Alexa poked her head in and motioned for DI Steele to join her on the porch. “No luck. The dentist is off hiking.” She thought of her recent tramping trip with her brother and hoped the dentist had better luck. “He doesn’t answer his phone.”
“Bloody hell. There goes the weekend.”
Her response irritated Alexa. The bunker body wasn’t something to sweep aside for a Netflix binge. She followed Steele back into the cottage.
Lynn leaned forward from her chair.
“We don’t know anything more,” DI Steele said.
“So it isn’t Harlan?”
“Identification is still unknown.” The DI checked her phone, scowled, then shoved it in her pocket. “I need to leave.”
Lynn sprang to her feet. “What should I do?”
“Keep out of the main house and bunker. I’m posting someone on premises. Don’t want the media nosing about.”
Lynn’s eyes pinged from DI Steele’s to Alexa’s and back. “Is it safe here?”
Was it safe anywhere? Alexa felt sorry for Lynn and her strange situation.
DI Steele turned to Alexa. “Where are you staying? In case I need you.”
She had checked out of the Apple Motor Lodge. “I’m not sure yet.”
Lynn pounced. “Stay here. Please. There’s a spare bedroom.”
“I can’t,” Alexa said reflexively.
“I’m dining at The Retreat tonight,” Lynn said. “I’ll change the reservation to two, my treat. I shouldn’t be alone.”
Alexa looked to DI Steele for help.
“I don’t have a problem with you staying here. Maybe it’s a good idea.” She gave Alexa a look. “Check in with the constable when you return from dinner. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Alexa felt ambushed. She followed D.I. Steele outside. “My staying here could be a conflict.”
DI Steele hurried toward her car. “No worries. You’re not a police officer. There hasn’t been a crime.” She stopped in her tracks so that Alexa bumped into her. “Kersten has always wanted to eat at The Retreat. Good Food Guide rated it the best of the best. Take advantage. Find out more about our”—the DI used air quotes—“‘property manager,’ eh? What’s the scoop with her and the CEO? I’m late for a meeting. Joe again. Always Joe.”
Alexa watched the DI’s Volvo curve, dip, and crest the one-lane drive until it disappeared in that grove of trees where her car hit the ditch. Had she been thrown to the wolves?
There are no wolves in New Zealand, she reminded herself. Not that it was void of predators though. She checked her phone: no texts, one voicemail. She hoped it would be Dr. V, but it was Pamela-Not-Pam from the lab.
“Thumbs down. No matches with the laptop cover fingerprints.”
Alexa was disappointed. The case had stalled and she was in la-la land.
A faint crashing of waves lured her around the back of the cottage, past the infinity pool—its surface agitated by the breeze—to behind the big house, which stretched left and right in two expansive wings. Like gannet wings, she thought. Strands of her hair whipped her eyes. She tucked them into her ponytail and faced the bay, her back to the house. The vantage point reminded her of a Māori pa, or fort, with views in all directions. Hawke’s Bay frothed. She thought of her roommate’s story about Captain James Cook entering the bay and the Māori paddling to meet it.
The twain shall meet.
Two gannets circled high above the choppy water, on the prowl. One broke loose and plunged, headlong, streamlined, into the sea. Her stomach dropped.
A krok-krok-krokking enticed her closer to the cliff. The Black Reef gannets clamored somewhere below. She stepped an inch closer—she hated heights—and peered over. A rock outcrop, strewn with dried seaweed and broken shells, obscured her view of the roosting birds. No way she’d lean farther out.
A funny feeling tickled her neck. She whirled around and canvassed the house. She looked for a flicker at a window, for a shadow of a figure. Nothing. She studied the roofline and a lone Norfolk pine. More nothing. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She jogged back to her car, the speed refreshing, reassuring, and collected her belongings.
Lynn opened the door as she stepped onto the porch. “I’ll show you your room.”
Alexa followed her host inside.
“The guest suite is on the other side of the cottage from the master suite so you’ll have plenty of privacy.” Down a short hallway, Lynn opened a door.
The bedroom was gush-worthy. It had its own fireplace and sitting area. The bed was enormous, with six pillows, a duvet the color of Bruce’s eyes, and two stuffed sheep, one black and one white.
Lynn walked across a thick rug of wheat, grass, and sky colors and pressed a button. The shades tilted so that Alexa could see the sea. “I don’t know who died in the bunker,” Lynn said. She opened the shades at the second window. “I feel violated.”
Alexa let go of her suitcase handle. “So Mr. Quinn is arriving tomorrow?”
“That’s why I’m here.” She walked to the dresser and straightened a pale grayish piece of what Alexa guessed was fossilized driftwood. It balanced delicately on a stand. “This is a meteorite. Can you imagine? I called The Retreat and changed my reservation to two people. It’s for seven thirty. Would you like to drive or shall I have them pick us up?”
