Dutch Me Deadly

Nana’s jaw dropped to her navel. “The Red Light District? The real one? The place where ladies of the evenin’ earn high-yieldin’ investment capital by boinkin’ complete strangers in storefront windows?”

Jackie nodded. “Impressive, isn’t it? The Dutch are so enterprising.”

“Are you guys nuts?” I looked from one to the other. “According to the guidebooks, the Red Light District is a seamy cesspool of perversion, pot, porn, and prostitutes. It’s overrun with sex shops, opium dens, live nude revues, junkies, drug dealers, brothels—”

Nana held up her hand. “You don’t need to say no more, dear. I get the picture.” She stared up at Jackie with an imploring look. “Can I go, too?”

“Nana!” I cried. “What are you thinking? It’s too dangerous! You— you could get mugged, or—or drugged—or kidnapped at knife-point and sold into white slavery.”

Her face lit up. “No kiddin’?”

I rolled my eyes. “Do you know how much hot water I’d be in if Mom discovered I’d encouraged you to wander around the Red Light District in the company of perverts and prostitutes?”

“I wasn’t plannin’ to tell her, dear.”

“Aw, c’mon, Emily, lighten up.” Jackie patted the crown of Nana’s head as if she were a favorite pet. “She’ll be with me and Beth Ann and all the people from Maine. What could possibly happen to her?”

Oh, yeah. That was reassuring. “Which would you prefer to hear first? Best-case scenario or worst-case scenario?”

“Who’s Beth Ann?” asked Nana.

“Oh!” Jackie gushed. “I need to introduce you! Beth Ann is my—”

I clapped my hands over Nana’s ears.

Jackie fired me a narrow look. “She’s going to have a really hard time hearing me with your mitts covering her ears.”

“I know.”

Nana tapped the back of my hand. “What’d she say?”

I shook my head and mouthed, “Noth-ing.”

“Marion!” Dick Stolee hurried over to us, his thumb resting on the button of his stop watch. “What’s the holdup here? We’re thirty seconds behind schedule. Time’s a wastin’.”

Nana squinted hard at his face. “WHAT’D HE SAY?”

I dropped my hands. “He says it’s time to go. Have a good time.” I scooted her toward him. “Eat hearty. Stay on the main thoroughfares. Don’t wander down any dark alleys.”

“Where are you guys headed?” asked Jackie.

“We’re going out for dessert,” said Dick, “but we don’t know where yet because Osmond is still tallying the votes.” He lowered his voice to an exasperated whisper. “Grace and Helen’s phones are out of juice, so he’s insisting on secret ballots.”

“Stop the balloting!” cried Jackie. “Have I got a place for you.” Grabbing Dick’s arm, she aimed him toward the front door. “Exit the building. Turn right. Walk two blocks, and it’s on the left-hand side of the street. A delicious little pastry shop with all kinds of scrumptious chocolate cakes and fruit tarts in the display cases. To die for.” She turned to Nana. “Trust me, Mrs. S, I guarantee you’ll be happier gorging yourself on chocolate than checking out the nightlife.”

“You think?” she said, not looking entirely convinced. “Well, maybe me and George can share somethin’. We love whipped cream and chocolate sauce.” She grinned wickedly. “Sometimes we even put ’em in a bowl.”

I hung my head. Oh, God.

She looked up at Jackie. “If I give you my spare camera, would you take a few pictures? We’re studyin’ the seven deadly sins at the Legion of Mary this month, and they’re handin’ out door prizes for photos what capture the best nonliteral interpretation of the featured sin. Last week we done sloth.” A beatific smile split her face. “Next week, it’s lust.”

Jackie squeaked out a sound like a faulty vacuum cleaner leaking air. “There’s absolutely no picture-taking in the Red Light District, Mrs. S. None. Nada. Forget it. Show up with a camera anywhere in that part of the city at night and you could be flirting with serious consequences.”

“Red Light District?” hooted Dick. “Hell, I vote we cancel dessert. I didn’t know we had another choice.”

“You don’t got no other choice,” Nana informed him as she dragged him toward the waiting group. “You’re married to Grace.”

“Call me when you’re done eating to let me know you’re all back safely,” I called after her.

Jackie splayed her hand over her heart and smiled. “She handles disappointment so well. She’s an inspiration to us all.” She leveled her gaze on me, brows arched and sparks flying in her eyes. “So, would you care to explain?”

Even though we’d been husband and wife only briefly, we still retained the ability to discuss serious issues like veterans of a much longer marriage. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The earmuff business?”

“Oh, that.”

I looked to see who was within earshot, then motioned her to an isolated corner of the room. “Okay, Jack, here’s the deal. If I have to explain your flip-flops to Nana yet again, I’ll probably overload her circuits and cause her to have a stroke. Or acid reflux. Or something equally life altering.”

“Flip-flops?” She stuck out her foot. “Hel-looo? I’m wearing boots.”

“Flip-flops, Jack. You’ve developed a pattern. When you were a he, you married me but ran off with another guy. When you became a she, you married a guy, but now you’ve run off with another woman. What is it with you? Back and forth and back and forth. Can’t you just make up your mind and live with it?”

“Emily Andrew! Are you accusing me of leaving my adoring husband to engage in a tawdry affair with—with?” She paused, elongating her eyes to tiny slits. “Refresh my memory. Who have I run away with?”

“Duh? Beth Ann Oliver?”

“What?”

“Maybe you can’t help it, Jack. Maybe your brain chemistry is so out of whack that it’s caused an irreparable tear in your moral fabric.”

She circled her hand around her throat as if trying to hold together the fabric that hadn’t already split apart. “Oh, my God. This sounds serious.” She grew silent, then perked up again, as if her brain were rebooting itself. “Wait a minute. My moral fabric isn’t coming apart at the seams. You know why? Because I’m not cheating on my husband. You know why? Because Beth Ann isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Then who is she?”

“My client.”

“What kind of client tags along with you on a European vacation?”

“The kind who pays me to give her advice on a daily basis!”

I blinked my surprise. “You mean, like Dear Abby?”

“Oh, please. I blow Abby out of the water with all the services I offer. I’m available to accompany my clients to any location in the world. My advice is individual and immediate. I’m equipped to handle any problem from what book you should read next, to how to prevent yourself from falling apart when you smudge a fresh manicure. And as a special bonus, I offer professional fashion advice, lessons in makeup application, and best of all, free foot massages. I’d like to see Abby top that.”

“So, you’re like a globetrotting Dear Abby?”

She fisted her hand on her hip. “What I am, Emily, is an honest to goodness, card-carrying, board-certified … life coach!”

“Wow.”

“Isn’t that awesome?”

“Awesome. What’s a life coach?”

She groaned in disgust. “Have you people in the Midwest ever heard about any popular trend before it became passe?”