Aunt Dimity Down Under

by Nancy Atherton

  “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.

  “Separate entrance,” she explained. Though she was now standing face-to-face with the rest of us, she still spoke in an ear-bruising bellow. “My lodgers use the front door.” She held out a nicotine-stained hand to Bridgette. “Call me Jessie, Bridge.”

  “You may call me Ms. Burkhoffer, Jessie,” Bridgette said crisply, ignoring the hand. “For your information, Jessie, I am fully aware that Mr. Aubrey Jeremiah Pym, Junior—also known as A. J.—passed away in our hospital two months ago. Clearly, I do not wish to speak with him. I wish to speak with his granddaughter, Miss Aubrey Aroha Pym.”

  “His granddaughter?” I said, my eyes widening.

  “Why didn’t you tell us about his granddaughter?” Cameron demanded, rounding on the landlady.

  “You wanted to know who lives here,” she said defensively. “Bree stuck around long enough to put her granddad in the ground, then grabbed her backpack and hightailed it out of here. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her for six weeks.”

  Bridgette pursed her lips and turned to me. “May I ask what your relationship is to the Pyms?”

  “I’m a legal representative of the Pym family,” I replied.

  “You told me you were a friend,” said Jessie, scowling. “You didn’t say anything about being a legal representative.” She presented her yellowing palm to me. “Eight hundred dollars or I throw Ed’s stuff into the street.”

  Before I could respond, Cameron pulled his wallet out of his pocket and began counting colorful bills into Jessie’s outstretched hand. When he reached three hundred dollars, my jaw dropped. When he added another hundred, I felt I should object.

  “Cameron,” I said, “there’s no need to—”

  “Leave it to me, Lori,” he interrupted tersely. He shoved the wallet back into his pocket and fixed the landlady with a steely gaze. “I’ll send you a check for the balance. If you have any doubts about my character, my good friend the police commissioner will vouch for me.” He leaned closer to her and went on in a silky purr that was far more intimidating than Jessie’s shouting had been. “And if you remove so much as a scrap of paper from the flat, the commissioner will take time out of his busy schedule to arrest you personally.” He stood up straight and snapped his fingers impatiently. “Now give us the key and go away.”

  Jessie was smart enough to know when she was beaten. She eyed Cameron resentfully, but fished a brass key out of her pocket and handed it to him. Grumbling irritably—and audibly—she retreated around the side of the house.

  Bridgette released a pent breath and bestowed a shy smile on Cameron.

  “I can’t tell you how thoroughly I detest being called Bridge,” she said. “You may call me Bridgette.”

  “Thank you, said Cameron. “I’m Cameron Mackenzie and this is my friend Lori Shepherd.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Bridgette.

  I smiled vaguely in her direction, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the Pyms’ landlady.

  “She didn’t even ask us for identification,” I said incredulously. “For all she knows, we could be drug dealers setting up a crack house.”

  “I don’t think she’d mind, as long as we paid the rent on time,” said Cameron.

  “Do you really know the police commissioner?” Bridgette asked.

  “I do,” he replied. “I taught his granddaughter to ride and I trained his grandson’s gelding.”

  “Why did you pay any rent at all? ” I asked, ignoring the digression. “We don’t need access to the apartment. We can visit Edmund Pym at the hospital.”

  “About Edmund Pym . . .” Bridgette cleared her throat. “I hope you won’t mind, Ms. Shepherd, but I would like to see your identification.”

  Since I wanted to hear what she had to say about Edmund Pym, I took the document case from my purse and handed her the papers Mr. Makepeace had drawn up for me. I didn’t know if their contents would apply to a different set of Pyms, but Bridgette seemed to think that everything was in order. She returned the document case to me and regarded me soberly.

  “I regret to inform you that Edmund Hillary Pym died at five o’clock this morning,” she said. “I came here to deliver the news to his next of kin, but—”

  “She ran away six weeks ago,” I said.

  Bridgette nodded. “I’m not sure what to do next. No funeral arrangements have been made, you see, and I don’t know how to contact Ed’s daughter, to find out what her wishes might be.”

  “Was Edmund Pym married?” asked Cameron.

  “His marriage ended many years ago,” said Bridgette. “Ed lost track of his wife after the divorce and he had no idea how to get in touch with her at this late date.” She shifted the manila envelope in her arms and frowned pensively. “He didn’t tell me that his daughter had abandoned him. He kept saying that Bree would come to see him the next day, and the next, but . . . Bree never came.”

  “It sounds as though you spent a lot of time with him,” I observed.

  “I’m a critical care nurse,” she said. “I try to spend as much time as I can with each of my patients. I was with Ed when he died this morning.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, with a sympathetic nod. “I’m sure you were a great comfort to him.”

