Page 41 of Bay of Plenty

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 herelikes 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 Ohope 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 Maori 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.”

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