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.”