“If you insist, he said.
“I do,” I said firmly, and led the way to the car.
After we left the Spencer, I expected to head north, but Cameron confounded me by heading south instead.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Back to the airport,” he replied.
“Are we flying to the Hokianga?” I asked.
“We’ll fly to Dargaville and drive north from there,” he answered.
“Excellent,” I said, foolishly anticipating a quick and easy journey.
When we reached the Auckland Airport, Cameron bypassed the international and domestic terminals and parked in a lot reserved for private pilots. Ten minutes later, I found myself strapped into the copilot’s seat of a tiny propellor plane, wearing a headset and a worried expression.
“Do you know how to fly this thing? ” I said into the little microphone that curved from the headphones to my lips.
Cameron’s confident voice came crackling through the headset: “No, but I’m a fast learner.” As I started to sputter, he held up a pacifying hand. “Relax, Lori. I’ve been flying since I was sixteen.”
I glanced anxiously at the sky. It looked to me as though New Zealand was about to demonstrate how changeable its spring weather could be.
“Have you noticed the black clouds building up in the west?” I asked.
“A snarky low’s coming in off the Tassie,” he replied incomprehensibly. Sensing my bewilderment, he said slowly and distinctly, “A low front is moving in from the Tasman Sea. Should make for a lively flight. We have clearance from the tower. Here we go!”
I was glad that I’d taken a nap before leaving the hotel because I couldn’t have slept during the journey if I’d been drugged. Gusting winds from the “snarky low” buffeted our tiny plane like a cat toying with a Ping-Pong ball, and sheets of rain obliterated the view. I’d never been airsick in my entire life, but by the time we reached Dargaville, I was cursing the impulse that had prompted me to eat lunch.
Cameron tried to lift my spirits by telling me that we would land on the Dargaville Aerodrome’s limestone runway rather than its grass strip, but the news that we would be landing at an airport that still had a grass strip failed signally to boost my morale. I gripped the edge of my seat and apologized mutely for every sin I’d ever committed as he zeroed in on the rain-washed runway, but after a few heart-stopping bounces, we were safely on the ground and taxiing toward a small hangar.
My hands shook as I removed the headset and it took me three tries to undo the restraining straps, but I managed to keep my trembling knees from buckling when my feet finally hit solid ground. I pulled up the hood on my rain jacket and let Cameron retrieve all of the luggage. I felt he deserved to be punished for predicting that the flight from hell would be “lively.”
“Camo! Over here, bro!” called a voice.
A stocky man with light brown skin waved to us from the shelter of the hangar. He was dressed in a knee-length slicker, shorts, and flip-flops, and his coal-black hair was clipped close to his skull. Around his neck dangled a curiously carved pendant of highly polished, dark green stone, and his bare legs were covered from ankle to thigh with an elegant, curving pattern of intertwined tattoos.
“Toko!” called Cameron. “Good to see you, man!”
During the introductions that followed, I learned that Toko Baker was a Maori—the first I’d met—and one of Cameron’s oldest friends. The two men chatted briefly in Toko’s native tongue before reverting to English.
“Flight all right?” Toko asked me, winking at Cameron.
“Piece of cake,” I lied, with a carefree shrug.
“Jean Batten would be proud of you, Lori.” Cameron dropped his bag and clapped me on the back. “She was New Zealand’s Amelia Earhart, and as fearless as they come, but compared to you, she was a quaking blancmange.”
“Thanks, Camo,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Car’s waiting for you outside,” said Toko. “I’ll look after the kite.”
“Ta, Toko,” said Cameron.
“Hei aha,” Toko replied, adding for my benefit, “No worries, mate.”
“We’re borrowing one of Toko’s vehicles,” Cameron said as his friend headed for the plane. “He takes a laissez-faire approach to maintenance, so we won’t be breaking any land-speed records, but we’ll get where we need to go. Only sixty-three kilometers left—round about forty miles.”
“Why didn’t we fly to an airport closer to the hotel?” I asked.
“There isn’t one,” he replied. “And I didn’t think you’d enjoy a paddock landing.”
