Page 27

After visiting Dad, Declan and I spent a couple of hours under the umbrella on the beach. I was still trying to figure out how to persuade Declan to be more proactive.

The sort of surveillance he wanted to do involved long, boring hours. We pretended to read, but because we had to look up to watch Snow in the surf, we talked most of the time. Spending every hour together for days, we were becoming close. I wanted to know who he was.

I tapped his arm playfully. “Without naming names, who’s the worst person you’ve ever dealt with?”

He sat up and leaned back on his hands. “Well. There’s a lot of competition for that title. But the scariest has to be a knife-throwing drug lord who thought it would be amusing to practice on me one night.”

I yelped and clapped my hands. “Brilliant. More details, please.”

“I wish I could.” His voice was husky, a glimmer in his eyes. He seemed to be warming under my attention, his shoulder and chest muscles stirring and stiffening, and I wondered what they would feel like under my fingers.

“Okay, you definitely win the ‘most dangerous’ prize,” I said. “But I think I win ‘most douchiest.’ One of my sources was a financial adviser who I spent weeks and months with. He modeled himself on Ricky Gervais in The Office , repeated the lines incessantly. But, sadly, omitted being funny.”

That, of course, led to a long discussion about the US version of the show, which we both liked more than the British one. With the help of Pam and Jim, he turned the conversation to love.

He was watching the surf and turned back to me with a serious expression. His head rested on his shoulder. “What your parents have seems really special. I’m a romantic. I love the whole idea of marriage, sharing my life, my family, and my home.”

“And yet you’ve chosen a profession where it’s hard to have a partner and a family, and you can’t talk about your job.” I clapped a hand over my mouth. “Sorry, that might be too personal.”

“Not at all. Yeah, this job does make it tough.” He fixed me with his green gaze. “You don’t want to get married?”

“I don’t know.” I was tempted to do my usual—pull up my walls, say something flippant.

But that accepting half-smile of his lulled me into a sense of safety.

“My friends are well on their way into their futures. Shay and Bato are having a sprog. And they’re even moving outside the Number 28 bus route . Fuck.”

He chuckled. “Nightmare.”

“And I’m just…” I lay on my side.

“You’re just what?” He stretched onto his front so our faces were closer. His eyes were kind and gentle, like I could say my worst thoughts and he wouldn’t judge me.

“Well, I feel like I’ve been, I don’t know… left behind. Like I don’t have what it takes.”

God, it felt so good to get that out. A weight off my shoulders. Left behind. Don’t have what it takes. I almost said, Does that mean I’m unlovable? Thank God I didn’t. That was too raw and too scary. For me to say and him to hear.

With an inscrutable expression, he considered me for a long time. God, Declan , please don’t feel sorry for me.

“I don’t know you well,” he said. “But already I know you’ve got more than most people.

You’ve got superb balance—dancing on the table.

You’re up for anything—surfing. And you put everything into it.

You found out in one day what it took me a month to uncover.

And I have a huge team of people under me. ”

I had to question whether he was faking it. But what was his motive? To make me like him? Feel more comfortable around him so we worked better together? “I don’t know if I can believe you, because you’re always so nice.”

“Nice?” He rocked on his forearms, his dark brows knitting together with a mock tough-guy look. “I’m not that nice. Believe me, I can be a real asshole.”

“Asshole, like what?” I grinned and raised one eyebrow. “Sometimes you squeeze a kiwifruit and you don’t buy it?”

“Hell no, I’d never do that.” We both laughed.

“But you can believe me.” He gazed at me, his eyes intense, like he felt something for me.

“What I don’t understand is why you don’t believe in yourself.

” A current buzzed between us, like this attraction was deeper.

His face moved towards me, his eyes focused on my mouth as though he was about to kiss me.

I leaned closer, breathless with anticipation. This felt different, real.

His eyes flicked to something behind me. “What the fuck is that?”

*

I turned around to follow his eyes. A fluffy white cat dressed in a pink tutu, a crown on its haughty head, curled around the ankles of Hans Otto.

I grabbed Declan’s hand and put my lips against his ear. “Watch,” I whispered triumphantly. “This guy is going to tell us something good.”

Plopping on my wide-brimmed hat and retying my sarong, I pulled him up playfully… as a girlfriend would. He laughed and held on to me to steady himself on his feet.

“Come to see the UFO?” Hans Otto bellowed. He lowered his binoculars.

UFO? Ugh . Not a good start.

Mr.Otto must have been around eighty-five by now, with slicked-back white hair and dressed in red and white, the colors of his Swiss hometown on the Italian border.

I remembered him as horribly right-wing—“Say what you like about Mussolini, he got the trains to run on time” was one of his infamous observations—and since I’d arrived, I’d seen that he still collared anyone who got close.

He was an outsider (like me?), even an exile, but he knew the town and loved to gossip. I introduced him to Declan.

“Say ciao to the lady and her boyfriend, Bella,” he said. His cat stuck her nose in the air dismissively. Surely not the same Bella he had when I was a kid?

“The UFO went past here.” He waved his arms. “See it?” He pressed the binoculars to my eyes.

“Nope, no UFO,” I said. My brain screamed silently. “Only green bush and smoke from the hot pools on Motu five miles out.” I handed the binoculars to Declan.

