Our touchdown on the grass strip at the Queenstown Airport was as humdrum as our takeoff had been thrilling. If I was a bit wobbly when I climbed out of the plane, it was only because I’d absorbed a surfeit of unforgettable sights.
“Well?” said Cameron, handing over my duffel bag. “What’s the verdict? ”
“I don’t know what to say,” I said, gazing wide-eyed at the Remarkables. “The North Island was pretty amazing, but the South Island . . .” I shook my head. “Words fail me.”
“Me, too,” he said, with a satisfied smile. “Let’s pick up the car. We’re renting one this time.”
“Don’t you have any friends in Queenstown?” I inquired, walking with him toward the terminal.
“I have quite a few friends in Queenstown,” he replied, “but at the moment they have no vehicles to spare.”
The gray Subaru Outback Cameron had rented was spotlessly clean and refreshingly free of animal odors. I settled happily into the passenger’s seat, contemplating the manifold pleasures of riding in a car that smelled like . . . a car.
“How on earth did Bree’s beat-up old Ford make it over those mountain ranges?” I asked as we pulled away from the airport.
“She probably drove down the east coast,” Cameron replied. “It’s not quite as rugged as the west. You and I took the scenic route.”
“We certainly did,” I agreed. “What route will we take now?”
“We’ll check in to our hotel and ask the concierge for directions to Angelo’s Café,” he said. “The café’s manager claimed that he’d seen Bree around town. He may be able to give us a lead.”
“I won’t complain if he gives us a plateful of chicken wings as well,” I said. “Scenic routes make me hungry.”
My balcony in the thoroughly modern Novotel Hotel was so close to Lake Wakatipu that I could hear ducks quacking as they landed on the water. It provided a tranquil alternative to the vibrant city center.
Queenstown seemed bent on retaining its status as New Zealand’s adventure capital. As we’d driven down bustling Shotover Street on our way to the hotel, I’d spotted signs touting bungee jumping, jet boating, horse trekking, kayaking, skydiving, downhill skiing, white-water rafting, hot air ballooning, canyoning, snowboarding, parasailing, helicopter flights, and four-wheel-drive tours. After scanning the eager faces of the town’s youthful population, I could only hope that there was a good hospital nearby, staffed with a talented team of orthopedic surgeons.
Since Cameron wasn’t a big fan of Buffalo chicken wings—a confession I vowed never to share with the Velesuonnos—we had a light and probably much healthier lunch at the Halo Café, which was conveniently located across the street from the hotel. From there we followed the concierge’s directions to an alley called Searle Lane, where we found Angelo’s Café. The place was so busy I knew the wing king would forgive us for dining elsewhere.
I waited outside while Cameron charmed his way through a throng of chattering customers to the front counter. A moment later, he returned to the alleyway accompanied by Andrew Rosen, the café’s manager.
Andrew Rosen was a rotund gentleman with wiry gray hair, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and a wonderful smile. He, unlike his boss, was a laid-back and soft-spoken Kiwi. He called a friendly hello to numerous passersby and took our interrogation in stride.
“Yes, that’s right, I gave Angelo a call after I read the girl’s application,” he told us, wiping his hands on his apron. “I’d never seen him used as a reference before, so it caught my attention.”
“We’re glad it did,” I said, “because we need to find this girl.”
“Too bad I didn’t hire her on the spot,” he said ruefully. “If I had, your search would be over.”
We stood aside as an attractive family of four exited the café. The husband and wife stopped briefly to chat with Andrew and each of the bright-eyed little girls gave him a hug before departing.
“Angelo’s tenants,” he said, by way of explanation.
“The Robbins?” I said, flabbergasted.
“Yes,” said Andrew, looking mildly amused. “I take it that Angelo mentioned them to you?”
“He asked me to say g’day to the Robbins family for him and Renee,” I answered distractedly, watching the family turn onto the street at the end of Searle Lane.
“I’ll give them the message,” Andrew assured me. “The Robbins eat here at least twice a week. Rhonda and Lee—the mum and dad—aren’t too keen on fried food, but Sharni and Keira have fallen in love with our wings.”
“I can’t believe we actually ran into them,” I said, shaking my head.
“Queenstown is like that,” he said. “Everyone gravitates to the city center, either for work or for play. It’s a lucky thing, too, because you won’t have far to go to find the girl you’re looking for.”
“Y-you know where she is?” I stuttered, blinking in disbelief.