I didn’t know what a paddock landing was, but if it was more lively than the landing we’d just made, I was quite sure that I would have hated it.
It rained so hard for the next sixty-three kilometers that we might as well have driven through a tunnel. The scenery Aunt Dimity had praised so highly flashed past in a misty blur. The two-lane road was narrow, hilly, winding, and punctuated by a series of orange signs that featured nothing but a black exclamation point. I soon learned that the exclamation point was a general warning to slow down for a variety of reasons, ranging from road repairs to minor landslides to gaping craters in the middle of our lane. Thankfully, there was little traffic, and Toko’s car was so grossly underpowered that we didn’t really need to slow down to avoid anything.
Cameron insisted that we make one stop along the way, in a place called Waipoua Forest. I began to suspect that Aunt Dimity had somehow influenced his decision when a five-minute hike along a boardwalk snaking through a sodden jungle took us to the base of a gigantic tree known as Tane Mahuta, or the Lord of the Forest.
The tree’s massive trunk soared upward to a crown of stumpy branches covered with mosses, ferns, and vines, as though it were presenting its own miniature rain forest to the sky. Tane Mahuta’s girth, Cameron proclaimed, was just over forty-five feet, and it was nearly 170 feet tall.
“It’s a kauri,” he said proudly. “One hundred percent native to New Zealand. The logging industry took a bite out of our kauri forests in the late 1800s, but Tane Mahuta and some of his cousins were spared. They’re the oldest living things in the Southern Hemisphere.” Rain pelted his face as he tilted his head back to savor the tree’s magnificence. “I know you’re pressed for time, Lori, but we couldn’t pass by without saying hello.”
I didn’t debate the point. I felt such reverence for the ancient tree that I forgot about the rotten weather, the terrifying flight, and the hazardous drive, and wanted only to linger awhile in Tane Mahuta’s majestic presence. When Cameron mentioned that it would soon be dark, however, I came to my senses and galloped back to the car. Nothing short of a medical emergency could have induced me to travel on that road at night.
Darkness had fallen by the time we reached the Copthorne Hotel and Resort. The graveled parking lot was dimly lit, but the hotel appeared to be a sprawling British Colonial house to which a modern, two-story wing had been added. Palm trees, ferns, and tropical flowers grew in small beds on either side of the entrance, and the muted boom of the surf suggested that we weren’t too far from the sea.
The modest lobby was paneled in dark wood and decorated with Maori artifacts. A printed sign on one wall told the story of Kupe, the great Polynesian navigator. I had time to read most of it, because Ms. Campbell, the middle-aged receptionist, had to finish what sounded like a complicated phone call before she could attend to us.
After verifying the reservations Cameron had made, Ms. Campbell told us that the hotel’s restaurant was still serving dinner and that we would be in the first and second rooms on the upper floor of the modern wing.
“There’s no direct connection between the buildings, I’m afraid,” she said apologetically. “You’ll have to go outside again to reach your rooms. It’s only a few steps away, though, and I think the rain’s let up a bit. Will you be dining with us this evening?”
“Yes,” Cameron and I chorused.
&n
bsp; The receptionist smiled. “I’ll reserve a table for you. Come down when you’re ready.” She gestured to a hallway that led off of the lobby. “The dining room is through there.”
“Is Bree Pym on the dinner shift? ” I asked hopefully.
Ms. Campbell’s warm smile wilted and her gaze became guarded. “Miss Bree Pym is no longer employed by the Copthorne.”
“She’s not?” I said, blinking in disbelief. “But we’ve come so far. . . .” My words trailed off into a faintly pathetic whine.
“Are you family?” Ms. Campbell inquired.
“No,” I said. “I’m trying to contact Bree Pym on behalf of her relatives in England. I have important information to give her. My friend and I have gone to a great deal of trouble to come here tonight because we expected to find her working at your hotel.”
