Dutch Me Deadly (15 page)

“Words are cheap,” she fired back. “What are you planning to do if it does?”

“Dietger will be looking at immediate dismissal, not only from this tour, but from the company. We have a zero tolerance policy against any type of fraternization between guests and drivers. I’ll file a report. If it happens again, he’s outta here.”

Jackie twitched her lips, unwilling to give an inch. “His people skills are abhorrent.”

“I know,” Wally said contritely.

“I hope you realize that the fiasco last night was all his fault. How does he get off leading a bunch of old geezers into the Red Light District and then just dumping them?”

“I’ll include that in my report,” he promised.

She flexed her shoulders, thawing slightly. “All right then. I’m not a total troglodyte.”

“What’s a troglodyte?” whispered Nana

“Neanderthal,” Tilly whispered back.

Nana waited a beat. “That don’t help none.”

“Is there any way I can make it up to you?” Wally glanced from Jackie to Beth Ann.

“Well, you did act the gallant when you came to our rescue.” Jackie batted her lashes and brushed an imaginary fleck off his shoulder. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Me either,” said Beth Ann a little breathlessly.

“Just doing my job.” But if his chest puffed out any more, his buttons would be history. “I—uh, I guess I should be getting back to my computer before the bartender forgets he’s supposed to be keeping an eye on it for me. I just wanted to make sure we were squared away.”

Bernice raised her hand. “Are you on Facebook?”

“Company requirement. Look for me under Peppers. Wally Peppers. I’m the only one listed.”

Halfway to the door he paused, then turned around to offer Beth Ann a come-hither smile. “You mentioned you were pretty good with computers. Could I steal you away for a few minutes to help me with mine? I keep getting a message that tells me I have a runtime error 28, but I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you’re out of stack space.”

“Do you know how to fix it?”

She shoved her notebook into her purse and returned his smile, looking delirious to be singled out for special duty. “Piece of cake.”

I closed the door behind them and tossed Jackie an inquiring look. “What’s up with that?”

“Long story short. Dietger was making a pest of himself wanting to join us for drinks. I told him it was a private party. He interpreted that to mean we’d like to sleep with him. I told him to bugger off. He sat down at the next table, leering at us. Wally saw what was going on and read Dietger the riot act, which is when Beth Ann and I split. Not a good scene. Dietger was
sooo
angry that he was being dressed down. No good is going to come of this. Mark my words. Our little Belgian coach driver is trouble.”

I shook my head. “What I meant was, what’s up with Wally? Do I detect a little sexual chemistry going on between him and your favorite client?”

“There better not be any sexual chemistry going on.” Jackie trained an arch look at the door. “How can I teach Beth Ann anything about the fine art of decision-making if she decides to hang out with him instead of me? Do you realize how devastating that would be to my career? I can’t have clients making their own decisions. I’d be rendered obsolete!”

She worried her bottom lip, unconsciously gnawing the gloss clear off. “You know, I should have suspected he was up to some
thing. Before he burrowed himself into a corner with his computer,
Wally stopped by our table all friendly and chatty and polite. I figured he was hitting on me.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “It happens a lot, you know.”

“Maybe not this time,” I suggested.

“But … but … h\ow could he prefer Beth over me?” Her face crumpled in slow, agonizing waves, her voice became a plaintive wail. “Oh, my God, Emily. I’ve lost my touch. I’m all washed up. I’ve become invisible!”

“I wish to heck you’d become invisible,” cracked Bernice. “Will you park it someplace? You’re blocking my view.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and offered smiles all around. “So, what were you doing before yours truly barged in on you?”

Pursed lips. Puckered brows. Blank looks.

“Isn’t that somethin’?” Nana said, chiding herself. “I can’t rightly recall what we was doin’.”

“I think we were discussing snack foods,” said Helen.

“Seems like we were fixing to vote on something,” said Osmond. “But doggone if I can remember what.”

I beamed. Failing memory wasn’t such a bad thing, especially when you were trying to keep the troops focused. “We were discussing our murder investigation and what we should do next.”

