Aunt Dimity Down Under

by Nancy Atherton

  “How on earth did Bree’s beat-up old Ford make it over those mountain ranges?” I asked as we pulled away from the airport.

  “She probably drove down the east coast,” Cameron replied. “It’s not quite as rugged as the west. You and I took the scenic route.”

  “We certainly did,” I agreed. “What route will we take now?”

  “We’ll check in to our hotel and ask the concierge for directions to Angelo’s Café,” he said. “The café’s manager claimed that he’d seen Bree around town. He may be able to give us a lead.”

  “I won’t complain if he gives us a plateful of chicken wings as well,” I said. “Scenic routes make me hungry.”

  My balcony in the thoroughly modern Novotel Hotel was so close to Lake Wakatipu that I could hear ducks quacking as they landed on the water. It provided a tranquil alternative to the vibrant city center.

  Queenstown seemed bent on retaining its status as New Zealand’s adventure capital. As we’d driven down bustling Shotover Street on our way to the hotel, I’d spotted signs touting bungee jumping, jet boating, horse trekking, kayaking, skydiving, downhill skiing, white-water rafting, hot air ballooning, canyoning, snowboarding, parasailing, helicopter flights, and four-wheel-drive tours. After scanning the eager faces of the town’s youthful population, I could only hope that there was a good hospital nearby, staffed with a talented team of orthopedic surgeons.

  Since Cameron wasn’t a big fan of Buffalo chicken wings—a confession I vowed never to share with the Velesuonnos—we had a light and probably much healthier lunch at the Halo Café, which was conveniently located across the street from the hotel. From there we followed the concierge’s directions to an alley called Searle Lane, where we found Angelo’s Café. The place was so busy I knew the wing king would forgive us for dining elsewhere.

  I waited outside while Cameron charmed his way through a throng of chattering customers to the front counter. A moment later, he returned to the alleyway accompanied by Andrew Rosen, the café’s manager.

  Andrew Rosen was a rotund gentleman with wiry gray hair, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and a wonderful smile. He, unlike his boss, was a laid-back and soft-spoken Kiwi. He called a friendly hello to numerous passersby and took our interrogation in stride.

  “Yes, that’s right, I gave Angelo a call after I read the girl’s application,” he told us, wiping his hands on his apron. “I’d never seen him used as a reference before, so it caught my attention.”

  “We’re glad it did,” I said, “because we need to find this girl.”

  “Too bad I didn’t hire her on the spot,” he said ruefully. “If I had, your search would be over.”

  We stood aside as an attractive family of four exited the café. The husband and wife stopped briefly to chat with Andrew and each of the bright-eyed little girls gave him a hug before departing.

  “Angelo’s tenants,” he said, by way of explanation.

  “The Robbins?” I said, flabbergasted.

  “Yes,” said Andrew, looking mildly amused. “I take it that Angelo mentioned them to you?”

  “He asked me to say g’day to the Robbins family for him and Renee,” I answered distractedly, watching the family turn onto the street at the end of Searle Lane.

  “I’ll give them the message,” Andrew assured me. “The Robbins eat here at least twice a week. Rhonda and Lee—the mum and dad—aren’t too keen on fried food, but Sharni and Keira have fallen in love with our wings.”

  “I can’t believe we actually ran into them,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Queenstown is like that,” he said. “Everyone gravitates to the city center, either for work or for play. It’s a lucky thing, too, because you won’t have far to go to find the girl you’re looking for.”

  “Y-you know where she is?” I stuttered, blinking in disbelief.

  “I know where she went after she left here,” he said. “She got a job at the Southern Lakes Gallery. It’s on Beach Street, a ten-minute stroll from here. Holly Mortensen is the owner. I believe she opened a new exhibit today. Tell her I said hello, will you?”

  “Andrew,” I cried, flinging my arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his bearded cheek, “I would walk through fire for you.”

  Sixteen

  Cameron and I turned the ten-minute stroll into a five-minute dash. As we raced nimbly around knots of ambling shoppers, I tried not to get overexcited. Our quarry had eluded us too often for me to believe that she might, at last, be within reach.

