Aunt Dimity Down Under (8 page)

“I’m afraid we won’t have much time for sightseeing,” I said firmly. “I plan to keep my promise to the Pyms, then catch the first flight back to England.”

Of course.
The ghost of a sigh seemed to pass through the room, as if Aunt Dimity were already regretting our swift departure.
How do you intend to get to Aubrey Pym’s place of residence? It’s unwise to drive a rental car when one’s brain is disjointed.

“I won’t have to drive,” I told her. “I have a chauffeur. His name is Cameron Mackenzie. He’s a Kiwi, but he went to school with Bill, back in the States. Bill asked him to keep an eye on me while I’m here.”

“My family isn’t the only reason I want to go home.” I paused for a moment, then gave voice to a concern that had been troubling me. “What if I never see Ruth and Louise again, Dimity? What if they die while I’m here?”

“Dr. Finisterre said—”

Aunt Dimity’s handwriting sped across the page before I could complete the sentence.

A genuine smile curved my lips as the lines of royal-blue ink disappeared from the page. With a few well-chosen words, Aunt Dimity had laid to rest any lingering doubts I’d had about my unexpected journey.

“Hang in there, Ruth and Louise,” I murmured, and returned the journal to my bag.

 

 

I met Cameron Mackenzie in the lobby an hour later. A hot shower and a room-service breakfast had cleared the cobwebs from my mind, so I was able to see him clearly for the first time. I liked what I saw. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, gray eyes, and a mouth that seemed to curve readily into a smile. His weathered face suggested that he spent a lot of time in the great outdoors, but whether for work or for play it was too soon to tell. He was dressed casually, in khaki trousers and a loose-fitting white cotton shirt, but his clothes weren’t cheap. If he worked outdoors, I thought, it was by choice, not by necessity.

“Kia ora,”
he said, extending his hand to shake mine.

“Excuse me?” I said blankly.

“Kia ora,”
he repeated. “It’s a Maori phrase. A literal translation would be: ‘I wish you good health,’ but people use it for all sorts of things nowadays: hello, good-bye, good luck, cheers, welcome. In this instance, it means: Welcome to New Zealand, Lori! I welcomed you at the airport, but I don’t think it registered.”

“Sorry about that,” I said, ducking my head sheepishly.

“I’ve seen worse.” He pulled a shiny blue cell phone and a charger out of his pocket and handed them to me. “I meant to give these to you at the airport, but I forgot. You can use the phone to call England. My number’s already programmed into it.”

“Thanks.” I slipped his gifts into my shoulder bag and smiled up at him. “For everything, I mean. It’s lucky for me that that you and my husband are such good friends.”

“Bill’s the best,” said Cameron. “I’d walk through fire for him.”

“I hope helping me will be less painful,” I said.

“I’m sure it will,” he said, laughing. He motioned toward the lobby’s glass doors. “I had them bring the car around. If you’re ready, we can be on our way.”

“Do you know where we’re going? ” I inquired.

He nodded. “Bill gave me the address. It’s right here, in Takapuna. That’s why I booked our rooms in the Spencer.”

“Takapuna?” I said, frowning. “I thought we were in Auckland.”

“Not quite. Technically, we’re in a suburb of North Shore City.” Cameron raised his hand and pointed to his right. “Auckland’s over there, across Waitemata Harbor.”

“Kia ora,
Takapuna, Waitemata . . .” I sighed. “Just when I’m getting used to your accent, you ambush me with words I can hardly pronounce. I’m a stranger in a strange land, Cameron. I thought New Zealand would be more . . . English.”

“New Zealand is many things,” he said. “I wish you could stay long enough to see all of it, but Bill told me you were in a hurry to get home.”

“I am.” I patted the black leather document case in my shoulder bag. “But first I have to deliver a letter. Let’s go.”

