A Mystery in Queenstown

THE WALK

The morning after Carsten left, I decided to go for a walk around Queenstown. Being a Sunday morning, it is quieter than usual- probably a result of the binge drinking that happens here on Saturday nights (not by me of course, I’m an angel). This will be a good day to get my bearings around town so that I can decide where I want to live.

For now, I live at a hostel. Actually, multiple hostels. This is the Queenstown dance that so many ex-pats “get to” experience. Since there is an under-supply of housing, most people on a working holiday visa end up living at a hostel. It’s customary to only book a bed for a few days at a time, hoping to find something more permanent or because the hostel wont let you book longer. Inevitably, your hostel is all booked up when you need to add extra nights and so you have to switch to another hostel. This pattern repeats itself until a hostel lets you stay long-term or you find something more permanent.

The under-supply of housing also means that permanent accommodation is quite expensive. An average room would be about $250/week. Add an extra $100 if you want to be closer to town, but subtract $100 if you’re willing to share your room–most here do, going up to 3 or 4 people in one bedroom (that’s right, share your ROOM).

While my current situation is a remarkable contrast from living in a downtown Toronto condo, I’m happy enough at the hostel. The place is clean, there are only 6 beds in the spacious dorm, there’s free onsite parking, and it’s right on the lake. All of these advantages make it easier to ignore the dude with bad B.O.; hopefully he’s only here for a couple nights anyway.

THE FIND

As I continue my walk through town, I STUMBLE UPON A PILE OF CASH. And I don’t mean a $20 bill, or a few $10s, or even a stack of $5s. This is a pretty remarkable haul of mostly $50s. I count it up, its almost $450!!

So, here I am in this beautiful town surrounded by mountains and a lake, the sun is shining, and now I find some money. At this particular point, I’m not really missing home.

I decide better than to B-line it for the expensive chocolate shop to spend it there (but those who know me wouldn’t doubt that the thought did cross my mind).

“Surely, whomever this cash belongs to is but a few steps away,” I think to myself. I look around. Not a person in sight.

“Ok, surely someone will be running back here anytime now, once they realise they’ve dropped all this cash,” I conclude, convinced of the logic in my reasoning.

I wait five, 10, 15, 20 minutes…it starts to sink in, no one is coming back for this money.

By this point, the initial sentiments of thrill and excitement have waned. A sense of obligation has taken over. This money is like a week’s pay for someone. What if the person needs the cash for their rent or food, or their family’s rent or food.

A couple weeks earlier, I had found a wallet when I was in Wellington. Luckily, there was a student card in the wallet, so the next day, I drove to the school and was able to successfully return the wallet. This is like that dilemma, but without a student card. How would I find the rightful owner this time around? Was this mystery too great for me to solve? (I hope you’re saying “no” in your head; bonus points if you said it aloud).

I didn’t want to simply turn over the money to the police for a few reasons. First, I’m not sure that the police will make a greater effort than I can at locating the rightful owner. Second, I don’t want the police to think that I had somehow stolen this money from somewhere (Google searches yield the craziest stories). And third, what if the owner can’t be found? Surely, the police shouldn’t get to keep the cash. So, going to the police would only be an option of last resort I conclude.

This whole situation leads to flashbacks of my days in law school where a bunch of us would joke about the Civil Code of Quebec provisions dealing with “finding a treasure.” Would this be a treasure? What does New Zealand law say about this situation? The more I thought about it, the more I felt that this situation was more of a burden than I imagined finding a treasure would be. Finding a fiver or even a ten dollar bill can be a lot of fun, but this sizeable find opened a legal and moral can of worms I did not want to be dealing with.

I didn’t come to any conclusions to my quandaries other than, if the money would be mine, I would feel too guilty using any of it and so I decided that I would donate the money (sorry fancy chocolate store). Of course, that wouldn’t be necessary because my mission will succeed and I will find the owner of the money, I tell myself.

THE CLUE

Luckily, as I decide to to keep walking, I also find a bank card (hey, this is like the student card!, but without a name). This is a clue in my great mystery. I figure that there is a good chance that the owner of the bank card is also the owner of the cash. So, I decide that I would simply go to the bank and ask them to return this card to the owner and inquire if the owner had lost anything else. If the owner can identify the exact amount of cash, then I will turn it over to the person.

The problem with my master plan is that it’s a Sunday morning and all the banks are closed. Complicating things further, tomorrow is a public holiday so the bank won’t be open for another two days. I hope that whomever this money belongs to is not in immediate need.

THE BANK

On Tuesday morning I go to the local branch of the bank from the debit card. I hand over the card to the receptionist and ask her to pass on my phone number to the owner in case the owner had lost anything else.

The receptionist seems interested and, after noting down my phone number, asks “what else did you find?”

“I found another item that I would like to return to the rightful owner,” I respond assuredly.

“You need to tell me what you found because it isn’t yours,” she says, trying to intimidate me. She continues, “if you found money, my friend lost some money this weekend and you should give it to me so I can give it back to her. Did you find money?”

I don’t know if she is telling the truth, but I am not inclined to believe her story. All I can think is that I am glad that this particular bank isn’t my bank because I don’t know that I would trust her with any sum of money.

“Please just give my phone number to the owner of this card and ask them to call me if they are missing something else,” I state firmly.

“Alright. Thank you for bringing back the card” she concedes.

“So, what’s your name?” she asks ready to write it down alongside the number I had given her earlier.

I think quick and decide I shouldn’t share my real name in case she had some plan to report me or something. She looks at me wondering why I have stalled. I need to say something. “Umm, Jason,” I spit out, trying to pick a common enough name that isn’t John. “My name is Jason,” I repeat, more so I could believe it myself than for her sake.

“How do you spell it?” she asks.

“J-A-S-O-N,” I say.

“And, your last name?” she inquires further.

“The person wont need my last name. Just tell the person to call me,” I say, as I turn around and walk away so that she can’t make any further inquiries. This is my mystery, after all.

That whole day, I expected my phone would ring at any minute…but nothing. And the next day, nothing either. I wondered if the bank lady had actually passed on my contact information. I wondered if I should follow-up. I wondered how else I might find the owner of the money. And, if I couldn’t find the rightful owner, I wondered what charity could use this money. I also wondered if I wondered too much perhaps.

I decided I would wait till the end of the week before making any other decisions on the money.

THE CALL

Later in the week, I am reading in a cafe when my phone rang with a number I don’t recognise. Since it has been a couple days since I left my number at the bank with no call, the fact that someone would call again about the money is not at the fore of my mind.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Hi, is Jason there?” the voice firmly asks.

Right away, I know what this call is about.

“Yes, speaking,” I continue, not wanting to explain that my name isn’t in fact Jason but that the caller doesn’t have the wrong number.

The conversation is short and to the point. The caller is able to identify the precise amount of money, including the exact amount of each bill, and I feel comfortable proclaiming the mystery solved.

THE (SWEET) REWARD

As it turns out, the guy on the other is the general manager of a local business so the money doesn’t belong to him but to the business he manages. The supervisor on duty had somehow managed dropped all the bills out of her pocket as she was going to deposit the money at the bank. Apparently she has been stressed out about this loss all weekend.

When I return the money in person, the supervisor who dropped the money is elated and has a little gift for me, or rather, for Jason.

Oh, and the business that the money belonged to turned out to be that fancy chocolate shop in town, and the reward was oh so sweet. Maybe I should have B-lined it to the chocolate shop after all.