  We skidded to a halt in front of the Southern Lakes Gallery, paused briefly to catch our breath, and went inside. The gallery’s bare hardwood floor and stark white walls provided an uncluttered background for a collection of abstract oil paintings. Several dozen wine glasses sat, apparently untouched, on an oak refectory table to the left of the entrance, behind a tasteful sign announcing the opening of an exhibit of works by Axel Turke, a name I did not recognize.

  A weedy, dark-haired, bespectacled young man sat hunched over the keys of a baby grand piano at the far end of the long, narrow room, playing a haunting tune that was, like the painter’s name, unfamiliar to me. The pianist was the only person present in the gallery, apart from me and Cameron, and he was so absorbed in his music that he didn’t look up when we entered.

  “Axel Turke doesn’t seem to be too popular,” Cameron murmured.

  “Maybe we missed the rush,” I murmured back. I cleared my throat to catch the pianist’s attention. When he failed to respond, I called out, “Excuse me? Can you help us?”

  The pianist glanced at us but continued to play as he shouted, “Holly! You’re wanted!”

  A door in the back wall opened and the gallery’s owner appeared. I hadn’t seen anyone like her since I’d arrived in New Zealand. She wore her bleached blond hair in a sleek bob and she was fully made up—eyeliner, mascara, red lipstick, the works. A sleeveless, wheat-colored sheath dress flattered her svelte figure, gold bangles drew attention to her manicured hands, and a pair of ivory sandals with stiletto heels revealed a meticulous pedicure. Queenstown’s college-age mob might bum around in ripped T-shirts and cargo shorts, but Holly Mortensen was as chic as her gallery.

  “Simon?” she said into thin air. “Wine, please.”

  She favored us with a slightly predatory smile as she walked toward us, her stilettos rat-a-tatting on the hardwood floor. Behind her, a tall, round-shouldered man emerged from the doorway and hastened after her. He had a long, lugubrious face and his blond hair was so sparse that at first sight he appeared to be bald. He was dressed like a waiter, in a white shirt and black trousers, and he carried a round wooden tray laden with three wine bottles. Although the bottles had been opened, they were still full. I glanced at the untouched wine glasses and wondered if anyone had attended the exhibit’s opening.

  “How good of you to come,” said Holly, shaking hands with each of us in turn. “I hope you’re as excited by Axel’s work as we are. He’s a local artist—a local genius, I should say—and we’re proud to be the first to present his visionary paintings to the public.”

  “I, um . . .” I faltered, looking askance at the canvases. I didn’t want to rain on Holly’s parade, but I didn’t care for oil paintings, and abstracts simply weren’t my cup of tea.

  “I understand,” she said with a fatalistic sigh. “You prefer pretty watercolors of country cottages with roses round the doors.”

  “Well,” I said, a touch defensively, “yes, I do.”

  “And you?” said Holly, turning her sights on Cameron.

  “Equestrian portraits,” he replied.

  “Never mind.” Holly folded her slender arms and shrugged resignedly. “I promised Axel’s mother that I’d stage a show for him, but she seems to be his only fan.” She crooked a finger at the long-faced man, who’d placed his tray on the oak table. “Simon? We’re in need of refreshment.”

  Simon poured a generous splash of red wine into a glass, presented it to Holly, and waited at her elbow for fu
rther instructions.

  “May I offer you a drink?” Holly asked me and Cameron. “We have Mount Difficulty pinot noir, pinot gris, and dry Riesling. I suggest that you taste all three. The vineyard’s in Central Otago—one of our finest wine-growing regions—and the wine is simply superb.”

  “To tell you the truth,” I said, “my friend and I didn’t come here to look at Axel’s artwork or to sample your wine. We’re trying to locate someone, and Andrew Rosen told us that she works for you.”

  “She?” said Holly, with a slight frown. “Do you mean Bree Pym? ”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding vigorously. “We’re looking for Bree Pym.”

  “I’m afraid she’s not here,” said Holly.

  “Did you fire her?” I asked, scanning the gallery for signs of breakage.

  “No,” said Holly, looking startled.

  “Did she quit?” Cameron asked.

