Aunt Dimity Down Under

by Nancy Atherton

  When a small cluster of snowcapped peaks came into view, I began to understand what Cameron had meant when he’d said that his country was “many things.” New Zealand, it seemed, packed a lot of variety into a relatively small number of square kilometers.

  The only spine-tingling moment occurred when we swooped in to land on a runway that appeared to end mere inches from the edge of an enormous lake. I held my breath until a few hard bumps on the tarmac assured me that we’d made a touchdown instead of a splashdown.

  “Lake Taupo,” Cameron informed me, as we taxied to the airport’s modest terminal. “The largest lake in New Zealand. Its waters conceal the crater of a volcano that erupted twenty- seven thousand years ago.”

  “Must have been a big bang,” I commented, squinting to make out the lake’s distant shores.

  “Compared to it, the Mount Saint Helens eruption was a kitten’s hiccough,” said Cameron.

  “How far are we from Ohakune?” I asked.

  “About a hundred and twenty kilometers,” he replied. “An old friend of mine lives near Taupo.”

  I cocked my head to one side. “Does your old friend happen to have a car we can borrow? ”

  “You’re catching on,” he said, grinning.

  Cameron’s friend, Aidan Dun, was a professional trout fisherman who made a living by teaching his craft, participating in fly-fishing competitions, and guiding enthusiasts to well-stocked local streams around Lake Taupo. Aidan’s car, a hunter green Jeep Cherokee, was in much better shape than the one we’d borrowed from Toko, but its interior had a distinctly fishy aroma.

  “I’ve always wanted to smell like a dead trout,” I said, opening my window.

  “The angler’s perfume,” crooned my irrepressible companion.

  As we drove south along Lake Taupo’s eastern shore, I fixed my gaze on the three snowcapped mountains I’d seen from the plane. At ground level, they looked like paper cutouts pasted against the clear blue sky. The one in the middle resembled a child’s drawing of a volcano—a perfect cone with black slopes and a whipped-cream summit. Happily, it wasn’t spewing clouds of ash or dribbling the rivers of molten lava my sons felt compelled to add to every drawing they made of a volcano.

  “We’re coming up on Tongariro National Park,” Cameron announced. “It’s the fourth oldest national park in the world, home to Mount Tongariro, Mount Ngauruhoe, and Mount Ruapehu. Tongariro’s been asleep for a long time, but Ngauruhoe—the pretty one in the middle—let off some steam in 1975, and Ruapehu belched a few tons of ash in 1996. Do you ski? ”

  “No,” I replied.

  “A pity,” he said. “Ruapehu has two first-class ski areas.”

  “Aren’t the skiers put off by all the belching? ” I asked.

  “Our vulcanologists issue warnings and most people pay attention to them,” said Cameron. “When the mountain settles down, they hit the slopes again.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “Ohakune’s at the foot of Mount Ruapehu, Lori. It’s a ski town. Its population explodes in winter.”

  “It sounds as though the population isn’t the only thing that explodes,” I commented, peering apprehensively through the windshield.

  “My point is,” Cameron went on, “in July or August, Bree would be lost in a crowd of skiers and snowboarders. Luckily for us, the high season ended in September.”

  While I tried to wrap my head around the notion of winter in July, my native guide drove on.

  I wasn’t sure why a ski town would erect a giant carrot at one end of its main thoroughfare until Cameron explained that Ohakune was New Zealand’s carrot capital.

  “Farming has been around a lot longer than skiing,” he observed,

  “and carrots flourish in Ohakune’s volcanic soil. If you’re ever here in July, don’t miss the Carrot Festival. It’s sort of an orange-tinted Mardi—”

  “Stop!” I cried.

  “—Gras,” Cameron finished. He regarded me ruefully. “If you’re tired of my travelogue, Lori—”

  “I’m not tired of your travelogue,” I said impatiently. “I want you to stop the car.” I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder. “We just passed Angelo’s Café!”

  Cameron promptly exceeded his instructions by executing a tidy U-turn and pulling into the café’s deserted parking lot. He left the engine running while we took stock of the situation.

  “No cars in the parking lot,” he commented.