“I’m sorry to hear that she’s inconvenienced you,” Ms. Campbell said, “but I can’t say that I’m surprised.” Her voice rose in righteous indignation. “She left us without a word of warning after only four days on the job. I still haven’t found a replacement. Far be it from me to speak ill of anyone, but I’m forced to say that I found Miss Pym to be thoughtless, irresponsible, and unreliable.”
“One moment,” said Cameron. He reached into an inner pocket of his rain jacket and pulled out the picture he’d printed in Bree’s bedroom. He unfolded it and held it out to the receptionist, asking, “Is this the girl you hired?”
“That’s Bree,” she said curtly. “I never forget a face, especially a face I never want to see again.”
“Thank you,” said Cameron, returning the photo to his pocket. “We’ll go to our rooms now.”
Since there was no bellhop service, Cameron and I carried our bags through the rain, which was falling as heavily as ever, and up an outdoor flight of steps to an exterior walkway. Guest rooms lined one side of the walkway. The other side overlooked the parking area.
“A shame about the weather.” Cameron paused at the walkway’s railing and peered upward. “If the sky would clear, I could show you the Southern Cross. It’s not the biggest or the brightest constellation, but it was so useful to early explorers that we put it on our flag.”
“I don’t think we’ll do much stargazing tonight,” I grumbled. Our failure to find Bree had soured my mood, as had the unrelenting downpour. Though I was yearning to put a solid roof over my head, I crossed to stand beside Cameron. “Do you find it hard to believe? About Bree, I mean.”
“We’ll talk during dinner,” he replied. “Can you be ready in thirty minutes? ”
“Make it twenty,” I said.
My room was simply but adequately furnished. The wall opposite the door was made entirely of glass, with a sliding glass door that gave access to a small balcony. Since I had no desire to step outside any sooner than I had to, I ignored the balcony, changed into a silk blouse, black trousers, and the sling-backs, and placed my wet jeans and sneakers near the room’s heater, hoping against hope that they would dry before morning. I didn’t relish the thought of traveling back to Auckland in squelchy sneakers.
I opened the door at Cameron’s first knock.
“You’re dressed,” he said, looking surprised. “I thought my wife was the only woman on earth who could change for dinner in less than thirty minutes.”
“I’m full of surprises, Camo,” I said, zipping my rain jacket.
“Are you going to call me Camo from now on?” he asked as we retraced our steps to the lobby.
“If you’re lucky,” I shot back.
A young, heavyset waitress dressed all in black met us at the dining room entrance and guided us to a table near a huge picture window through which we could see nothing but gloom. The dining room seemed extracavernous because only two other tables were taken.
“It’s off season,” Cameron explained.
“I’ll say,” I muttered.
I was too disheartened to take much interest in food, so Cameron ordered the freshly caught crayfish and a bottle of locally produced chardonnay for both of us. When the waitress departed, I gazed at the rain-streaked window and shook my head.
“I can’t believe that the girl described by the receptionist is the same girl who lived in Takapuna,” I said. “Bree was a top student. She was the family’s accountant. Her room was as neat as a pin. How could she suddenly turn into an irresponsible slacker?”
“Maybe she’s taking some time off,” Cameron suggested.
“Excuse me.” Our waitress had returned, carrying an ice bucket and the bottle of wine Cameron had ordered. She glanced over her shoulder, then continued in a low voice, “What do you want with Bree? She’s not in trouble, is she?”
“Not with us,” said Cameron. “We’re friends of the family.”
“We’re not upset with her,” I added. “We’re worried about her.” The waitress opened the bottle, poured wine into Cameron’s glass, and waited until he’d nodded his approval before filling my glass. As she slid the bottle into the ice bucket, she seemed to reach a decision.
“You shouldn’t believe everything Ms. Campbell tells you,” she said abruptly.
“What should we believe, Miss . . . ?” Cameron raised an eyebrow.
“Call me Alison,” said the waitress. She glanced over her shoulder again before adding in an urgent undertone, “What happened was, he broke her heart. That’s why she left.”
“Who broke whose heart?” I asked in some confusion.
“Daniel broke Bree’s heart,” said Alison. “He didn’t mean to, but he did.”