  “No,” Holly replied sharply, “and I hope she won’t. She’s an excellent assistant. She has an eye for art and a head for numbers. It’s a rare combination. I wish she didn’t have quite so many piercings, but—”

  “She’s pierced herself?” I said, aghast.

  “Nose ring, eyebrow stud, and a half dozen holes in each ear,” said Holly. “She can hide her tattoos with long sleeves, but the piercings are on permanent display. Her appearance puts off some of my more refined customers, so I’ve asked her to stay in back when they’re around. She doesn’t mind. She understands marketing.”

  “If Bree’s such a treasure,” I snapped, “why isn’t she here?”

  Holly eyed me speculatively as she sipped her wine. After a moment’s silence, she asked, “Who are you?”

  It suddenly dawned on me that neither Cameron nor I had introduced ourselves. From Holly’s point of view it must have looked as though a pair of teetotaling philistines had burst into her gallery, demanding to know the whereabouts of one of her best employees. Had I been in her stylish shoes, I, too, would have asked a few questions.

  “Forgive me,” I said. “Please allow me to explain. . . .”

  By the time I finished describing my mission, Holly had polished off her first glass of wine and started in on a second; Simon had carried the bottle of pinot noir closer to her, to facilitate refills; and the pianist had paused long enough to stretch his fingers before launching into another haunting piece.

  “So you see,” I concluded, “my friend and I would be endlessly grateful to you if you’d tell us where we might find Bree Pym.”

  “I would if I could, but I can’t,” said Holly. “Sunday is her day off.”

  “It’s Sunday?” I said, taken aback. “I had no idea. . . . I guess I’ve lost track of time.”

  “You’ve had other things on your mind,” Holly said generously. “I honestly don’t know what Bree does on her days off, but Gary might. He and Bree have become great friends. She admires his music.”

  As she turned to speak to the pianist, the floor jerked sideways, the wine bottles toppled over, and the whole building seemed to emit a low-pitched rumble. Cameron seized me by the shoulders and shoved me under the oak table, where Holly and Simon had already taken refuge. He dove in after me and the four of us huddled together while the floor shook, the glasses rattled, and the bottles rolled.

  “Earthquake,” Cameron said in my ear.

  “Are you kidding me?” I said, my hands splayed against the twitching floor. “Are you kidding me?”

  “First one?” Holly asked conversationally.

  “Uh-huh,” I replied, watching the paintings sway back and forth on the walls.

  “It’ll soon be over,” said Cameron.

  I felt two more big jolts and I don’t know how many smaller ones before the shaking ceased. I started to crawl out from under the table, but Cameron and Simon hauled me back.

  “Aftershocks,” said Holly. “You might want to stay put for a bit.” She cocked her head toward Simon, who was clutching the bottle of pinot noir as though his life, or possibly his job, depended on it. “Glass of wine?”

  “No thank you,” I said tersely.

  I waited for the others to give the all-clear, then followed their example and got to my feet. Cameron looked supremely unconcerned, Simon hadn’t spilled a drop of wine, and Holly hadn’t even smeared her lipstick. The pianist straightened his sheet music and resumed playing, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  “What a waste,” Holly said, surveying the puddles of pinot gris and dry Riesling spreading from the toppled bottles. “Clear it up, will you, Simon? I’ll see to the pictures.”

  “What’s wrong with you people?” I exploded, looking from one calm face to the next. “How can you be so . . . blasé? We’ve just survived an earthquake.”

  Simon gave me a vaguely puzzled glance, then retreated to the back room. Holly patted me on the shoulder.

  “Don’t upset yourself, Lori,” she said. “Earthquakes are a part of life in New Zealand. The whole country’s riddled with fault lines.”

  “Gosh, thanks,” I said bleakly. “I feel much better now.”

  “And for that reason,” Cameron continued, “we have extremely strict building codes. Look around you, Lori. The roof hasn’t caved in. The walls haven’t collapsed. I think I see a small crack in the front window, but it hasn’t shattered. Nothing will protect us from a monster quake, but we’ve learned how to live with the everyday ones.”

  “It’s a small price to pay,” said Holly, “for living in God’s own country.”