  “His daughter would have been a greater comfort,” Bridgette remarked.

  “Did Ed tell you anything else abou
t her? ” Cameron asked.

  “He told me that Bree’s middle name—Aroha—is the Maori word for love,” Bridgette answered, her expression softening. “He said that she’d turned eighteen recently. Last night, he asked me to tell her that he was sorry.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “For drinking himself to death, I imagine,” she replied. “Pneumonia killed A. J., but his son succumbed to alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. It wasn’t the first time we’d seen Ed at North Shore, but it was the first time he’d been in the critical care unit. A. J.’s death set the stage for Ed’s final, fatal binge.” She glanced at her watch. “Forgive me, but I must get back to work. I’m already late for my next shift.”

  “What will you do with Ed’s body?” I asked.

  “We’ll hold it until we run out of room in the morgue,” said Bridgette. “If no one claims it by then, we’ll bury it in the public cemetery.”

  “What about his personal effects?” asked Cameron.

  Bridgette held up the manilla envelope. “I brought them with me, to give to his daughter, but now . . .”

  “We’d be happy to give them to her, when we find her,” said Cameron.

  “Thank you, but personal effects can be released only to the next of kin.” Bridgette shifted the envelope to the crook of her arm, pulled a card out of her jacket pocket, and handed it to Cameron. “I’d be grateful to you if you’d give her my card. I need to hear from her as soon as possible.”

  “We’ll let her know,” he said, tucking the card into my shoulder bag.

  Bridgette thanked us again, then hastened back to her car and drove off. I turned to stare at Cameron.

  “I’m all for the grand gesture,” I said, “but have you lost your mind? First you shovel money into the hands of that loudmouthed harpy. Then you promise Nurse Bridgette that you’ll find Edmund Pym’s daughter. What on earth do you think you’re doing? ”

  “I’m helping you to deliver the letter you traveled eighteen thousand kilometers to deliver,” he replied.

  “I traveled eighteen thousand kilometers?” I said faintly.

  “Bill told me you weren’t the sort of woman who lets her friends down,” Cameron continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I assumed, therefore, that you’d want to go after Bree Pym, and I can’t let you run around New Zealand on your own. You’re a stranger in a strange land, remember? You don’t know a takahe from a huhu grub.” He cocked his head to one side. “Was I wrong? Would you prefer to tell your friends that their last hope of reuniting their family fizzled because you didn’t even try to find their great-grandniece?”

  “No,” I said uncertainly. “But how are we going to track down an eighteen-year-old girl who left home six weeks ago?”

  “We start,” said Cameron, “by searching her flat.”

  As he fitted the key into the lock, I began to suspect that Cameron Mackenzie could teach me a thing or two about being bossy, bullheaded, and nosy.

  Eight

  We can’t search the flat,” I protested. “We’ll be arrested for trespassing.”

  “Only if someone calls the police,” Cameron said. “I won’t call them, and I think I bought the landlady’s silence.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Are you going to turn us in?”

  “Very funny,” I retorted. “But now that you mention it . . . Why not call the police? They’ll find Bree a lot faster than we will.”

  “They won’t even look for her,” said Cameron. “Legally, Bree Pym is an adult. As far as the police are concerned, she’s free to come and go as she pleases. Unless we find evidence to suggest that she was kidnapped, they’ll have no reason to look for her.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lori, but if we want to find Edmund Pym’s daughter, we’ll have to do it without help from the authorities.”

  He turned the key in the lock and tried to open the door, but he had to put his shoulder to it before it would open wide enough for him to slip inside.

  “Coming? ” he said.

  “In a minute,” I replied.

  I waited on the doorstep until he vanished from view, then took the shiny blue cell phone from my bag and dialed my husband’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “Bill?” I said softly, in case the horrible landlady had returned to her perch on the balcony.

  “What’s up, Lori?” he said.

  “I’m at Aubrey Pym, Junior’s place,” I said. “He’s dead. So’s his son, Edmund.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” said Bill, “but Ruth and Louise will be much sorrier.” He sighed. “It looks as though your first day in New Zealand will be your last.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Edmund Pym had a daughter. She’s still alive, apparently.”

  “Apparently? ” said Bill.

  “She left home six weeks ago,” I said. “Cameron thinks we should track her down.”

  “What do you think?” Bill asked.

  “I think Cameron’s completely daffy,” I replied. “But I also think he’s right.”

  “He usually is,” said Bill, chuckling. “Trust Cameron, Lori. If he believes he can find the girl, he probably can. And don’t worry about me or the boys or Father. I know you’ll find it hard to believe, my love, but we can survive without you for a few more days.”

