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 ma?tre 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.
“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.”