Free Aunt Dimity Down Under by Nancy Atherton Page B

pleasantries with a man who’d stepped out of the house next door. The smile that wreathed her face while she spoke to him vanished abruptly when she returned her attention to me. “Who are you, anyway? ”
    “I’m . . . I’m a friend of the family’s,” I stammered, still shaken by the news of Aubrey’s death.
    “A friend of the family’s? ” She sucked on her cigarette and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Didn’t know they had friends.”
    “They? ” Cameron said alertly. “Does another family member live here?”
    “Ed’s been sponging off of his dad for years,” she said with a contemptuous sneer. “Edmund Hillary Pym, named after our great national hero, the man who conquered Everest.” She laughed harshly. “The only mountain Ed Pym ever climbed was a mountain of stubbies.”
    “Stubbies?” I said to Cameron.
    “Beer bottles,” he explained.
    “What did you want with A. J.?” the woman inquired.
    “I had private business to discuss with him.” I hesitated, then made a quick decision. The letter I’d come so far to deliver couldn’t be read by a dead man, but it could be read by his son. With a half glance at Cameron, I called to the woman, “My business involves Edmund Pym as well.”
    “If Ed’s come into a fortune, you can share it with me,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “I’m his landlady. He owes me a month’s rent.”
    “Can you tell us where we might find Ed? ” Cameron asked, picking up on my cue.
    “Hospital,” grunted the landlady. “If he croaks, I’m selling his stuff, to make up for what he owes me. Not that there’s much worth selling.” She began raking her fingers through her ridiculous ponytail. “Probably end up donating the lot to an op shop. I’ll have to clear the place out for my next lodger, won’t I?”
    “Op shop?” I murmured.
    “Opportunity shop,” Cameron translated. “A thrift store.” He looked up at the landlady. “Which hospital is Edmund Pym in? ”
    “North Shore,” she replied. “If you see him, tell him I want my rent.” Smoke curled from her nostrils as she watched a blue Honda park behind Cameron’s Ford. “Who’s this? Another family friend? ”
    A woman as tall as Cameron and several times his width got out of the Honda cradling a large manila envelope in her arms. Her short, light-brown hair gleamed in the sunlight and she was neatly dressed in a brown suede jacket, a black V-neck knit top, and flowing black knit trousers. She had a no-nonsense air about her, but her brown eyes seemed kindly behind her boxy black glasses. She paused on the sidewalk to survey our curious gathering, then strode across the lawn with a sense of purpose.
    “I beg your pardon,” she said, talking to me and to Cameron. Her voice was soft, her manner, pleasantly professional. “My name is Bridgette Burkhoffer and I work for North Shore Hospital. I’m looking for Aubrey Pym. Have I found the correct address?”
    “You’re in the right place, dear,” shouted the landlady, who’d leaned over the balcony’s railing to catch the new arrival’s every word. “But A. J.’s dead. You should know. He died in North Shore two months ago.”
    Bridgette favored the landlady with a coldly clinical gaze. “If you wish to speak with me, please come downstairs. I’m not accustomed to raising my voice in public.”
    “All right, all right, keep your shirt on, Bridge, I’m coming,” said the landlady. She took a last drag on her cigarette, crushed the butt beneath her flip-flop, and disappeared from the balcony. A moment later, she came around the side of the house to join us on the lawn.
    “Separate entrance,” she explained. Though she was now standing face-to-face with the rest of us, she still spoke in an ear-bruising bellow. “My lodgers use the front door.” She held out a nicotine-stained hand to Bridgette. “Call me Jessie, Bridge.”
    “You may call me Ms. Burkhoffer, Jessie,” Bridgette said crisply, ignoring the hand. “For