  “I’ll bet Sally Pyne is washing your father’s socks in rose water,” I grumbled.

  “We miss you, too, Lori,” Bill soothed. “I’ll let Ruth and Louise know what’s going on.”

  “Tell them that their great-grandniece’s name is Aubrey Aroha Pym,” I said urgently. “Tell them that Aroha is the Maori word for love.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Bill assured me. “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do,” I said, and cut the connection.

  I dropped the phone into my shoulder bag, took a deep breath, and entered the last known residence of Aubrey Jeremiah Pym, Jr. A deep breath was needed because the place reeked of stale beer, unwashed laundry, and spoiled food. After stepping around the scattered mound of mail that had blocked the front door, I went directly to a window, threw back the drapes, and cranked it open. The salty breeze that ruffled my dark, curly hair helped to dissipate the fug.

  “Good idea,” Cameron said from the living room. “Wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  The apartment had an open floor plan. A breakfast bar separated the kitchen from a small dining area, where I stood, and nothing separated the dining area from the rectangular living room.

  “Now we know why no one replied to Fortescue Makepeace’s letters,” I said, nodding toward the toppled pile of bills, circulars, and assorted envelopes near the front door. “It looks as though the mail hasn’t been touched for weeks.”

  Cameron nodded. “Ed must have been either too drunk or too ill to deal with it.”

  The apartment’s furnishings were pitiful: a beat-up wooden table with four rickety chairs, a sagging sofa, an aged television set, an oversized recliner with ragged holes in its cheap leather upholstery, and a modern blond brick fireplace grimed with thick layers of soot. Fast-food wrappers, pizza boxes, and empty beer bottles littered the floor. The slovenly flat bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Pym sisters’ immaculate house.

  A faded afghan covered the back of the recliner and a soiled pillow lay crumpled beneath a threadbare woolen blanket on the sofa. It wasn’t hard to picture a sick old man watching television from the chair while his drunken son sprawled uselessly on the couch. How, I wondered, did Bree fit into the picture?

  “I don’t know why they stayed on in Takapuna,” Cameron commented. “They could’ve found a cheaper flat in Auckland. It looks as though they spent every penny they earned on rent.”

  “Not much worth selling,” I murmured.

  “Not much,” he agreed. “But a few things.” He pointed to six photographs standing in tarnished frames on the concrete mantelshelf. “Some of the frames are solid silver, to judge by the weight. Why didn’t the family sell them? They could have used the extra cash.”


  “The pictures must have meant something to them,” I reasoned, “frames and all.”

  I crossed the room, carefully avoiding the beer bottles in my path, and picked up what seemed to be the oldest photograph. The sepia-toned wedding portrait had been taken in a studio, before a painted backdrop depicting a garden in the midst of Grecian ruins. The bride and groom were decked out in the height of Edwardian fashion. The bride’s wasp-waisted gown appeared to be made out of satin with lace panels, a fringed bodice, and elaborate beading. The groom was formally attired in a top hat and morning dress.

  The young woman was conventionally pretty, but the young man was downright dashing. A signet ring glinted from his right pinky finger and a half dozen fobs dangled from the watch chain spanning his waistcoat. I couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or not, because his mouth was obscured by a handlebar mustache, but his dark eyes seemed to be laughing.

  I turned the picture over and saw handwriting on the back.

  “ ‘Ten June 1912,’ ” I read aloud. “ ‘Mother and Father, on their wedding day.’ ” I examined the photo again. “ ‘Father’ must be Aubrey Pym, Senior—my friends’ banished brother. He left England around 1910, so the date works.”

  “Looks like he married money,” Cameron said, eyeing the photograph shrewdly.

  “He had a way with women,” I acknowledged. “It’s one of the reasons his father banished him.”

  “I’d say he landed on his feet.” Cameron picked up a very old black-and-white photograph. In it, the mustachioed man stood in the arched entryway of a large church, holding a chubby-cheeked, lace-bedecked baby in his arms. Cameron flipped the picture over and read aloud, “ ‘Twenty-seven April 1913, Aubrey and A. J. at ChristChurch Cathedral, Christchurch. Baptism.’ ”

  “Baptism?” I echoed puzzledly. “Where’s A. J.’s mother? No mother would miss her child’s baptism.”

  Cameron pointed to a black armband on the sleeve of Aubrey, Sr.’s well-tailored overcoat. “Died in childbirth?”

  I took the photograph from him and studied it closely. Aubrey, Sr.’s face was gaunter than it had been in the wedding portrait, and the laughter had left his eyes.