  “No lights in the windows,” I observed.

  “And no smoke rising from the chimney.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Lori, but it doesn’t look very promising.”

  Angelo’s Café was a modern one-story building with large windows, white clapboard siding, and a peaked roof made of bright blue corrugated iron. A hand-lettered sign hanging inside its glass front door confirmed the conclusion Cameron and I had already reached.

  “ ‘Closed for the season,’ ” he read aloud.

  I eyed the sign resentfully and muttered, “Curses, foiled again.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Cameron. “The café may be closed, but I’m willing to bet that Angelo lives in Ohakune. Bree may be staying with him while she works for someone else.” He turned the Jeep around, exited the parking lot, and continued driving past an assortment of motels, small businesses, and private homes. “Who knows? We may find her behind the reception desk at our hotel.”

  “If not, we can drive up and down the streets of Ohakune, shouting her name,” I suggested.

  “That’s the spirit,” Cameron said bracingly.

  Cameron had booked us into the Powderhorn Chateau, an upscale hotel with a pleasantly low-key atmosphere. The place had all the hallmarks of a classic Swiss chalet—vine-draped balconies, pine-clad walls, exposed wooden rafters, and uneven floors that gave it a comfortably settled feeling. As we checked in at the front desk, the hotel’s resident cat—a plump orange-and-white tabby—watched us from the shelter of a small grotto tucked into a shadowy corner beside the lobby’s main entrance.

  The slender, blond receptionist was dressed casually in a blue cardigan, a white T-shirt, cropped khaki pants, and blue sneakers. Her name tag identified her as Teresa Walsh. While Cameron and I filled out our registration forms, Teresa nodded at the cat.

  “If she follows you to your room,” she told us, “feel free to close the door on her.”

  “If she follows me to my room, Teresa, I’ll open the door for her,” said Cameron, glancing over his shoulder. “I can tell by looking at her that she’s a sweetheart.”

  As if on cue, the cat leaped out of the grotto and strode over to entwine herself between Cameron’s legs, purring volubly. He squatted down to stroke her, murmuring endearments that would have sent Stanley into raptures.

  Teresa touched a finger to her eyeglasses and beamed at him. She seemed to approve of tall, good-looking men who loved cats.

  “Teresa,” he said, straightening, “would you happen to know if a young woman named Bree Pym works here? ”

  “Sorry,” she said, and she looked genuinely crestfallen. “The name doesn’t ring a bell and I know everyone on staff.”

  “Never mind,” Cameron said gently. “I’m sure you know Angelo.”

  Teresa’s face brightened. “Angelo Velesuonno? The Yank who runs the café? Everyone knows Angelo.”

  “He’s a great guy, isn’t he?” Cameron said smoothly. “I was hoping to say hello to him before I leave town.” He rested his elbows on the reception counter, leaned closer to her, and added in a semi-seductive murmur, “The problem is, Teresa, I’ve lost his address. I know it’s asking a lot, and I don’t want you to do anything that might compromise the position of trust you hold at the chateau, but I’d be enormously grateful to you, Teresa, if you’d tell me where Angelo lives.”

  Cameron’s tactics were as unsubtle as two buckets of lard, but they worked. Teresa’s diminutive bosom heaved each time he said her name. If the humidity had been a bit higher, I think her glasses would have fogged up. It took her a breathless moment to find her voi
ce.

  “You don’t have to leave the hotel to speak with Angelo,” she said. “He and his wife have an eight o’clock dinner reservation at the Matterhorn—the restaurant upstairs. If you like, I can make an eight o’clock reservation for you, too.”

  Cameron’s purr was almost indistinguishable from the cat’s.

  “Teresa,” he said, “you are a peach.”

  The young woman blushed to her roots as she scribbled our names in the reservation book, and giggled when she handed us our keys.

  “I know a few Ringers who would kill to have your rooms,” she informed us.

  “Ringers?” I said.

  “Lord of the Rings fans,” Cameron explained.

  “You’ve heard about the movie trilogy? ” Teresa asked.

  “Of course,” said Cameron. “I can’t wait to see it!” His expression radiated interest.