“That’s right,” said Margi. “Someone suggested we should all pitch in to help Emily prove her theory.”

“I think it was Bernice,” Alice marveled.

“First time that’s ever happened,” muttered George.

“
Eww
.” Jackie did a little pattycake clap. “The noose tightens. So, whose neck is in the noose?”

It took me less than a millisecond to pare down our tsunami of hunches into a single coherent thought. “I think that someone is killing reunion guests … to avenge something that happened at a high school outing fifty years ago.” I nodded approval at myself. That’s what I’d been wanting to say all along, wasn’t it?

“Who?” pressed Jackie.

I frowned. “That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet.”

“But Pete Finnegan and Paula Peavey are at the top of the leader board,” said Helen.

“Pete and Paula?” Jackie let out a hoot. “Hel-looo? Your main suspects are
dead
. I can hardly wait to hear the confessions you drag out of them.”

“Laura LaPierre and Gary Bouchard might be suspect,” said Tilly, reading the names she’d written on her notepad.

“I think there’s somethin’ shady about that Hennessy fella’s wife,” said Nana. “She don’t look like no cheerleader I ever seen.”

“You think there’s something shady about her?” Bernice snorted.
“Get a gander of Peewee’s graduation picture on his nametag. He didn’t even look like the same species back then.”

“People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” Margi said in a small, tight voice.

“Should we take a vote?” asked Osmond.

“No.” I waved off the idea with both hands. “Research first, then voting.”

“What kinda research?” asked Nana.

“You’re the ones with the smartphones and Web access, so would each of you be responsible for a single name and dig up whatever information you can on that one person? Anything you can find. Public records. Newspaper articles. Obituaries. Service organization rosters. Genealogical records. Anything that looks in the least bit relevant. When we get together again, we’ll pool our findings to see if we can establish any new leads.”

I could feel the energy level rise like the mercury in a Fahrenheit thermometer. “We only need to investigate about twelve people, so that should be doable. Maybe we should call them the dirty dozen.”

“Can we choose the name we want to research?” asked Alice.

“Sure,” I agreed. “Out of a hat.”

But since I didn’t have a hat, I put the names into my ice bucket instead.

“I don’t like this name,” whined Bernice. “Anyone want to trade?”

There were no apparent takers as everyone held fast to the slips of paper they’d selected.

“Twits.”

“How am I going to do this?” asked Jackie. “I don’t have a smartphone.”

“The hotel has a business center. Maybe you can access a computer there. I’ll have to do that, too.” Either that, or call Mom, which could leave me with a bad case of hives. “Any other questions?”

They looked a little twitchy, as if they’d overdosed on caffeine. Snatching up their belongings, they put a bead on the door and began shuffling their feet.

“Okay, then.” I stepped out of the way. “Meeting adjourned.”

They raced across the room in a tangle of hips, legs, and elbows.

“Get to bed early,” I reminded them as they shouldered their way out the door. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Jackie stared after them. “Why do they always have to run?”

I gave her a palms-up. “Because they can?”

“What
evvv
er. Say, you got stuck with two names. You want me to give one to Beth Ann?”

“I think Wally might have plans to keep Beth Ann a little preoccupied in the days to come, so I’d better handle them myself. I don’t want anyone accusing me of standing in the way of true love.”

“It’s so unfair,” she pouted as I ushered her to the door. “She’s supposed to be furthering
my
career, not
his
lovelife. What’ll I do if they decide to get married?”

I snapped my fingers. “The perfect career change for you, Jack. Wedding planner!”

She cocked her head and flashed a broad smile. “Ooh. That could work.”

Having orchestrated Jack’s next career move, I flopped onto my bed and unfolded the slips of paper I’d pulled from the ice bucket. “Sheila Bouchard” read the first one. “Gary Bouchard” read the second.

It was only then that I recalled my brief encounter with them in the Rijksmuseum—the one where they’d been standing within earshot of Pete Finnegan as he’d ranted about divulging secrets powerful enough to ruin all his classmates.

Damn. I’d forgotten about that.