“I’ll drive.”
Lynn stared at the meteorite for a moment and then left the room, closing the door.
Alexa scuffed out of her Keds and sat on the bed. Ages ago—but what was just this morning—she’d seen a dead man’s heart on a scale and discovered a pink tooth in his mouth. Who was he? Lynn was certain it wasn’t Harlan Quinn.
She popped up and opened what she thought would be the bathroom door, but it was a walk-in closet. Two fluffy robes hung from the rack with two pairs of UGG slippers waiting below them like faithful pets. Alexa slipped into the closest pair, wiggled her toes, and sighed. Staying here had perks.
The bathroom had an array of bath and body products and a waterfall shower large enough for a flock of sheep. Alexa stripped quickly.
At ten after seven and lavender-scented, she found Lynn staring out a living area window. She had wrapped a colorful scarf around her black turtleneck and traded boots for pointy-toed pumps. Alexa looked down at her clean button-down, khakis, and navy Keds. She wondered if she should update her wardrobe. Her mind flew to Bruce. He didn’t care what she wore; the less the better, he had told her Wednesday night. She flushed at the memory.
They walked under a sliver of moon to the Vitz. “It’s dark so early now,” Lynn commented.
Alexa cleared café trash from the passenger seat. Lynn settled in, not bothering with a seat belt. The Vitz was so old it didn’t complain. “An ATV drove me off this road yesterday,” Alexa said, “right into a ditch.” The lane was pitch dark. Alexa turned on high beams.
“It was probably a guest from The Retreat,” Lynn said. “They rent spiffy Can-Ams.”
Alexa guessed a Can-Am was an ATV brand. “They didn’t even stop.” The next curve was almost hairpin. No sign of civilization. “DI Steele said The Retreat has great food.”
“Horacio is a master chef. He cooks for Harlan and me on the side.”
The dimness made it easy for Alexa to probe. “You and Mr. Quinn sound close.”
Lynn took a deep breath. “We are.” She peered into the darkness. “Turn here.”
Alexa turned onto a side road. It curved past a sign pointing the way to a golf course. The well-lit inn was stone and timber like the main house at Black Reef, but more chalet style than farmhouse. The driveway was circular.
“Drive up front,” Lynn directed.
As soon as Alexa stopped the car, a young man dashed down the front steps and opened Lynn’s door. “Welcome.” He helped her out and started toward Alexa’s door.
She left the keys in the ignition as if she was a regular valet user. “Have a most wonderful evening,” the valet said and drove off in her dented car.
A vase of orange pom-pom flowers graced a round table in the lobby. Alexa wondered if they were real. A young woman in an emerald kimono-style dress glided toward them, a leather book in her hand. “Welcome. I’m Katrina Flores, manager of The Retreat.” She noticed Alexa studying the flowers. “Those are craspedia billy buttons. Aren’t they fun? Is this your first time dining with us?”
Lynn stepped forward. “I’m a regular diner. I’m usually here with Mr. Quinn.”
Ms. Flores looked stricken. “Of course, Ms. Lockhart. Welcome back.” She glanced at her book. A lock of ginger hair escaped from her bun, covering her flushed cheek artfully. “I do apologize.” She gestured for a server to join them. “This is Blair. She’ll show you to your table and take wonderful care of you. Do try the hazelnut cheesecake for dessert. The honey-bourbon drizzle is divine.”
Sold, thought Alexa.
They followed Blair across plush rugs into a softly lit dining room, where jazz music drifted from hidden speakers. Alexa counted three candlelit tables of diners: an older couple talking quietly, four laughing men, and what looked like parents with their teen son and daughter.
“I have a lovely table ready,” Blair said. She slid back their chairs and whisked Lynn’s linen napkin off her plate, snapped it open, presented it like a gift, and did the same for Alexa. “We have a set menu tonight. I’ll let you settle and be back to describe it.”
A young man replaced Blair and filled their water glasses. Lynn sat rigidly. “Harlan will be furious that the manager didn’t recognize me.”
Alexa decided to tackle the elephant. “Are you in a relationship with him?”
Lynn’s eyes flickered with candlelight. “Harlan is going to leave Audrey for me as soon as their daughter is mature enough to handle it.”
And I have a wind farm in Arizona to sell you.
When Alexa had first met Bruce, she had thought he was married and tamped the sparks she’d felt for him. She smiled at the memory of how she’d discovered he was divorced and therefore—in her book of rules—eligible. They had crashed grocery carts at a Countdown. His was full of cookies and frozen pizza. “For my girls when they come for the weekend,” he explained.
