Aunt Dimity Down Under (19 page)

“Relax, Lori,” said Cameron. “The best is yet to come.”

“Define what you mean by ‘the best,’ ” I said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Four million people live in New Zealand,” he said. “Only one million live on the South Island. It’s uncrowded, unspoiled, and incredible. You’ll see.”

I did see. I saw the Southern Alps, a majestic spine of razor-edged mountains that ran the entire length of the South Island. I caught glimpses of tarns, waterfalls, glaciers, and the glistening pinnacle of Mount Aspiring. I saw Aoraki/Mount Cook, New Zealand’s tallest mountain, where Sir Edmund Hillary honed his climbing skills before tackling Everest. I saw clouds reflected with surreal precision in the mirrorlike surface of Lake Tekapo, and gazed in awe at the sheer-walled fjord called Milford Sound, a haven for penguins, seals, dolphins, and boatloads of tourists. I saw enough breath-taking beauty to make me wish with all my heart for a chance to see more.

My head was so full of spectacular images that I thought it would burst when the snowcapped, serried peaks of the Remarkables range came into view, rising like white flames above the azure waters of Lake Wakatipu. Queenstown hugged the lake’s shore, clung to the foothills surrounding it, and spilled into adjoining valleys, but the city was dwarfed by the absurdly lovely landscape that surrounded it.

Our touchdown on the grass strip at the Queenstown Airport was as humdrum as our takeoff had been thrilling. If I was a bit wobbly when I climbed out of the plane, it was only because I’d absorbed a surfeit of unforgettable sights.

“Well?” said Cameron, handing over my duffel bag. “What’s the verdict? ”

“I don’t know what to say,” I said, gazing wide-eyed at the Remarkables. “The North Island was pretty amazing, but the South Island . . .” I shook my head. “Words fail me.”

“Me, too,” he said, with a satisfied smile. “Let’s pick up the car. We’re renting one this time.”

“Don’t you have any friends in Queenstown?” I inquired, walking with him toward the terminal.

“I have quite a few friends in Queenstown,” he replied, “but at the moment they have no vehicles to spare.”

The gray Subaru Outback Cameron had rented was spotlessly clean and refreshingly free of animal odors. I settled happily into the passenger’s seat, contemplating the manifold pleasures of riding in a car that smelled like . . . a car.

“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.”

C
ameron 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 further 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.