I put on my sunglasses as we stepped out of the lobby. The sun shone brightly in a flawless blue sky, and the air was soft, moist, and scented with salt and seaweed—a reminder of how close we were to the ocean. Across the street from the Spencer, a large but tasteful sign marked the entrance to the Takapuna Lawn Bowling Club. The sign seemed to combine the Englishness I’d expected with the touch of “otherness” I’d found.

“What a lovely day,” I said, remembering the frigid monsoon that had drenched me in Upper Deeping.

“Enjoy it while you can,” Cameron cautioned. “It’s early spring in the Southern Hemisphere. The weather can—and will—change on a dime. Here we are,” he added, unlocking the doors of a spotless silver Ford Falcon. “It’s a rental. My own vehicle isn’t quite as clean.”

As we took our respective places in the car, I noted that the steering wheel was on the right-hand side—just like in England. I opened the window to enjoy the balmy breezes while we waited for a group of chattering passengers to board a minivan parked directly in front of us. Undismayed by the delay, Cameron turned to reach for something in the backseat and, much to my surprise, presented me with a colorful cookie tin.

“Anzac biscuits,” he said. “Baked by my wife, Donna. ‘Anzac’ stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. Legend has it that the biscuits were invented during the First World War by women who wanted to send nutritious and durable treats to their men fighting overseas. It’s Donna’s way of welcoming foreign visitors.”

“Your wife is very kind,” I said. “Please thank her for me. Do you have children?”

“Two boys,” he replied. “They’re not twins, like Will and Rob, but they’re only a year apart. Braden is ten and Ben is eleven.”

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Near Wellington,” he replied. “I’d be more specific, but I don’t want your eyes to glaze over.”

I smiled ruefully but pressed on. “What job am I tearing you away from? ”

“I train horses,” said Cameron, confirming my hunch about the outdoorsy nature of his occupation. “And you’re not tearing me away from anything. According to my wife, I’m in dire need of a holiday.”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t bring my sons with me,” I said. “They’d want you to go back to work straightaway. They love horses.”

“I know,” he said. “Bill has e-mailed quite a few pictures of Will and Rob on their ponies.”

“He’s a proud papa,” I acknowledged. I looked down at the biscuit tin and shook my head. “I don’t know what to say, Cameron. Not every man would leave his wife, his children, and his job for the sake of an old friend.”

“Nor would every woman. Looks as though we have something in common.” The minivan pulled away and he turned the key in the ignition. “All set?”

“Drive on,” I said.

Two minutes later we were cruising down the main drag of a bustling shopping district. Most of the shops were small and independently owned rather than links in multinational chains, and the sidewalks were crowded with people of all ages and races. There was so much to look at that I felt a small twinge of regret when the shops petered out and we entered a residential area.

A left-hand turn took us onto a short street lined with a mixture of fairly impressive mansions and modest but well-tended homes. At the end of the street, I caught a glimpse of ocean framed by towering trees I didn’t recognize.

“Pohutukawa trees,” said Cameron, following my gaze.

“Pohutu—what?” I said.

“Pohutukawas,” he said. “They’re covered in red blossoms at Christmastime. Very cheerful.”

“Pohutukawa,” I repeated carefully, filing the word away for future reference. I planned to spring it on Aunt Dimity when the opportunity arose.

Cameron slowed to a crawl, then parked before a two-story house that was modest but not well tended. The top story was clad in corrugated iron siding, the bottom in a pale yellow stucco striped with rust stains. The narrow balcony that ran across the front of the house was littered with cigarette butts and a few leggy plants, and a broken picnic table graced the balding front lawn. Two of the second-floor windows were open, but the windows on the first floor were tightly shut and covered with drapes.

“This is it,” Cameron said.

Weah-heah,
I thought, and got out of the car.

C
ameron accompanied me to the yellow house’s recessed front door and stood a few steps behind me as I pressed a finger to the doorbell. When a voice shouted down to us, we exchanged puzzled glances, then returned to the front lawn, to peer up at the balcony.

