“Her great-grandaunts are two of the finest people you could ever hope to meet,” I assured him. “I think it would give Bree a boost to know that a pair of little old ladies in England care very much about her.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” said Angelo. “So you’re going to Wellington?”
“No other choice,” I replied. “I just hope she’s still using your condo.”
Renee pulled a pen and a pad of paper out of her purse. “I’ll give you the address and our phone numbers. Call us when you get there, will you?”
“Of course,” I said.
“If we’d known Bree was in trouble,” Angelo said soberly, “we would have done more for her. But you know how it is. If a kid doesn’t want you to know something, you’re not going to know it.” He waved the waitress over, ordered English toffee pudding with custard for all of us, and sat back as she began clearing the table. “So, where have you two been so far?”
The Velesuonnos regaled us with travel stories until eleven o’clock, when I could no longer keep my eyelids from drooping. We thanked them for a splendid dinner, walked them to the chateau’s main entrance, and waved good-bye as they disappeared into the fog.
“What’s a fantail?” I asked Cameron as we strolled across the lobby.
“A chatty little bird,” he replied. “If you ever hike through a New Zealand forest, chances are a fantail will accompany you. They flit around like fairies, eating the bugs stirred up by hiking boots. Very personable. Very cute.”
“Sounds like it,” I said, and as we waited for the elevator, I found myself wishing that we could stay in Ohakune long enough to explore the forest cloaking Mount Ruapehu’s lower slopes. It would be worth the risk, I thought, to have a chatty little bird flit around me like a fairy while we hiked.
“Bree’s hair worries me,” said Cameron.
“Me, too,” I said, coming out of my reverie. “If you ask me, she chopped it off because she doesn’t want to look like her mother.”
“If so, she’s rejecting her mother by disfiguring herself,” he said. “It’s a self-destructive act. Do you remember what Alison said to us at the Copthorne?”
“Alison, the waitress?” I asked after a moment’s thought.
Cameron nodded. “She said, ‘Someone needs to find that girl before she does something stupid.’ I thought she was being melodramatic, but after hearing about Bree’s hair, I’m not so sure. She’s cut her hair. What if she cuts herself next?”
We stood aside as an elderly couple tottered slowly out of the elevator. As we stepped aboard, the hotel cat appeared out of nowhere, darted into the elevator with us, and proceeded to polish Cameron’s shoes with her head. I wondered fleetingly if the cat’s name was Teresa.
“Bree must have a lot of anger bottled up inside her,” Cameron said. “If you ask me, she’s a ticking time bomb. We have to find her before she explodes.”
“Wellington tomorrow,” I said. “It’s the best lead we’ve had yet.”
“Can you be ready to leave by nine?” he asked.
I nodded. I would have preferred to stay in bed until noon the next day, but I told myself that I could catch up on sleep as soon as we’d caught up with Bree.
Cameron and the cat left the elevator when we reached his floor, but as the door began to slide shut, I stuck my hand out to stop it and hopped into the hallway after them.
“Wait a minute,” I said in an urgent whisper. “How did my husband save your life?”
“Ask him,” Cameron replied. He smiled enigmatically, leaned past me to push the call button, and strode down the dim, plaid-carpeted corridor, with the cat padding faithfully at his heels.
“You bet I will,” I murmured, gazing at their retreating backs.
“And Bill told me to ask Cameron,” I grumbled.
An hour had passed since Cameron and I had gone our separate ways. I’d spoken with Bill after returning to my room, then changed into my nightgown and climbed into bed with the blue journal. Although I was more tired than I’d ever been in my life, sheer frustration was keeping me awake. I tossed my head scornfully as Aunt Dimity’s handwriting scrolled across the page.
Men aren’t like women, Lori. They tend to be reticent about personal experiences, especially if the experience in question involves an element of heroism.
“Are you trying to tell me that men don’t brag?” I demanded.
Adolescents brag, Lori. Mature men don’t feel the need to advertise their good deeds. I’m happy to say that you are married to a very mature man.
“Mature? Ha!” I snarled. “Bill isn’t being mature, Dimity. He’s having a little fun at my expense. He knows how much I hate puzzles. He and Camo are behaving like a pair of schoolboys, keeping secrets and giggling behind my back.”
Bill and Cameron were schoolboys together. I suppose they could be regressing.
“It’s like having an itch I can’t scratch,” I seethed.