Fifteen

“In the fourteenth century,
the medieval city of Bruges was hailed as the premier center for trade and commerce in all of northern Europe,” Wally announced over the mike the next morning. “A hundred and fifty years later, a majority of its residents were living in poverty. Can you guess why?”

“Black Death!” called someone from the front of the bus.

“Nope.”

“Extension of the Bush tax cuts!” blurted Margi.

“Nope.”

I lunged for the seat in front of me as Dietger swerved into the passing lane, causing the whole bus to shimmy.

“Total economic collapse brung on by competition from for
eign wool markets,” spouted Nana. “And then one of their big
rivers silted up, so they couldn’t ship nuthin’ to no seaports.”

Wally paused. “That’s right,” he said, sounding a bit shocked.

She leaned toward me. “Globalization screwed ’em, but they didn’t call it that back then on account of in them days, the world wasn’t shaped like no globe. It was flat.”

I regarded her indulgently. “National Geographic Channel?”

“
Reader’s Digest
. I been a little irregular lately.”

“Bruges remained economically crippled for three hundred years,” Wally continued, “until British tourists rediscovered it in the mid-nineteenth century, prompting new cottage industries to spring up around chocolates, beer, and lace. It’s nicknamed the ‘Venice of the North’ for its many canals and waterways, but you’ll note that unlike Venice, it’s not sinking. Its guildhalls, warehouses, cathedrals, and merchants’ houses are some of the finest examples of Medieval Gothic architecture on the Continent, and lucky for us, perfectly preserved. Hitler’s armies left it untouched in the war, so the city you’re going to see today is the same city you would have seen six hundred years ago, with some minor updating to accommodate modern-day traffic and sanitation.”

The bus swerved back into the traveling lane, causing the contents of my stomach to slosh like a rogue wave.

“Geez!” Wally barked, making me think his stomach was sloshing, too. “If you can’t keep this rig on the road, how’s about I find someone who can?”

Dietger had been swerving a lot since our early morning departure from Amsterdam, jolting us awake from our catnaps with his dramatic over-corrections, accelerations, and staggering lurches to left and right. Our seat belts prevented us from slamming face first into the seat in front of us, but there was nothing we could do about the sleep deprivation, which meant, we’d be touring Bruges looking like an army of zombies.

I interpreted Dietger’s little temper tantrum to mean he hadn’t been pleased about Wally’s rebuke in the bar. Jackie had predicted there’d be consequences. Boy, she’d sure called that right.

“I’m sorry I don’t got no research to report to you this mornin’,” Nana apologized as she fussed with her seat belt. “Me and Tilly was full a good intentions last night, but listenin’ to the financial news put us both to sleep.”

“Pretty boring stuff, huh?”

“Don’t know. It was in Dutch.”

I’d had good intentions, too. I’d trekked down to the business center a couple of times, but on each occasion, someone was using the computer, so around midnight, I’d thrown in the towel and gone to bed, without finding out any more about Sheila and Gary Bouchard than I’d known the day before.

“You want we should call you the minute we dig up anything promisin’ on our suspects?” asked Nana.

I frowned. “That could get awkward, especially if I’m standing beside the person you’re ratting on.”

“We could text you.”

I perked up, suddenly enamored with the new advances in phone technology. “That could actually work.”

“You bet it could. And all’s you’d have to do is read the message. You wouldn’t have to send nuthin’ back.”

“Okay. Show me what I need to know.”

So while Wally continued to entertain us with a brief history of Bruges, Nana instructed me on the dos and don’ts of text messaging. By the time we entered the city limits, I figured I knew as much about sending text messages as a fifth grader, so I could hardly wait to strut my stuff.

“When the little alert goes off, all’s you gotta do is read what’s on the screen. It’s real easy, dear. And if you got questions about the message, type in a reply just like I showed you.”

I regarded my cellphone with newfound affection. “Okay. I can do this.” I slid it back into the side pocket of my shoulder bag. “By the way, whose name did you draw last night?”

She pulled the paper out of the handwarming pouch of her Vikings sweatshirt. “Ricky Hennessy,” she said, after rechecking the name.

