“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.