The knowing look she exchanged with Cameron reminded me that I was a stranger in a strange land, yet I had an inkling of what had passed between them. New Zealand might not be the safest place to live, I thought, but they wouldn’t trade its astonishing beauty for all the safety in the world.
Simon returned with a mop and a bucket, breaking the spell that had fallen over the gallery.
“About Bree,” Cameron prompted.
“Ah, yes,” said Holly. “I was about to introduce you to Gary before we were so rudely interrupted. Gary Whiterider,” she added, as we approached the dark-haired pianist. “Remember his name. Gary doesn’t simply play the piano. He’s a composer as well, and I believe he’ll be famous one day.”
“If he’s playing his own compositions, I believe it, too,” I said. “They’re gorgeous.”
Holly had to rap her knuckles on the grand piano’s lid to rouse Gary Whiterider from his musical trance. He blinked up at us owlishly, then folded his hands in his lap.
“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I get carried away when I’m working on a new piece.”
“I don’t blame you,” I told him. “Your music carries me away, too.”
“Thanks,” he said, looking embarrassed but gratified by the compliment.
“Gary,” said Holly, “these people need to speak with Bree Pym. Do you know where she is?”
“I agreed to meet her in the Queenstown Gardens after I finished here,” he said. “I expect you’ll find her near the Scott Memorial.”
“The Scout Memorial?” I said.
“Scott,” Holly corrected me. “Captain Robert Falcon Scott, to be precise—the Antarctic explorer. The memorial was erected as a tribute to him and to the men who died with him on their way back from the South Pole. It’s quite touching, really. The inscription runs, in part: ‘They rest in the great white silence, wrapped in the winding sheets of the eternal snows.’ ”
“Wasn’t Scott English?” I asked.
“He was,” said Holly, “but so was New Zealand, in those days. Captain Scott and his men were tragic heroes of the British Empire. Their deaths were mourned worldwide.” She frowned perplexedly at Gary. “It’s a gloomy spot for a tryst, I would have thought.”
Gary’s face turned beet-red.
“Bree and I aren’t . . . We’re not . . . I’m buying her car from her,” he managed after a few false starts. “Meeting at the Scott Memorial wasn’t my idea. It was hers.”
If I could have chosen a place for Bree to linger, it wouldn’t have been near a monument commemorating the tragic deaths of a doomed party of Antarctic explorers. I glanced at Cameron, who nodded.
“Hate to chat and run,” he said briskly, “but Lori and I must be on our way.”
“Thank you very much, Gary,” I said. “If you ever make a CD, I’ll buy a boxful.”
We said good-bye to Holly, Gary, and silent Simon, left the Southern Lakes Gallery, and turned toward Marine Parade, a lake-front boulevard that would, according to Cameron, take us directly to the Queenstown Gardens.
“They’re next door to our hotel,” he informed me.
“You mean we’re running in circles?” I said. “Why am I not surprised? ”
Cameron laughed and picked up his pace, and I increased mine as well. In a few short minutes, I told myself, our persistence would finally pay off.
Seventeen
We jogged past a waterfront park, a jet-boat dock, and a bronze statue of a bearded man who appeared to be petting a remarkably woolly ram. We ran past our hotel, a family of ducks patrolling a gravelly beach, and a playfully decorated octagonal restaurant that, Cameron explained on the fly, had originally been a bathhouse built to celebrate the coronation of King George V. We crossed a gurgling brook on a wooden foot-bridge to enter the Queenstown Gardens, but when we reached the first park bench, Cameron came to a sudden halt.
“What are you doing?” I asked, swinging around to face him.
“I’ll wait for you here,” he said. “It’ll be easier on Bree if you approach her alone. One person will be less alarming than two, and a woman will be less threatening than a man. Besides, it’s your mission. You should be the one to accomplish it.”
“But you’ve been with me every step of the way,” I protested. “It won’t feel right to reach the end of the journey without you.”
“Only one part of the journey will be over,” said Cameron. “I’ll be around for the rest of it.” He sat on the bench and pointed to his right. “Follow the path. The Scott Memorial is a big boulder surrounded by flower beds and a short hedge. The path will lead you to it.”