A woman gazed down at us through a haze of cigarette smoke. She was clad in a shocking pink T-shirt, cutoff denim shorts, and neon-green flip-flops. Her coarse black hair sprouted from the top of her head in a ponytail drawn so tautly against her scalp that she shouldn’t have been able to lower her overplucked eyebrows. Though she dressed like a teenager, her hair was liberally streaked with gray and her blunt-featured face was mottled with age spots. Her voice was deep, gravelly, and loud enough to be heard back at the Spencer.

“What do you want?” she bellowed.

“Good morning,” I called up to her. “I’m looking for Mr. Aubrey Jeremiah Pym, Junior. I believe he lives here.”

“Not anymore he doesn’t,” said the woman. “A. J. died two months ago.”

“He’s . . . dead? ” I said, thunderstruck.

“As a doornail.” The woman paused to exchange a few pleasantries with a man who’d stepped out of the house next door. The smile that wreathed her face while she spoke to him vanished abruptly when she returned her attention to me. “Who are you, anyway? ”

“I’m . . . I’m a friend of the family’s,” I stammered, still shaken by the news of Aubrey’s death.

“A friend of the family’s? ” She sucked on her cigarette and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Didn’t know they had friends.”

“They? ” Cameron said alertly. “Does another family member live here?”

“Ed’s been sponging off of his dad for years,” she said with a contemptuous sneer. “Edmund Hillary Pym, named after our great national hero, the man who conquered Everest.” She laughed harshly. “The only mountain Ed Pym ever climbed was a mountain of stubbies.”

“Stubbies?” I said to Cameron.

“Beer bottles,” he explained.

“What did you want with A. J.?” the woman inquired.

“I had private business to discuss with him.” I hesitated, then made a quick decision. The letter I’d come so far to deliver couldn’t be read by a dead man, but it could be read by his son. With a half glance at Cameron, I called to the woman, “My business involves Edmund Pym as well.”

“If Ed’s come into a fortune, you can share it with me,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “I’m his landlady. He owes me a month’s rent.”

“Can you tell us where we might find Ed? ” Cameron asked, picking up on my cue.

“Hospital,” grunted the landlady. “If he croaks, I’m selling his stuff, to make up for what he owes me. Not that there’s much worth selling.” She began raking her fingers through her ridiculous ponytail. “Probably end up donating the lot to an op shop. I’ll have to clear the place out for my next lodger, won’t I?”

“Op shop?” I murmured.

“Opportunity shop,” Cameron translated. “A thrift store.” He looked up at the landlady. “Which hospital is Edmund Pym in? ”

“North Shore,” she replied. “If you see him, tell him I want my rent.” Smoke curled from her nostrils as she watched a blue Honda park behind Cameron’s Ford. “Who’s this? Another family friend? ”

A woman as tall as Cameron and several times his width got out of the Honda cradling a large manila envelope in her arms. Her short, light-brown hair gleamed in the sunlight and she was neatly dressed in a brown suede jacket, a black V-neck knit top, and flowing black knit trousers. She had a no-nonsense air about her, but her brown eyes seemed kindly behind her boxy black glasses. She paused on the sidewalk to survey our curious gathering, then strode across the lawn with a sense of purpose.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, talking to me and to Cameron. Her voice was soft, her manner, pleasantly professional. “My name is Bridgette Burkhoffer and I work for North Shore Hospital. I’m looking for Aubrey Pym. Have I found the correct address?”

“You’re in the right place, dear,” shouted the landlady, who’d leaned over the balcony’s railing to catch the new arrival’s every word. “But A. J.’s dead. You should know. He died in North Shore two months ago.”

Bridgette favored the landlady with a coldly clinical gaze. “If you wish to speak with me, please come downstairs. I’m not accustomed to raising my voice in public.”

“All right, all right, keep your shirt on, Bridge, I’m coming,” said the landlady. She took a last drag on her cigarette, crushed the butt beneath her flip-flop, and disappeared from the balcony. A moment later, she came around the side of the house to join us on the lawn.