“I know where she went after she left here,” he said. “She got a job at the Southern Lakes Gallery. It’s on Beach Street, a ten-minute stroll from here. Holly Mortensen is the owner. I believe she opened a new exhibit today. Tell her I said hello, will you?”
“Andrew,” I cried, flinging my arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his bearded cheek, “I would walk through fire for you.”
Sixteen
Cameron and I turned the ten-minute stroll into a five-minute dash. As we raced nimbly around knots of ambling shoppers, I tried not to get overexcited. Our quarry had eluded us too often for me to believe that she might, at last, be within reach.
We skidded to a halt in front of the Southern Lakes Gallery, paused briefly to catch our breath, and went inside. The gallery’s bare hardwood floor and stark white walls provided an uncluttered background for a collection of abstract oil paintings. Several dozen wine glasses sat, apparently untouched, on an oak refectory table to the left of the entrance, behind a tasteful sign announcing the opening of an exhibit of works by Axel Turke, a name I did not recognize.
A weedy, dark-haired, bespectacled young man sat hunched over the keys of a baby grand piano at the far end of the long, narrow room, playing a haunting tune that was, like the painter’s name, unfamiliar to me. The pianist was the only person present in the gallery, apart from me and Cameron, and he was so absorbed in his music that he didn’t look up when we entered.
“Axel Turke doesn’t seem to be too popular,” Cameron murmured.
“Maybe we missed the rush,” I murmured back. I cleared my throat to catch the pianist’s attention. When he failed to respond, I called out, “Excuse me? Can you help us?”
The pianist glanced at us but continued to play as he shouted, “Holly! You’re wanted!”
A door in the back wall opened and the gallery’s owner appeared. I hadn’t seen anyone like her since I’d arrived in New Zealand. She wore her bleached blond hair in a sleek bob and she was fully made up—eyeliner, mascara, red lipstick, the works. A sleeveless, wheat-colored sheath dress flattered her svelte figure, gold bangles drew attention to her manicured hands, and a pair of ivory sandals with stiletto heels revealed a meticulous pedicure. Queenstown’s college-age mob might bum around in ripped T-shirts and cargo shorts, but Holly Mortensen was as chic as her gallery.
“Simon?” she said into thin air. “Wine, please.”
She favored us with a slightly predatory smile as she walked toward us, her stilettos rat-a-tatting on the hardwood floor. Behind her, a tall, round-shouldered man emerged from the doorway and hastened after her. He had a long, lugubrious face and his blond hair was so sparse that at first sight he appeared to be bald. He was dressed like a waiter, in a white shirt and black trousers, and he carried a round wooden tray laden with three wine bottles. Although the bottles had been opened, they were still full. I glanced at the untouched wine glasses and wondered if anyone had attended the exhibit’s opening.
“How good of you to come,” said Holly, shaking hands with each of us in turn. “I hope you’re as excited by Axel’s work as we are. He’s a local artist—a local genius, I should say—and we’re proud to be the first to present his visionary paintings to the public.”
“I, um . . .” I faltered, looking askance at the canvases. I didn’t want to rain on Holly’s parade, but I didn’t care for oil paintings, and abstracts simply weren’t my cup of tea.
“I understand,” she said with a fatalistic sigh. “You prefer pretty watercolors of country cottages with roses round the doors.”
“Well,” I said, a touch defensively, “yes, I do.”
“And you?” said Holly, turning her sights on Cameron.
“Equestrian portraits,” he replied.
“Never mind.” Holly folded her slender arms and shrugged resignedly. “I promised Axel’s mother that I’d stage a show for him, but she seems to be his only fan.” She crooked a finger at the long-faced man, who’d placed his tray on the oak table. “Simon? We’re in need of refreshment.”
Simon poured a generous splash of red wine into a glass, presented it to Holly, and waited at her elbow for further instructions.
“May I offer you a drink?” Holly asked me and Cameron. “We have Mount Difficulty pinot noir, pinot gris, and dry Riesling. I suggest that you taste all three. The vineyard’s in Central Otago—one of our finest wine-growing regions—and the wine is simply superb.”
“To tell you the truth,” I said, “my friend and I didn’t come here to look at Axel’s artwork or to sample your wine. We’re trying to locate someone, and Andrew Rosen told us that she works for you.”
“She?” said Holly, with a slight frown. “Do you mean Bree Pym? ”
“Yes,” I said, nodding vigorously. “We’re looking for Bree Pym.”
“I’m afraid she’s not here,” said Holly.
“Did you fire her?” I asked, scanning the gallery for signs of breakage.
“No,” said Holly, looking startled.