Dutch Me Deadly

“Mom says we were ahead of the curve with the hula hoop.”

“Being a life coach is only the most thrilling job I’ve ever had, Emily. Better than acting off-Broadway. Better than caulking bathroom and kitchen tile. Better than writing a romance novel. People pay me to tell them what to do. And they don’t snarl at me to butt out or get lost. They want me to make decisions for them. It’s the dream job of every control freak. It’s like— like being a parent, with financial benefits!”

Or a psychologist without a license. “Did you say you were actually certified to do this?”

“I most certainly am. It usually takes six months to complete the course work, but I took the accelerated course on the Web, so I was certified in two short weeks!”

I shuddered with terror. Jack telling people how they should live their lives was like Donald Trump telling men how to style their hair. “Two weeks and bam—a whole new career. I’m—I’m speechless.”

“I know. Isn’t it amazing? Internet training allows just about anyone to hang out a shingle these days.”

“How many clients do you have?”

“Well, only one so far, but I’ll probably have to beat them off with a stick when word gets out how good I am.”

“How did Beth Ann find you?”

“She read the ad I stuck up on the bulletin board at the salon. She asked Tom for particulars, he said he thought we’d hit it off, and here we are.”

I glanced across the room to find Beth Ann chatting with Mike and Mary Lou McManus and several other Mainers. “Actually, I’m surprised she responded to your ad. She seems so together. It’s hard to believe she needs help making everyday decisions.”

Jackie flicked her hand back and forth at the wrist. “Honey, the poor girl is a mess. Tom has done her hair for years, so he’s gotten an earful. Her husband left her. She got laid off from her job. Her father died. She might look cool, calm, and confident, but trust me, she’s being held together by piano wire.”

“She doesn’t seem to have any trouble mingling with people.”

“That’s because she’s on special assignment. If we’re going to nail the killer, we have to infiltrate the enemy camp, so she’s practicing her infiltration techniques—smiles, flattery, and a wad of Euros to defray the cost of Dietger’s tip. Money always talks.”

“Whoa! I never said anything about a killer.”

“You didn’t have to. Our dinner companions told us all about Charlotte’s dictatorship, so it was pretty obvious. Take it from me, there’s a killer. And since you have such a lousy record for apprehending criminals, I’ve decided you need more boots on the ground to assist with the investigation, so Beth Ann and I are teaming up to help you.”

Oh, God. Just what I needed. Scooby-Doo and friend turning my subtle fact-finding mission into an afternoon soap opera.

“So …” she leaned over close to my ear, “who do we think did it?”

Was I starting to question my own suspicions? Or was I simply afraid what Pete Finnegan might do if he found himself being stalked by a six-foot transsexual with a penchant for playing dress-up?

One thing was for sure though. If I refused Jackie’s help, she’d find a way to play detective anyway, so if I couldn’t talk her out of it, I’d be better off giving her my blessing to get into it … with a few guidelines. “Okay, Jack, you and Beth are in, but you need to follow the ground rules.”

“Yes! I love ground rules!”

“You hate ground rules.”

She sighed. “I know. I’m in denial.”

“Three things.” I waved a trio of digits in her face. “These folks from Maine aren’t cream puffs; they’re pretty tough hombres. So whatever you do, don’t bug them. Stay out of their personal space. And don’t ask them stupid questions.”

“How am I supposed to know if a question is stupid or not?”

“As a general rule? Anything out of your mouth that contains the words ‘Did you kill the tour director?’ is a stupid question.”

She looked confused. “Why is that stupid?”

“It’s a go,” Beth Ann announced as she joined us, “but it’s costing us twenty Euros apiece for the honor. Is twenty too much? Do you think I should have haggled the price down to ten?” She compressed her head between her hands and squeezed. “Did I do the right thing? I think I screwed up.” She gave Jackie a beseeching look. “I’ll die if I screwed up. Really. I’ll just open a vein, lie down, and die.”

Yup. Jackie had called that one. Beth Ann’s cool, calm, and confident demeanor was all window dressing, which meant that despite Jackie’s wanting to play Nancy Drew, her hands were going to be so full addressing Beth Ann’s insecurities that she’d have precious little time to derail my investigation.

I smiled impishly. Thank you, Jesus!

“Twenty Euros is a fair price,” Jackie reassured her. “You think twenty Euros is fair, don’t you, Emily?”

Twenty Euros was highway robbery, but Beth Ann didn’t need to hear that, especially if she was carrying sharp objects in her shoulder bag. “Sounds good to me.”

Beth Ann gasped with relief. “Ehh! I was really sweating it.” She fanned her face at warp speed. “We can leave as soon as two couples and a female guest change their clothes. They were sitting in the booth where the guy got seasick and blew his cookies all over his table companions. I’m surprised they’re coming with us. Word on the grapevine is that the aggrieved guests are so incensed, there could be an old-fashioned rumble.”

“How very West Side Story of them,” cooed Jackie. Then to me, “Do we need to cover that?”

“Consider all guests in the Maine contingent persons of interest,” I suggested. “You can judge for yourself what you want and don’t want to cover.”

“I don’t want to cover a rumble,” she said with an admiring glance at her hands. “I just had my nails done.”

Figuring my influence here was about spent, I spotted someone standing by herself near the front door and realized there was one more thing I needed to do. “Stay out of trouble,” I cautioned Jackie and Beth Ann before making my way across the lobby to the pretty blonde in the skinny jeans and ponytail. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said by way of greeting, “but my name is Emily, and I have a confession to make.”

“Don’t we all,” she said, laughing. “Glad to meet you, Emily. I’m Laura, and if you have something to confess, I’m all ears.” Her smile was magnetic, her eyes warm and lively. She looked like the type of person who could coax a cat out of a tree or a child out of a tantrum. I liked her already.

“You’re going to think this is pretty weird, especially since you don’t know me, but I took the liberty of inventing a personality profile for you at dinner tonight.”

Her smile widened. “Did you make me sound good?”

“I made you rock. You are now as financially savvy as Oprah and as physically fit as Wonder Woman.”

She threw her head back with laughter. “Fantastic! Do I wear hot pants and a brass bra?”

“You’re wealthy enough to wear whatever you want. You’ve already done an interview for Fitness Magazine with tips on how to remain flab-free, optimistic, and disgustingly rich throughout retirement, and next month, you’ll be doing a feature article for Vanity Fair and a cover shoot for Vogue.” I shrugged. “Just a few minor events in your life.”

“Vogue? Boy, have I come up in the world. I may have to drag out my curling iron and rethink my makeup. So, tell me, what necessitated the grand fiction?”

I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. Hold it. I couldn’t tell her all the hurtful things her classmates had said. The idea was to stick up for her, not rip the scab off an old wound. I stared at her stupidly, hoping the ground would open up beneath my feet so I could disappear into it.

“Ouch. That bad, hunh?” She smiled sympathetically. “Maybe I can make this a little easier for you. Who did you eat with this evening?”

“The Hennessys—two n’s, two s’s, no e before the y—the Bouchards, and Paula—”

“Peavey,” she finished for me. “Say no more. I get the picture. I guess they made it clear that I was the butt of their jokes for four years. I’m so sorry you had to sit there and be exposed to their negative energy. Did Paula