  “The principle cast members and the director stayed here while they were filming on Ruapehu,” Teresa went on. “Usually their rooms are booked by Ringers, but a few are free tonight.” She turned to me. “I’ve given you Elijah Wood’s room. He’s Frodo.”

  “The hobbit? What a treat!” I gushed because she seemed to expect it of me.

  “I’ve put you in Sir Ian McKellen’s room,” she said, favoring Cameron with a brilliant smile. “He’s Gandalf.”

  “The wizard.” Cameron bowed. “I’m honored, Teresa. And thank you—thank you for everything.”

  She blushed again and ducked her head so rapidly that her glasses slid to the tip of her nose. She pushed them up and gazed at Cameron with undisguised admiration until we boarded the elevator. The cat came with us.

  “What a performance,” I said, after the door slid shut. “You’d think she’d be used to actors by now, but she fell for your act, hook, line, and sinker.”

  “One does what one can,” he said, bowing. “And you have to admit that I saved us a lot of time and effort.”

  I shrugged. “One would expect nothing less from a wizard.”

  We agreed to meet at the Matterhorn restaurant at a quarter to eight and parted company when we reached Cameron’s floor. The cat went with him and I continued up to the next floor, wondering if I’d have to spend the night in a hobbit-sized bed.

  I was relieved to discover that my room had human-sized furniture as well as a jacuzzi. The latter was useful in dispelling the scent of dead trout, and a power nap ensured that I wouldn’t doze off in the midst of what might be a vitally important conversation. Though the nap restored my energy, I elected to postpone calling Bill and speaking with Aunt Dimity until after dinner, when I hoped to have something substantive to tell them.

  “If Bree is living with the Velesuonnos,” I said to Reginald, “you and I will be heading home tomorrow.”

  As I left the room, I caught an inexplicable glint of disappointment in Reginald’s black button eyes. My pink bunny, it seemed, was in no hurry to return to the cottage. If I’d been perfectly honest, I would have admitted that I wasn’t, either. New Zealand, despite its manifold terrors, was beginning to grow on me.

  The Matterhorn restaurant was spacious and full of character. Massive wood beams spanned the high, pine-clad ceiling, and rows of tall windows reflected the soft light shed by the wrought-iron chandeliers and wall sconces. The bar was inset with framed pieces of marquetry depicting local scenes, and the lounge area was furnished with clusters of oversized leather armchairs and couches. A log fire burned in the cylindrical brick-and-iron fireplace that anchored the heart of the room.

  I welcomed the fire’s warmth. New Zealand’s weather had changed yet again and a cold fog had descended with nightfall. Although the restaurant was perfectly snug, the mere sight of chill mist clinging to the tall windows made me wish I’d worn my cashmere turtleneck instead of my silk blouse.

  Cameron was waiting for me, slouched comfortably in an armchair near the fireplace with a glass of white wine in his hand. When he offered to order a drink for me, I declined. I wanted to be clearheaded when we spoke with Angelo.

  “No stargazing tonight,” I said, sinking into the armchair opposite his. “I seem doomed never to see the Southern Cross.”

  “I’ll make sure you see it before you leave,” Cameron promised. “We’re bound to have at least one clear night.” He lowered his voice and continued, “I’ve asked the maître d’ to introduce us to the Velesuonnos. If all goes well, I’ll invite them to dine with us.”

  I leaned back in my chair and studied him in silence.

  “Why are you doing all of this?” I asked finally. “You don’t know Ruth and Louise Pym, and you don’t know me, yet you’ve gone to an insane amount of trouble to help us out. And don’t tell me it’s because you made a promise to an old school friend because I won’t believe you. You’ve gone way beyond the call of that particular duty. So what’s going on, Cameron? Is my husband blackmailing you? Do you owe him vast sums of money? Or are you just . . . incurably kindhearted?”

  Cameron threw back his head and laughed. “To answer your last three questions: No, no, and certainly not.”

  “Since you haven’t answered my first question, I’ll ask it again,” I said. “Why are you doing all of this?”

  “I told you when we first met that I wished you could see more of my country,” he replied. “Our merry chase has allowed me to show you a fair bit of it.”

