Aunt Dimity Down Under (20 page)

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 could 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.

W
e 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.”

Cameron had clearly made up his mind, so there was no point in arguing with him. I nodded reluctantly and took off down the path, feeling slightly dejected and a tiny bit fearful. What would I do if Bree flew into a rage? I wondered. Fend her off with my day pack? Reginald and Ruru wouldn’t make much of an impact, but the biscuit tin would pack a good punch. I slipped the day pack from my shoulders and held it by its straps in one hand, the better to swing it with.

If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with defensive measures, I would have enjoyed my solitary stroll. The weather was splendid and the gardens weren’t devoted exclusively to flowers. The path meandered past a lily pad-laden pond, a croquet lawn, a bowling green, and a set of tennis courts. It wound its way through trees adorned with glorious spring blossoms to a formal rose garden, which hadn’t yet come into bloom. And each time I remembered to look up, there was Lake Wakatipu, glinting through the greenery.

Beyond the rose garden sat an enormous gray granite boulder inset with a pair of marble plaques. Above the plaques, five white marble stars formed a constellation that had guided explorers for centuries. I gazed at the stars and realized, with a warm rush of affection, that Cameron had kept the promise he’d made to me in Ohakune. I’d finally seen the Southern Cross.

The somber purple flowers surrounding the boulder were enclosed by a knee-high hedge interspersed with short granite columns. A girl sat on the grass with her back to one of the columns, reading a ragged paperback copy of
The Return of the King,
the third book in Tolkien’s trilogy. She wore blue jeans, sneakers, and a black tank top. A greenstone pendant carved in the shape of a koru—an opening fern frond—hung around her neck. A dark-blue hooded sweatshirt and a canvas book bag lay by her side.

I recognized her immediately. The spiky hair, the tattoos, and the piercings did nothing to diminish Bree’s dark beauty. Angelo had been right, I thought. A girl like that could shave her head and still be a knockout.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly. I didn’t want to startle her.

Bree raised her heart-shaped face. Her slight build made her look younger than eighteen, but when I gazed into her liquid brown eyes I saw someone who had forgotten, or who had never known, how to be young.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your reading,” I said.

“No worries.” She sat up and closed the book. “Do you want to take a picture of the memorial? I’ll get out of your way.”

“I’m not interested in the memorial,” I said, motioning for her to remain seated. “My name is Lori Shepherd and I came here to speak with you.”

Bree’s eyes narrowed slightly, and I tightened my grip on my day pack, but to my relief she seemed curious rather than hostile.

“How did you know I’d be here?” she asked.

“I’ve been to the Southern Lakes Gallery,” I replied. “Gary Whiterider told me where to find you.”

“Are you an American?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “but I live in England.”

Bree slipped the book into her bag and leaned back against the granite column. “Why would an American living in England want to speak with me?”

“It’s a long story,” I said, “but there are a few things you need to know before I tell it.” I dropped my day pack on the ground and sat beside it, facing her. “I visited your flat in Auckland a few days ago. While I was there, a nurse from North Shore Hospital stopped by. She was the nurse who looked after your father while he was in the critical care unit.”

“Is he dead?” she asked, without a flicker of emotion.

I nodded, murmuring, “I’m sorry.”

Bree sighed softly and bowed her head. “Did he ask for me before he died?”

“Yes,” I said. “The nurse told me that he asked for you repeatedly. When it became apparent that you weren’t going to show up, he asked her to give you a message. He wanted you to know that he was sorry.”

“Again,” Bree murmured with a bitter laugh.

“The nurse would appreciate it if you’d call her as soon as possible,” I continued. “She has your father’s personal effects and she needs to know what you want to do with his . . . remains.” I took Bridgette Burkhoffer’s business card from my pack and handed it to Bree. “You can use my cell phone to call her, if you like.”

Bree studied the card, then shook her head.

“I can’t afford a funeral,” she said.

“Not a problem,” I told her. “I’ll cover the expenses.”

Bree frowned at me. “Why would you pay for my father’s funeral? ”

“I’m a friend of the family,” I said.

“What kind of friend?” she asked, her face hardening.

Her reaction brought to mind Amanda’s admission that Ed hadn’t been the most faithful of husbands. I quickly raised a pacifying hand.

“Not
that
kind,” I assured her. “I never met your father. I wasn’t even sure where New Zealand
was
until a few days ago, but I’ve seen an awful lot of it since then. I’ve been chasing you all over the place. I’ve followed you from Auckland to the Hokianga and from Ohakune to Wellington. I’ve spoken with your horrible landlady and your father’s nurse. I’ve spent time with Amanda and Daniel, Angelo and Renee, Kitta and Kati, and Holly and Gary, among others, because I had to find out where you were. I said it was a long story, but I should have called it an epic
saga
. And now here I am, sitting in the Queenstown Gardens, face-to-face with you at last. I don’t think I would have gone to all of that trouble if I were one of your father’s, um,
acquaintances
.”

“Why
did
you go to all of that trouble?” Bree asked, looking understandably bewildered.

“For one thing, I had to return
this
to you.” I pulled Ruru out of my pack, smoothed his mottled wings, and deposited him gently in Bree’s hands. “Try not to lose him again, okay?”

“Where did you find him?” asked Bree, peering dazedly at the bedraggled little owl.

“You left him behind when you sneaked out of the Velesuonnos’ condo,” I said, “which, by the way, was a pretty thoughtless thing to do.”

“How do you know—”

“I’m sure you were embarrassed about the hissy fit you threw at the tattoo parlor,” I interrupted, “but you shouldn’t have disappeared like a thief in the night. Kati and Kitta deserved a more polite farewell. As a matter of fact, so did Roger, but we did what we could to make it up to him. My friend Cameron paid for the glasses and the lamp, which reminds me,” I went on, struck by a sudden thought, “I have to pay him back.”

“Cameron?” said Bree. “Who’s Cameron?”

“He’s my native guide,” I explained. “Without his help, and his airplane, and his encyclopedic knowledge of your country, I never would have found you.”

“Why did you
want
to find me?” Bree demanded, her dark eyes flashing.
“Why have you been following me?”

“Because I’m doing a favor for two very dear old ladies,” I answered calmly. “Ruth and Louise Pym are my friends as well as my neighbors. They also happen to be your great-grandaunts.”

Bree’s mouth fell open and the color drained from her face. She stared at me in dumbfounded disbelief, then whispered, “The English aunts? It’s not possible. They must be dead by now.”

“They’re not. They’re just getting on in years. Would you like a biscuit?” I asked, taking Donna’s chintz-patterned tin out of my pack. “Sugar is good for shock and you look as though you’re about to pass out.”

“I feel as if I’ve seen a ghost,” Bree said faintly.