“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.
“Also to remind us of the Maori,” Kitta added.
“Tattoos play an important role in Maori culture,” Cameron said to me. “Remember Toko?”
I nodded as I recalled Toko Baker’s legs, covered from ankle to thigh with an intricate pattern of tattoos.
“I think I understand,” I said, looking from Kitta to Kati. “Middle Earth and New Zealand come together in your elvish tattoos.”
“Exactly right,” said Kati, beaming at me.
“Bree also wants a tattoo, but not elvish,” said Kitta. “She gets an owl on her shoulder. She says it is her Ruru.”
“Ruru is the Maori name for the morepork owl,” Cameron elucidated. “It’s one of the few native species that isn’t endangered.”
“It is the name also for her little friend,” Kitta said. “Her—” She broke off and looked to Kati for guidance. “How do you call it?”
“Her soft toy,” Kati put in.
I had a sudden vision of the stuffed animals in Bree’s bedroom and the indentation I’d noticed on her pillow. Had the dent marked the spot where Ruru had lain before she’d tucked him into her backpack and set out on her seemingly endless journey?
“She first gets the owl tattoo,” Kati continued. “Then she gets a flower.”
“Then more flowers.” Kitta tapped two fingers along her arm, from her wrist to her shoulder. “Flowers, all up her arms.”
“One day Roger tells her she must stop because it is too much, too fast,” said Kati.
“It is not good to go so fast with tattoos,” said Kitta severely.
“Roger tells her, slow down,” said Kati, “and Bree . . .” She lowered her eyes and shook her head sadly.
“Bree goes crazy,” Kitta declared, pursing her lips. “She shouts at Roger. She breaks his lamp.” She pointed to her eyes. “She
breaks his glasses
.”
“How can Roger work without his glasses?” Kati asked with a helpless shrug. “But Roger is a good man—as wise as a wizard and as noble as an elf-lord. He does not call the police.”
“We bring Bree home,” said Kitta. “She cries and cries.”
“And next morning,” said Kati, “she is gone.”
The two friends fell silent. I leaned my forehead on my hands, feeling heartsick. It sounded as though Cameron’s prediction had come true: The ticking time bomb had finally exploded. I was certain that, had it not been for Roger’s extraordinary forbearance, Bree’s actions would have landed her in jail.
“Do you know where she went?” Cameron asked.
“No,” said Kati. “She goes before we are awake and she does not leave a note.”
“Does she still have her car?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” said Kitta. “The Chocolate Fish is in Scorching Bay. She needs her car to work there.”
Cameron glanced speculatively toward the kitchen. “Was Bree drunk when she had her row with Roger?”
I raised my head, half afraid to hear the answer.
“Oh, no,” Kati said earnestly. “Bree does not drink.”
“Not even wine,” Kitta added.
I breathed a sigh of relief. The years Bree had spent with her father had, it seemed, taught her the folly of seeking solace in a bottle.
“We’ll pay for Roger’s glasses and his lamp,” said Cameron. He took his wallet from his pocket and passed a handful of bills to Kati. “Please tell him how grateful we are to him for his kindness to Bree.”
“I will,” said Kati.
A cell phone rang. I looked around expectantly until it dawned on me that the sound was coming from my day pack. A sense of foreboding crept over me as I fished the phone out of my pack. It could only be Bill, I thought, calling to tell me that Ruth and Louise were dead.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hey, Lori! How’s it shakin’?”
Angelo Velesuonno’s voice had never sounded so sweet. If he’d been within arm’s reach, I would have kissed him.
“Angelo!” I exclaimed. “Guess what? Cameron and I are sitting in your condo right now, talking with Kati and Kitta. Unfortunately, Bree’s not with us. She left the condo ten days ago.”
“I know,” he said. “I just got a call from one of my managers. He tells me that a girl filled out a job application last week, using my name as a reference. He wanted to know if I knew a Bree Pym. Can you believe it? I told him to chain her to the fryer, but he tells me that she hasn’t been back since she filled out the application. He’s seen her around town, though, so he thinks she got a job somewhere else.”