We catapulted forward as Dietger jumped the curb and jammed
on the brakes, executing a tooth-rattling stop in front of a row of two-story mercantile shops.

Gasps. Grunts. Groans.

“Did we stop like that on purpose, or was our tires shot out?” asked Nana.

Wally made a robotic move into the center aisle, his stiff body language signaling that his temper was simmering on low burn. “The streets in the old town can’t accommodate coaches, so we need to travel the rest of the way on foot. Does everyone have their map?”

We waved them above our heads in response.

“I’ve starred the spot where we’re parked because it’s where Dietger will pick us up again in four hours”—his voice bristled with sarcasm—“if he’s able to navigate the road without putting the bus in a ditch someplace. And as I look out the window, I see that our local guide is waiting for us, so why don’t we step off the bus and join her?”

We gathered around our guide like drones around the queen bee. She was middle-aged, wore sturdy shoes, and kinda had a French/Dutch/German thing going on with her accent that forced us to have to listen really closely to what she was saying. Her name was Gheertrude.

“I welcome you to Flanders,” she said cheerily.

Stunned silence.

“Wait just a darned minute,” balked Bernice. “We’re supposed to be in Bruges.”

Gheertrude laughed. “You
are
in Bruges. But Bruges is in Flanders.”

“I thought Bruges was in Belgium,” said Helen.

“It is,” Gheertrude allowed.

“So we’re not in Flanders?” asked Grace.

“No, no. You’re still in Flanders.”

“You just said we’re in Belgium,” corrected Bernice.

“We
are
in Belgium. Bruges is the capital of the province of West Flanders in the Flemish region of Belgium.”

Thoughtful silence.

Margi raised her hand. “I’m sorry. Where are we?”

“Why don’t we straighten that out later?” suggested Wally. “Moving right along, we’re giving you a host of options today. Option one: you can remain with Gheertrude and me for the walking tour and canal ride, and we’ll escort you back here to the pickup point. Option two: you can take the walking tour as far as the market square, then part company with us to get a bite to eat, shop, or take a carriage ride. You’ll be on your own to find your way back. Option three: head into Old Town on your own, eat, shop, then meet up with us for the canal ride, which I’ve marked on your maps. Option four: none of the above. Just make sure you get back to the pickup point on time.”

My guys looked stricken. For people afflicted with lateness anxiety, being presented with options that could make them late was no option at all. Even if they could read a map better than the Rand McNally atlas guys, they needed to be reassured that someone in charge would guide them through the city streets and back to this spot before the bus took off. And there was really only one person in charge.

“We’ll take option one,” I told Wally, making an executive decision for the group.

“Me, too,” said Jackie.

“And me,” said Beth Ann, causing Wally’s eyes to brighten and a hint of a smile to soften his lips.

In the final tally, everyone took option one, though a few reunion people reserved the right to change their minds once they had a looksee at the central market. I wasn’t sure how the gang would be able to handle their individual investigations with the Mainers breathing down their necks, but I figured they were all pretty clever, so they’d find a way.

“Our first stop this morning is only a few steps away,” announced Gheertrude as she gestured toward a side street. “The Begijnhof, a serene cluster of white-washed houses, where, for six hundred years, girls and widows dedicated their lives to charitable work without taking religious vows, and Minnewater, also called ‘the Lake of Love’, a thirteenth-century, man-made reservoir, famous for its beautiful white swans and utter tranquility. Please to follow after me.”

The side street was called Wijngaardstraat, and was possibly as wide as a New York City alley, but a lot more high class. Tidy brick
buildings lined both sides of the tidy brick pavement, their
decorative doors inviting passersby into tea rooms, chocolate shops, and art galleries. As we strolled past an unassuming hotel hidden among the bricks, I glanced through the lobby window, noticing something that caused me to hesitate, then stop dead in my tracks.

“
Psssst
! Jack.”

She turned her head in my direction.

“I’m ducking in here for a minute. I’ll catch up.”

She gave me a thumbs-up before stutter-stepping over the pavers in her stiletto boots. I guess she hadn’t been daunted by the fact that the streets in Bruges were cobbled.