“Who is Daniel? ” asked Cameron.
“Daniel Rivers,” Alison replied. “He’s an artist. He lives south of here. Every once in a while a girl lands on his doorstep, hoping to shack up with him.”
“Is that why Bree came here?” I asked.
Alison nodded. “I told her she had as much chance of bonking Daniel as I have of becoming prime minister. Daniel may be an artist, but he’s also a very happily married man.”
“Which is why he sent her away,” said Cameron.
“He tried to let her down easy,” Alison explained. “He had a long heart-to-heart with her, but it didn’t help. She came back from his place in tears. Packed her bag and left the next day.”
“Do you know where she went? ” I asked.
“Sorry.” Alison shook her head. “Daniel might, though. Lord knows what Bree told him.”
“Can you give us his phone number? ” Cameron asked.
“Sorry,” Alison repeated with an apologetic shrug.
“Can you tell us where he lives? ” I asked.
“I’ll do better than that,” said Alison. “I’ll draw you a map. You’ll need one. Daniel lives in the wop-wops.” Her brow wrinkled. “Bree was in tatters when she took off. Someone needs to find that girl before she does something stupid. I’ll be back in two ticks with your crayfish.”
She returned a few minutes later with a roughly drawn map and the biggest crayfish I’d ever seen. She handed the map to Cameron before placing several dishes before us.
“When you find Bree, tell her I’m thinking of her.” Alison smiled sadly, then hastened to wait on another table.
After studying the map, Cameron proposed a plan of action. “We’ll check out of the hotel tomorrow morning and drive straight to Daniel Rivers’s place. If he can’t tell us where Bree went, we’ll have no choice but to return to Auckland.”
“Okay,” I said absently. I couldn’t take my eyes off the humongous crustacean spilling over the edges of my plate. “Are you sure this is a crayfish? It looks like a lobster.”
“You’re accustomed to freshwater crayfish,” Cameron said wisely. “These beauties come from the sea. After you’ve had your first mouthful, you’ll wish they were bigger. They’re succulent, sweet, and altogether delicious.”
Renewed hope had restored my appetite, but before attacking my meal, I raised my glass of chardonnay and proposed a toast.
“To saltwater crayfish,” I said. “And to a f
resh lead.”
Cameron waved Alison’s map in triumph as he touched his glass to mine.
Ten
My first task upon returning to my room after dinner was to telephone Bill. He informed me that all was well on the home front, that Ruth and Louise were delighted to know that they had a great-grandniece, and that they approved of my decision to deliver their letter to her. I explained yet again why I wouldn’t be on the first available flight back to England.
“Don’t worry about it,” he urged. “Just find the girl.”
“I’m trying,” I assured him, “but she’s not cooperating.”
Bill called Will and Rob to the phone, and after they demonstrated that they knew more about New Zealand than Mummy did—“No, Mummy, kangaroos live in Australia”—I said good night, plugged the cell phone in to recharge, and packed my “nice” clothes in the duffel bag to get a head start on the morning.
I climbed into bed at nine o’clock, warmed to my toes by a hot bath and filled to the bursting point with sweet, succulent, and altogether delicious crayfish. Though drowsy, I opened the blue journal and brought Aunt Dimity up to speed on my action-packed day.
She was sorry that the weather had prevented me from enjoying the scenery, pleased that I’d met the Lord of the Forest, and gracious in defeat when she learned that Bree hadn’t come north to find her mother but to seduce a married man.
“I think Bree must be having some sort of breakdown,” I said.
“She certainly doesn’t sound like the girl with the dog-eared books, the cute stuffed animals, and the blue gingham duvet.”
Bree has been holding her family together with both hands, Lori. Girls burdened with too much responsibility sometimes find it necessary to rebel.
“They do,” I said, nodding.
It’s possible, of course, that Alison misunderstood Bree’s intentions. Do you remember the sketches you found pinned to the bulletin board in Bree’s bedroom? You told me that they were quite good. Perhaps she approached Mr. Rivers for advice on artistic endeavors.
Aunt Dimity Down Under Page 9
