In the Land of the Long White Cloud

Fleur and looking up at her with her adoring collie gaze, “you can take with you,” she added when Fleurette hesitated. Then they climbed the stairs.
    Fleurette followed nervously, but to her relief the second floor of Daphne’s Hotel more closely resembled the White Hart in Christchurch than some Sodom or Gomorrah. Another blonde woman—who looked astoundingly similar to the girl downstairs—was polishing the floor. She greeted them in surprise as Daphne led her guest past her.
    Daphne smiled at her. “This is Miss…what’s your name again?” she inquired. “I’m going to have to get a hold of some proper registration forms if I’m going to start renting these rooms out for more than an hour!” She winked.
    Fleurette’s thoughts raced. Surely it wouldn’t be a good idea to use her real name. “Fleurette,” she finally replied. “Fleur McKenzie.”
    “Related by blood or marriage to a certain James?” Daphne asked. “He’s also supposed to have a dog like that.”
    Fleur reddened once more. “Um…not that I’m aware of…” she stammered.
    “They caught him, by the way, the poor fellow. And that Sideblossom from Lionel Station wanted to hang him,” Daphne explained, but then remembered her introductions. “You heard her, Mary—Fleur McKenzie. She’s rented one of our rooms.”
    “For…the whole night?” Mary asked as well.
    Daphne sighed. “The whole night, Mary. We’re becoming an honest establishment. So, here’s room one. Come in, girl!”
    She opened the room, and Fleurette entered an astonishingly respectable little room. The furnishings were simple, roughly hewn from native wood, the bed wide and impeccably made. The establishment radiated nothing but cleanliness and order. Fleur resolved to think about nothing else.
    “It’s lovely!” she said and really meant it. “Thank you, miss…or mistress…?”
    Daphne shook her head. “Miss. In my line of work one rarely becomes an honest woman. Though judging from all my experiences with men—and there have been many, dear—I haven’t missed anything worth mentioning. Well, I’ll leave you alone now, so you can freshen up. Mary or Laurie will bring you water to wash up straightaway.” She was going to shut the door, but Fleur stopped her.
    “Yes…no…I have to see to my horse first. Where did you say the rental stables are? And where can I perhaps find out something…about my fiancé?”
    “The rental stables are around the corner,” Daphne informed her. “You can ask there, but I can hardly imagine old Ron knows anything. He is not exactly the brightest fellow, never pays attention to a client, his horse maybe, at most. Maybe Ethan would know something. He’s the postman. He also runs the general store and the telegraph office.You can’t miss him, just across the way. But hurry—Ethan is just about to close. He’s always the first one in the pub.”
    Fleurette thanked Daphne again and followed her down the steps. She wanted to be done quickly too. She wanted to barricade herself in her room once business in the pub got underway.
    The general store was easy to find. Ethan, a scrawny, bald, middle-aged man was just putting the display goods away in order to close.
    “Yes, I know all the gold prospectors,” he responded to Fleurette’s initial question. “After all, I take the post to them. The address usually doesn’t say anything more than ‘John Smith, Queenstown.’ Then they have to pick it up here, though there’s a couple of boys that fight over the John Smith letters.”
    “My friend’s name is Ruben O’Keefe,” Fleur explained eagerly, though her brain was already telling her this was a dead end. If what Ethan said was true, her letters must have ended up here. And apparently, no one had picked them up.
    The postman thought about it for a while. “No, miss, I’m sorry. I know the name—letters come for him all the time. They’re all lying right here. But the man himself…”
    “Maybe he’s been using a different name!” The thought brought Fleur relief. “What about Davenport? Ruben Davenport?”
    “I have three Davenports,” he said casually. “But no Rubens.”
    Bitterly disappointed, Fleur started to leave, but then decided to give one last try. “Maybe you remember what he looks like. A tall, thin man…well, more a boy. He’s eighteen. With gray eyes a bit like the sky before it rains. And dark brown hair, tousled, with a streak of chestnut red…he can never comb it