“Which café are you talking about, Angelo?” I asked. “Where is it?”
“Queenstown,” he said. “Renee and I have condo down there, too. We’d offer it to you, but we rented it out to a nice Australian family. If you run into the Robbins while you’re there, tell ’em we said g’day!”
“Will do,” I said. “Thanks for letting us know about Bree.”
“No problem,” he said. “Renee and I want what’s best for her. Tell the Kiwi comic to keep the laughs coming. And stay in touch!”
“You bet I will.” I rang off, dropped the phone into my pack, and announced to the room at large: “Bree is in Queenstown.”
Cameron pulled out his cell phone and began punching keys.
“We’ll need the plane,” he said to me. “Queenstown is on the South Island. Bree probably took the ferry and drove the rest of the way, but you and I will fly.”
Kati’s face lit up. “You will find Bree?”
“Yes,” Cameron replied determinedly. “We will find Bree.”
“Fantastic,” she said.
She hopped out of her chair again and left the living room. A moment later she returned, cradling a small and very bedraggled stuffed animal in her hands. The little owl had golden eyes, a honey-colored face, and mottled brown-and-gold markings all over his fluffy wings and body.
“Bree forgot Ruru,” said Kati. “You can bring him to her. I think she needs him.”
“I think so, too,” I said, and while Cameron arranged for his airplane to be flown to Wellington the following morning, I opened my day pack and gently tucked Ruru in beside Reginald.
Fifteen
I
n keeping with the avian theme my trip had suddenly acquired, Cameron and I had dinner at The Green Parrot, a noisy, lively restaurant that was, he assured me, a Wellington institution. We sat beneath a huge mural depicting well-known customers and watched as passersby had their pictures taken beside the parrot-shaped, pink-and-green neon sign.
The food was excellent—I had the scallops, Cameron, the sirloin steak, and we shared a dozen oysters—but I was relieved when we finished the meal and returned to the hotel. I longed to speak to Bill, and I had an awful lot to discuss with Aunt Dimity.
“Bill?” I said as soon as I heard his voice. “Let’s never become drunk, lazy, lying, gambling losers, okay?”
“Okay,” he replied readily.
“And let’s
never
get divorced,” I went on.
“Sounds good to me,” he said.
“And let’s
always
treat Rob and Will like the little miracles they are,” I continued fervently.
“Your little miracles drew dinosaurs on the kitchen wall last night,” Bill said grimly, “with black shoe polish.”
“We can paint over it,” I said.
“Do you know how many coats of primer it takes to cover black shoe polish?
I
do.” He grumbled indistinctly for a moment, then took a cleansing breath and asked calmly, “What’s going on, Lori? Why are you so spooked?”
“It’s Bree,” I said. I told him about Bree’s worrisome addiction to tattoos, her run-in with Roger, and her unannounced departure from Wellington. “She didn’t stop to say good-bye to Kati and Kitta, and she really seemed to like them. I don’t think she knows where she’s going or what she’s looking for, Bill. She’s just . . . running.”
“She’s too young to know that you can’t outrun your past,” said Bill. “And her past is pretty messed up.”
“That’s my point,” I said. “Let’s give our children a past they won’t
want
to outrun.”
“If they use shoe polish on the walls again, I’ll give them a past they’ll never forget,” Bill growled.
“How are Ruth and Louise?” I asked hastily, hoping to distract him from the shoe polish incident.
“They’re not tap dancing yet, but they’ve penciled it into their schedules,” he replied. “They’re doing remarkably well, Lori. Dr. Finisterre is baffled but delighted, as are we all. Did Donna Mackenzie give you the letter I e-mailed for them?”
“It’s in my day pack,” I said. “I’ll deliver it to Bree as soon as Cameron and I catch up with her.”
“Aren’t you going to quiz me about the letter?” Bill asked, sounding faintly disappointed.
“No,” I replied. “It’s a private matter between Bree and her great-grandaunts. I will, however, jump up and down on your head if you don’t tell me how you saved Cameron’s life.”
