and a stone’s throw away from Te Papa. The ten-story building had clean, contemporary lines inside and out. My room had been decorated by a minimalist with a passion for soft lighting, silky textures, and practical details. Walking into it was like entering a well-designed cocoon, and its miniscule balcony afforded me fabulous views of the city as well as the bay.
Donna had evidently chosen the hotel for its strategic location as well as its amenities, because the address Renee had given us belonged to a nondescript, eight-story box of a building less than two blocks away from the Copthorne. I would have preferred living in one of the pastel-colored Victorian gems we passed on our way to the condo, but the lovingly restored little houses probably required more upkeep than part-time residents like the Velesuonnos were willing to give them.
We let ourselves into the nondescript box’s lobby and Cameron pressed the buzzer labeled VELESUONNO. A moment later a voice crackled through the intercom. The voice belonged to a woman who spoke with an accent, but unfortunately, she sounded more like a Finn than a Kiwi.
“Who is it, please?” she asked.
“Lori Shepherd and Cameron Mackenzie,” I replied, speaking slowly and distinctly. “Angelo and Renee sent us.”
“Oh.” A long pause ensued before the voice added hesitantly, “Come up. We’re at the top floor.”
The inner door clicked and we walked through another lobby to board an elevator, which took us to a small, windowless foyer on the eighth floor, where a woman stood, waiting for us.
She definitely wasn’t Bree Pym. Bree was petite, but this woman was downright tiny. She was also a lot older than Bree—in her late thirties rather than her late teens. Her disheveled, pale blond hair framed a weather-beaten and deeply tanned face, and she was dressed like a latter-day hippie, in embroidered jeans, an embroidered denim waistcoat, and a frilly white cotton blouse that fell almost to her knees. A tiny book bound in red paper hung from a gold cord around her neck.
“Kati Malinen,” she said, shaking our hands.
Though Kati smiled enchantingly as Cameron and I introduced ourselves, I detected a hint of nervousness in her blue eyes.
“We’re not kicking you out of the condo,” I assured her.
“And we’re not here to inspect it,” Cameron hastened to add.
Kati’s nervousness gave way to polite perplexity. “Why are you here, then?”
“We need to speak with Bree Pym,” I said.
“Oh.” Kati’s broad smile wavered. “Are you the police?”
“The police?” I said, my heart plummeting. “Why would the police want to speak with Bree?”
“Well,” she said, “Roger said he would not press charges, but he could have changed his mind.”
“Who is Roger?” I asked.
“Roger is a very great tattoo artist,” Kati informed me earnestly.
“What?” I said, utterly at sea.
“Perhaps we should sit down,” Cameron suggested.
“Yes, of course,” said Kati, nodding. “Please, come inside.”
We followed her into a stylishly appointed open-plan penthouse with views of the bay and the city that rivaled those I’d observed from my balcony at t
he Copthorne. The walls were white, the carpeting was sand-colored, and the furnishings were made principally of teak, leather, and chrome.
The condo’s most arresting feature was the woman who stood in the middle of the living room area, clutching an overflowing laundry basket to her chest. To judge by her guilty expression, the faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead, and the odd assortment of items in her basket—socks, bras, dishes, books, sneakers—she’d spent the past few minutes making a heroic attempt to tidy the place before Cameron and I walked into it.
Kati gestured toward the woman.
“My friend, Kitta Lehtonen,” she said to us. She added something in Finnish, whereupon Kitta grunted, dropped the laundry basket, and collapsed into a teak-and-leather chair, fanning herself.
Kitta was taller and lankier than Kati, and less inclined to smile, but she, too, looked as though she might be in her late thirties. Her face was round, her complexion pale, and she wore her brown hair in two shiny braids that fell past her waist. She was dressed more prosaically than Kati, in a bright blue scoop-necked top and unadorned jeans. The dark green pendant resting between her collar bones was similar to those worn by Toko Baker and Amanda Rivers, a flat disk with a graceful scroll carved at its center, like a breaking wave.
“Jade?” I asked, pointing to the pendant.
“Pounamu,” she replied. “Also called greenstone. Greenstone is a jade found only in New Zealand. It is carved into a koru,” she added, touching a fingertip to the pendant.
“A koru is an opening fern frond,” Cameron interjected. “It’s a symbol of new life and new beginnings.”
“And a newly cleaned flat,” said Kati, laughing. “Please, sit. Would you like something to drink? We have juice, bottled water, wine, beer . . .”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” Cameron and I chorused.
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