  “Not good enough,” I said flatly. “Try again.”

  “I’m having a wonderful time with you,” he offered.

  “Save the sweet talk for Teresa,” I scolded. “Try again.”

  “Well . . .” He lowered his gray eyes to examine his fingernails. “I suppose it could have something to do with the day your husband saved my life.”

  My mouth fell open, but before I could do more than blink, a booming voice rang through the quiet restaurant.

  “A fellow American? Of course she can join us for dinner! Lead us to her!”

  The Velesuonnos had arrived.

  Twelve

  Angelo and Renee Velesuonno were originally from Yonkers, New York. They’d emigrated to New Zealand after falling in love with the country during a honeymoon tour of Australasia. They spent the winter months in Ohakune, where Angelo sold the best damned Buffalo chicken wings in the South Pacific while Renee worked as an oncology nurse at a hospital in nearby Waiouru. During the summer, they took time off to explore their adopted homeland.

  It was a lot to learn within the first five minutes of meeting someone, but Angelo had retained a native New Yorker’s habit of talking at the speed of light as well as his New York accent.

  The Velesuonnos appeared to be in their early thirties. Renee was a full-figured woman whose wavy brown hair fell to her shoulders. She had hazel eyes, a fair complexion, and an acerbic wit that surfaced in a counterpoint commentary that accompanied her husband’s tourde-force introduction. She’d wisely donned a warm beige sweater and black trousers before venturing forth into the damp night.

  Angelo wore a striped button-down shirt and white chinos. He had a small paunch—the result, I suspected, of a fondness for Buffalo chicken wings—and he’d shaved his black hair close to his scalp. His brown eyes were as appealing as a basset hound’s and he was possibly the most hospitable man I’d ever met. As we took our seats at a table that had been hastily reset for four, he assured me that he and Renee loved meeting fellow Yanks, then waved off the menus and ordered dinner for all of us.

  “Trust me, the duck is to die for,” he told me, “and the venison is out of this world,” he said to Cameron. “And don’t even think about picking up the tab,” he added firmly. “Dinner’s on me. Where you from, Lori?”

  “I was born and raised in Chicago,” I said.

  “I’m a Kiwi,” Cameron put in. “Should I sit somewhere else?”

  “A comedian,” said Renee, rolling her eyes. “Just what I need, a Kiwi comic.” She pointed a finger at Cameron. “Stay where you are, Mr. Funny.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.r />
  “And don’t ma’am me,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “When I’m ninety you can ma’am me, but until then, I’m Renee.”

  “Yes, Renee,” Cameron said meekly.

  The wine arrived and Angelo launched into a panegyric about New Zealand sauvignon blanc that seemed to me to be entirely justified. I limited myself to a small sip, however. The night was young and I didn’t want to lose focus. Something told me that it would take a fair amount of mental agility to get a word in edgewise with our genial host.

  “What brings you to Ohakune?” Angelo asked, after Cameron and I had sampled the wine. “Hiking? Canoeing? Jet-boating? Spring skiing? Bird-watching?”

  “None of the above,” I replied. “We came here to find a young woman named Bree Pym.”

  “You hear that, Renee?” Angelo exclaimed. “How’s that for a coincidence? The kid shows up on our doorstep after all this time and now Lori’s asking about her.” He leaned toward me. “How do you know her, Lori?”

  “Her great-grandaunts are close friends of mine,” I said. “They live in England and they’ve asked me to get in touch with Bree for them.”

  “Renee and I have known Bree since she was ten years old,” he said.

  “We spent six months in Takapuna,” said Renee, “while Angelo set up his business—”

  “Got a chain of cafés,” Angelo interrupted. “They’re eating my wings in Paihia, Auckland, Wellington, Nelson, Queenstown, and Dunedin. Can’t get enough of them. Renee and me, we’re making out like bandits.”

  “Angelo is the wing king,” said Renee, bestowing a tolerant smile on her husband.

  “If you have cafés all over New Zealand,” I said, “why did you choose to live here? Didn’t you realize how close you’d be to Mount Ruapehu? ”