“Since my head is here and your feet are there,” said Bill, “I feel safe in saying, yet again, that it’s Cameron’s story to tell.”
I wheedled, scolded, and coaxed, but he steadfastly refused to discuss the matter, so I let it go. After sending kisses to the boys and love to Willis, Sr., I said good night to my no-good rat of a husband, plugged the cell phone into the charger, and climbed into bed with the blue journal.
I allowed myself a sixty-second rant about Bill’s juvenile sense of humor, then settled down to tell Aunt Dimity about Bree’s ill-fated stay in Wellington.
“First she cuts her hair,” I said, echoing words Cameron had spoken the previous evening, “then she cuts herself—or allows Roger-the-very-great-tattoo-artist to cut her. Heaven knows what she’s done to herself by now.”
She may not have done anything, Lori. She released a flood of pent-up anger at the tattoo parlor and she cried herself to sleep afterward. Catharsis is good for the soul, my dear. I wish most sincerely that Bree’s catharsis hadn’t come at the expense of poor Roger’s glasses, but it may have been just what she needed to steady herself. She may be all right for a while.
“If Bree felt better after her meltdown, why didn’t she say good-bye to Kati and Kitta?” I asked. “Why did she just duck out on them? She didn’t even leave them a note.”
I suspect that Bree was too ashamed of herself to face her friends, even in writing, which indicates to me that her conscience is still functioning. Furthermore, her refusal to sedate herself with alcohol argues for a strong sense of self-preservation. A girl her age and in her situation might be sorely tempted to drown her sorrows at the nearest pub, but Bree has so far displayed no inclination to test her mettle against the brutal disease that killed her father. Surely these are hopeful signs.
“Don’t the tattoos bother you?” I asked.
Not in the least. Bree was born and raised in New Zealand, where tattoos are as common as sheep. I might have been alarmed if she’d decided to decorate her body with skulls or satanic symbols, but she chose flowers. As rebellious acts go, having oneself tattooed with flowers is fairly harmless.
“What about leaving Ruru behind?” I looked at Reginald, who sat on the bedside table, gazing amiably at his new acquaintance. “I’d have to be in a terrible state to forget Reg.”
Bree IS in a terrible state. Catharsis may be good for the soul, but it isn’t a cure-all, Lori. Bree’s troubles are far from over, but I do not believe that she is in imminent danger of harming herself irretrievably. Her mind must have been in a whirl when she fled the condo. I’m certain that she suffered pangs of remorse when she discovered Ruru’s absence. Fortunately, she has a ruru tattooed on her shoulder.
“A tattoo is no substitute for a soft, fluffy owl,” I said.
Perhaps not, but I learned from one of my Kiwi soldiers that the Maori regard the ruru as a sort of guardian spirit. We must hope that Bree’s tattoo will protect her until you can return her little companion to her.
“We fly to Queenstown tomorrow,” I said. “If Bree’s not there, I will definitely release a few pent-up emotions.”
It will do your soul good. In the meantime, get some sleep. Flying out of the Wellington airport is considered by some to be one of life’s greatest thrills!
I reread Aunt Dimity’s final sentence warily as her words faded from the page, then closed the journal and placed it on the table.
“Call me a wimp,” I muttered to Reginald, “but the prospect of another thrilling flight doesn’t fill me with undiluted joy.”
I patted his head and Ruru’s, turned out the light, and fell into an uneasy sleep, wondering what fresh terrors New Zealand had in store for me.
We took off sideways. I didn’t know that a plane
could
take off sideways until we finished zigzagging down the runway and became airborne, by which time I’d lost the will to live.
“Now you know why it’s called Windy Wellington,” Cameron said, with a certifiably insane shout of laughter. “The North Island and the South Island are separated by the Cook Strait, which acts as a wind tunnel. The weather was unusually placid yesterday, but it’s business as usual today.”
“Lucky me,” I croaked. For some reason, my mouth had gone dry.
“Should be smooth sailing from here on in,” he assured me. “Nothing but blue skies ahead.”
“And blue sea below,” I said, peering at the strait’s white-capped, roiling waves. “Is your airplane equipped with life vests?”