“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 voice.
“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.