“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.
Seven
Cameron 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?”