“Anyone else seen it?” Declan asked.

“No. I told that girly boss at the newspaper,” he fumed. “ She wouldn’t know a story if it bit her. Told those bloody idiots at the airport.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a gannet?” I asked, counting up to ten in my mind.

“Good crumbs, girl. Not a bird. A flying craft.”

“That’s interesting.” I grasped for a good transition. “I know Snow is out here a lot. Maybe he’s seen it?”

“I keep asking him. He says, ‘Nah, mate.’”

“How often do you see Snow here?” I asked. “He’s got that winery, so maybe he’s there too much to spot the UFOs?”

“Nope. Snow surfs or teaches surfing most of the day. The only time he seems to get out of the surf is when he flies a tour or picks up possum skins in Te Urewera. Pooey, does he stink after that!”

He veered back to UFOs. I realized I wasn’t getting any more information from him. Pretending we had to make a call, I said goodbye and we hurried away. But he trotted after us and pulled out his phone. “Look at this, girly swat and boyfriend, another matter of interest.”

Declan rested his chin on my shoulder to watch the video, which felt sweet and right, like his hard-jawed face already knew how to fit into the soft curves of my body.

I was worried how much I liked it. He kissed my shoulder, his soft lips and prickly scruff against my warm skin, and I liked that even more.

“Here is my cat dipping her paw in the waves,” Mr.Otto said with a flourish. “She’s telling me she wants to surf. Man alive, this cat is brainy.”

His cat did not even remotely dip her paw in the water.

As we moseyed back to our spot, I said, “Okaaay,” and gave Declan a rueful smile. “You’re thinking that wasn’t the best proof my methods are going to work better than yours. ”

“I wasn’t thinking that. Fair play to you. He confirmed Snow is never at the winery. So how does he run it? Or who else runs it?”

“Is he using surf lessons to make contact with people in the drug chain?” I asked. “Those flashy out-of-towners we saw him teaching today? Maybe the sort of people who would be involved in heroin?”

Declan nodded thoughtfully.

“Check in with the UFOs tomorrow,” Mr.Otto yelled at us cheerfully as he skipped past, his cat in his arms.

*

Despite Mr.Otto’s shenanigans, I persuaded Declan to leave the beach to do research at the newspaper’s offices. Bevan would have been insulted if I’d used the fake excuse of a story about the Orange Alert on Motu, so I simply asked to check the archives and she’d agreed.

Downstairs in the freezing basement, she showed us the old paper files and microfiche and gave us a password to the two computers, then said she had to get back to work.

On the computer, we viewed the file for the winery. It was thin—one short article about the sale, another about how planning permission for the bottling facility went through quickly, and a favorable review for the sauvignon blanc from a local columnist.

There was a note in the file. Bevan was thorough.

“Asked to write a feature on the winery. Snow didn’t want a feature or news story.

Called three times. Eventually, CeeCee explained his thinking.

Everyone was behind them, but if they started attracting publicity, maybe people would get jealous and critical.

‘Like he was skiting—well, you know, no one here likes a show-off.’”

“Have to say, Snow has a clever excuse,” I said.

Declan nodded his agreement.

I reread the file while Declan looked through the crime files for the past year. “Honestly, besides the constants in this town—domestic violence, unfortunately, and shoplifting—the only thing that stands out is this.”

He drew my attention to an article headlined Campground Vandalism.

A year ago, someone broke twelve security cameras installed by the new development company.

It was night, and the available footage was blurry and dark.

Police said it had seemed like kids throwing stones, but it was a comprehensive job, with all twelve cameras wrecked.

The developers restored the cameras immediately and stationed a security guard on the street at night.

“Which raises the question: Is this a real development, or is something else going on?” I asked. “What do you think about how Rosemary says she’s got a buyer for the whole thing?”

Declan cocked an eyebrow at me.

I smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe. But what if she isn’t exaggerating? Why would one person pay sixteen million dollars for this development?”

The price for one property was twice as high as the most expensive home in ōhope Beach. This was a remote, dead-end beach with one road going in and out of town. It didn’t have the bustle and draw of The Mount.

“I know where you’re going with this.” Declan nodded, excited. “Are there rights attached to the land that make it valuable for another reason?”

“Yeah, like a flight path or a helicopter pad? Or a certain bird or butterfly lands or nests there?” I shook my head.

“No, that would stop the building. Or is there something valuable below the property—like a spring or water rights? It can’t be a Māori burial ground—any development would be banned.

Maybe an important or exciting building was slated for next door or across the street? ”

“What are we missing?”

Declan and I read the file on the campground development again.

Vociferous objections had come from a few locals who said it would ruin the small-town feel of the place, but the plans had eventually been approved, only two months ago.

My eyes ran down the list of objectors, noting the usual suspects, like Mr.Otto.

I tapped on the last name.

“Snow is one of the objectors,” Declan said, meeting my eyes.

“Snow didn’t want the fancy development to go through,” I said. “How on earth does it affect him? Even if we don’t know how it’s connected, it might be.”

“I agree,” Declan said. “All of my instincts, my years of experience, tell me we have to watch this transaction. But what is the link?”