“We need to speak with Bree Pym,” I said.
“Oh.” Kati’s broad smile wavered. “Are you the police?”
“The police?” I said, my heart plummeting. “Why would the police want to speak with Bree?”
“Well,” she said, “Roger said he would not press charges, but he could have changed his mind.”
“Who is Roger?” I asked.
“Roger is a very great tattoo artist,” Kati informed me earnestly.
“What?” I said, utterly at sea.
“Perhaps we should sit down,” Cameron suggested.
“Yes, of course,” said Kati, nodding. “Please, come inside.”
We followed her into a stylishly appointed open-plan penthouse with views of the bay and the city that rivaled those I’d observed from my balcony at the Copthorne. The walls were white, the carpeting was sand-colored, and the furnishings were made principally of teak, leather, and chrome.
The condo’s most arresting feature was the woman who stood in the middle of the living room area, clutching an overflowing laundry basket to her chest. To judge by her guilty expression, the faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead, and the odd assortment of items in her basket—socks, bras, dishes, books, sneakers—she’d spent the past few minutes making a heroic attempt to tidy the place before Cameron and I walked into it.
Kati gestured toward the woman.
“My friend, Kitta Lehtonen,” she said to us. She added something in Finnish, whereupon Kitta grunted, dropped the laundry basket, and collapsed into a teak-and-leather chair, fanning herself.
Kitta was taller and lankier than Kati, and less inclined to smile, but she, too, looked as though she might be in her late thirties. Her face was round, her complexion pale, and she wore her brown hair in two shiny braids that fell past her waist. She was dressed more prosaically than Kati, in a bright blue scoop-necked top and unadorned jeans. The dark green pendant resting between her collar bones was similar to those worn by Toko Baker and Amanda Rivers, a flat disk with a graceful scroll carved at its center, like a breaking wave.
“Jade?” I asked, pointing to the pendant.
“Pounamu,” she replied. “Also called greenstone. Greenstone is a jade found only in New Zealand. It is carved into a koru,” she added, touching a fingertip to the pendant.
“A koru is an opening fern frond,” Cameron interjected. “It’s a symbol of new life and new beginnings.”
“And a newly cleaned flat,” said Kati, laughing. “Please, sit. Would you like something to drink? We have juice, bottled water, wine, beer . . .”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” Cameron and I chorused.
Kati motioned for us to be seated on the leather couch, whisked the laundry basket into another room, and curled up in a chair opposite Kitta’s.
“We were afraid you would report our bad housekeeping to Angelo and Renee,” she said, her eyes dancing.
“We’re not spies,” I told her. “We’re just trying to find Bree.”
“Bree?” said Kitta, sitting upright. “You know Bree?”
“Sort of,” I said. “I’m a family friend.”
“You will report her to her family?” Kitta asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“I won’t report Bree to anyone,” I said, exasperated. “I have a message to deliver to her, that’s all. Can you tell me where she is?”
“She left Wellington ten days ago,” said Kati, “after the trouble with Roger.”
“What kind of trouble?” Cameron asked.
Kati and Kitta exchanged uncomfortable looks.
“It started well,” Kitta stated, as though she felt the need to justify herself. “For two weeks, Bree had fun.”
“Right away she gets a job at the Chocolate Fish,” said Kati.
Cameron noticed my puzzled expression and explained, “The Chocolate Fish is a café frequented by the younger actors in the Lord of the Rings movies.”
“On her days off she comes with us to the hills above the film studios,” said Kati. “It is exciting to look down on the sets and the actors.”
“Exciting, but not allowed,” said Kitta. “Security chased us away.”
“But we go back,” said Kati, grinning mischievously. “We hide behind trees and look through bushes. Bree likes this very much. She had fun.”
“What happened?” I asked. “How did Bree go from having fun to being in trouble?”
Kati gave Kitta a sidelong glance, then said, “Bree came with us when we get our tattoos.”
She pulled up her pant leg to reveal a circle of unfamiliar but elegant script tattooed in black ink just above her left ankle. Simultaneously, Kitta held up her arm to display a “bracelet” of the same script inked around her wrist.
“Finnish?” I inquired.
“Elvish,” Kitta replied. “The words are private. Please do not ask me to translate.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Cameron murmured.
“We want a special thing to remind us of our time here in Middle Earth,” said Kati, referring to the imaginary world in which Tolkien’s tales were set.