I entered the hotel and made a beeline for a table that sat in front of the lobby window. On the table sat two computers—powered up and sitting idle.

Yes! This was my chance.

I approached the front desk and smiled at the clerk, a handsome young man with a buff body and bedroom eyes. “Would it be possible for me to use one of your lobby computers?”

“Of course, madam. The computers are set up for the convenience of our guests.”

“I’m not a guest. I’m staying at another hotel. In Amsterdam.”

“Ahh. That presents something of a problem.”

“Could I pay you to use it for a short time?”

“We’re not set up to accept off-the-books fees, madam.”

“Even if it’s a matter of life or death?”

He lifted his brows. “You’re American?”

“Guilty.”

He motioned me closer. “Do you watch the Fox Network show
American Idol
?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I lied.

“Me, too! I watch it at my cousin’s. He has a satellite dish. I even follow it on Facebook.”

“Me, too!” I lied again.

Curving his mouth into a slow smile, he scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “The code to access the computer.”

“Really?”

He winked. “Let it be our secret.”

With the small front lobby all to myself, I typed in the access code and in a few keystrokes was staring at the Google homepage. Now, where to begin? I typed “Gary Bouchard,” hit the return key, and in less than a nanosecond pulled up more than four million bits of information on the Gary Bouchards of the world. Four million.
You gotta be kidding me.

I decided to narrow my search. My fingers flew over the keyboard. “Gary Bouchard Bangor Maine.” I hit the return.

Twelve thousand hits.

Okay. Twelve thousand I could handle.

I spent the next fifteen minutes unearthing pieces of Gary Bouchard’s life on a website called,
Who’s Who in Bangor
. His car dealership was apparently the largest in southern Maine, with satellite dealerships as far north as Presque Isle, which practically sat on the Canadian border. He’d received several Businessman of the Year awards from local service organizations, was an officer in the Knights of Columbus, and sponsored a basketball camp every summer for underprivileged youth. Gee, that was nice of him. He was a longtime member of the Bangor city council, president of the fine arts commission, and served on the board of trustees for St. Francis Xavier High School. My eyes slowly glazed over. The guy sounded like a saint. An elitist saint, but a saint nonetheless. I obviously needed to dig deeper into his background to find the real dirt.

I accessed the local paper and plunged into the archives, hitting the mother lode under “weddings.” Gary’s name led me to a bridal photo of Sheila in her “
peau de soie
gown, sewn with seed pearls and aurora borealis crystals.” Wow. The article described every single detail of the wedding, from the bride’s and attendants’ gowns, to the altar flowers and mother-of-the-bride outfits. It listed out-of-town guests, the country club where the reception was held, and where the newlyweds would be traveling on their honeymoon.

I studied the photo of Sheila (Eaton) Bouchard, thinking how incredibly young she’d been when she married. Babies having babies. But she and Gary were still together, so they’d obviously found a way to make it work. The article mentioned that she’d graduated third in her class from St. Francis Xavier and would be “at home” after the honeymoon, setting up housekeeping in their new house, which had been a wedding gift from her parents.

I read that twice to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. A house as a wedding gift? Who could afford it? My parents had given us a blender, but it had twenty-four speeds and a self-cleaning button, so it was a really good one.

The article wrapped up with the scoop on the groom. He’d been the highest scoring basketball player in Xavier’s history, graduated fifth in his class, and planned to attend Husson College in the fall to pursue a degree in business, while at the same time joining his father at Bouchard Motors as part owner.

Gary’s life had apparently been all mapped out for him, but I wondered if Gary had done any of the planning. He might have pursued a basketball career if Ricky Hennessy hadn’t monkeyed with the toilet paper in the boys’ bathroom. He might have attended one of the big Ivy League schools if Sheila hadn’t been pushing marriage. He might have tested his wings in another part of the country if his in-laws hadn’t anchored him in place with a new house. At some point in his life had he rebelled against the status quo and exacted revenge on the people who’d stolen his options? But what could he have done that Pete Finnegan might have found out about? And how did Paula fit in?