Alexa refocused on the present. “What sort of man is Mr. Quinn?” Besides a cheater?
“Harlan is charismatic and commanding.” Lynn gazed around the room. “He sees any obstacle—like those birder people—as challenges to overcome. His favorite thing to do is to start new companies. The thrill of the hunt, he calls it.”
Blair returned and chirped about the menu. “We’ll commence with Jerusalem artichoke salad, followed by woodsy mushroom soup. The mushrooms are from Ohau Gourmet Mushroom farm, grown specially yadda yadda. The main will be Silver Fern fillet of beef, medium rare…”
Alexa perked up.
“…with ginger miso emulsion, puffed rice yadda yadda. If you prefer a meatless…”
Alexa tuned out the vegetarian options.
“Shall I send our sommelier over?” Blair asked when she was finally done.
Lynn flipped her hand. “We’ll share a bottle of Col d’Orcia Nastagio from Mr. Quinn’s collection.”
Alexa thought of the wine room in the bunker as a slender mustached man appeared and presented the bottle for Lynn to inspect. She bobbed her head. He cut through the foil with a flourish and worked the cork out. He laid it by Lynn’s glass, but she ignored it. He looked pained as he poured an inch of red velvet into her glass. “The Mediterranean climate and hilly landscape gives…”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lynn interrupted. She took the bottle straight from the man’s hand and poured more into her glass. The sommelier bowed slightly and left Lynn to fill Alexa’s glass.
Alexa didn’t have words to describe the taste. Like minutiae on a fingerprint was all she could come up with. A good quality fingerprint could have twenty-five to eighty minutiae. Wine minutiae tap-danced over her tongue, down her throat, in her belly.
The teenage boy at the family table announced loudly he would drive a Can-Am tomorrow. Maybe he was the hoon who drove her off the road, Alexa thought.
Lynn rearranged her scarf as Alexa watched in amazement. The result crisscrossed artfully and accentuated her black top. “This whole body-in-the-bunker is horrible.”
Alexa nodded. “Did Mr. Quinn ever rent his bunker or house to friends?”
Lynn scoffed. “Rent? You mean like for income? Never.”
Blair served their salads. Alexa took a cautious bite. Something nutty overpowered the arugula. She forced herself to swallow and pushed the plate away.
Lynn pushed her salad away, too. “In California Harlan is under constant scrutiny and beholden to his stakeholders. When his start-ups do well, everyone wants a piece of him and his brain work.” She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “That’s why he comes here. To get away from the rules and regulations, the”—she used air quotes—“‘teamwork culture.’ No one bothers him here.”
Alexa, content to sip and listen, wasn’t that big on teamwork either. She preferred autonomy.
“Harlan confides in me. I’m not going to sue him or steal his ideas.”
Blair served Alexa a bowl with a single yellowish mushroom at the bottom of it staring at her like a jaundiced eye. Had the definition of soup changed? Fine dining wasn’t panning out. Then another server materialized and poured creamy liquid from a tiny pitcher, drowning the lone mushroom.
“Truffle oil?” Blair asked.
Alexa accepted a golden drizzle.
When Blair evaporated, Alexa dipped her spoon halfway and tasted. Her eyebrows rose. “What’s with the bunker?” she asked between spoonfuls.
Lynn poured more wine into each of their glasses. “Bunkers are a thing. Before I left Opulence, I had several international clients purchase estates and add bunkers. I won’t mention names, but there’s a dystopian mindset in your country. Everyone wants a piece of New Zealand. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“I had a professional opportunity.”
Lynn raised an eyebrow as if she didn’t believe her. “Harlan can get here on his private jet. The bunker makes him feel invincible.” She swallowed more wine. “I can’t wait to see him.”
The beef was tender and succulent. To Alexa’s disappointment, Lynn turned down dessert and rose from the table. The ride back was quiet, just the crunch of tires on gravel. A flashlight sliced the night as they drove up to Black Reef.
“Who’s that?” Lynn asked.
Alexa spied the patrol car. “It’s the police officer DI Steele sent. I’ll go check in.”
She watched Lynn enter the cottage and then followed the light that now shone in her eyes.
The beam lowered. “Constable Gavin here?”
Alexa remembered him. “You checked in my evidence last night. How’s everything?”
“All good. A few stray dogs, eh?”
Was he asking if she’d seen dogs, too? Two and a half glasses of minutiae had her woozy. She thanked him and turned toward the berm, squinting to make out the crime scene tape. The thought of the bunker made her shiver. On the way to the cottage she checked her cell phone. One text, from Bruce: Hope to see you 2:00 tomorrow, Clifton Gannet Tractor Tours, and an address.
No heart emoji. She’d have to settle for Wild Light of Dawn, her romance novel.