  The knowing look she exchanged with Cameron reminded me that I was a stranger in a strange land, yet I had an inkling of what had passed between them. New Zealand might not be the safest place to live, I thought, but they wouldn’t trade its astonishing beauty for all the safety in the world.

  Simon returned with a mop and a bucket, breaking the spell that had fallen over the gallery.

  “About Bree,” Cameron prompted.

  “Ah, yes,” said Holly. “I was about to introduce you to Gary before we were so rudely interrupted. Gary Whiterider,” she added, as we approached the dark-haired pianist. “Remember his name. Gary doesn’t simply play the piano. He’s a composer as well, and I believe he’ll be famous one day.”

  “If he’s playing his own compositions, I believe it, too,” I said. “They’re gorgeous.”

  Holly had to rap her knuckles on the grand piano’s lid to rouse Gary Whiterider from his musical trance. He blinked up at us owlishly, then folded his hands in his lap.

  “Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I get carried away when I’m working on a new piece.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I told him. “Your music carries me away, too.”

  “Thanks,” he said, looking embarrassed but gratified by the compliment.

  “Gary,” said Holly, “these people need to speak with Bree Pym. Do you know where she is?”

  “I agreed to meet her in the Queenstown Gardens after I finished here,” he said. “I expect you’ll find her near the Scott Memorial.”

  “The Scout Memorial?” I said.

  “Scott,” Holly corrected me. “Captain Robert Falcon Scott, to be precise—the Antarctic explorer. The memorial was erected as a tribute to him and to the men who died with him on their way back from the South Pole. It’s quite touching, really. The inscription runs, in part: ‘They rest in the great white silence, wrapped in the winding sheets of the eternal snows.’ ”

  “Wasn’t Scott English?” I asked.

  “He was,” said Holly, “but so was New Zealand, in those days. Captain Scott and his men were tragic heroes of the British Empire. Their deaths were mourned worldwide.” She frowned perplexedly at Gary. “It’s a gloomy spot for a tryst, I would have thought.”

  Gary’s face turned beet-red.

  “Bree and I aren’t . . . We’re not . . . I’m buying her car from her,” he managed after a few false starts. “Meeting at the Scott Memorial wasn’t my idea. It was hers.”

  If I cou
ld have chosen a place for Bree to linger, it wouldn’t have been near a monument commemorating the tragic deaths of a doomed party of Antarctic explorers. I glanced at Cameron, who nodded.

  “Hate to chat and run,” he said briskly, “but Lori and I must be on our way.”

  “Thank you very much, Gary,” I said. “If you ever make a CD, I’ll buy a boxful.”

  We said good-bye to Holly, Gary, and silent Simon, left the Southern Lakes Gallery, and turned toward Marine Parade, a lake-front boulevard that would, according to Cameron, take us directly to the Queenstown Gardens.

  “They’re next door to our hotel,” he informed me.

  “You mean we’re running in circles?” I said. “Why am I not surprised? ”

  Cameron laughed and picked up his pace, and I increased mine as well. In a few short minutes, I told myself, our persistence would finally pay off.

  Seventeen

  We jogged past a waterfront park, a jet-boat dock, and a bronze statue of a bearded man who appeared to be petting a remarkably woolly ram. We ran past our hotel, a family of ducks patrolling a gravelly beach, and a playfully decorated octagonal restaurant that, Cameron explained on the fly, had originally been a bathhouse built to celebrate the coronation of King George V. We crossed a gurgling brook on a wooden foot-bridge to enter the Queenstown Gardens, but when we reached the first park bench, Cameron came to a sudden halt.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, swinging around to face him.

  “I’ll wait for you here,” he said. “It’ll be easier on Bree if you approach her alone. One person will be less alarming than two, and a woman will be less threatening than a man. Besides, it’s your mission. You should be the one to accomplish it.”

  “But you’ve been with me every step of the way,” I protested. “It won’t feel right to reach the end of the journey without you.”

  “Only one part of the journey will be over,” said Cameron. “I’ll be around for the rest of it.” He sat on the bench and pointed to his right. “Follow the path. The Scott Memorial is a big boulder surrounded by flower beds and a short hedge. The path will lead you to it.”