Dutch Me Deadly

must be handicap accessible.”

“We’re in Amsterdam,” Wally replied with restraint. “There’s no elevator.” He took a deep breath and continued. “After the tour, I suggest you pick up a bite to eat in the museum cafeteria. Prices are reasonable, and you can’t beat the view overlooking the canal. They serve coffee, tea, lunch, drinks, snacks, and killer apple pie from a local bakery. Any questions?”

“Is there an elevator?” Helen shouted out.

I hung my head. Oh, God.

“Where is it you said we’re going?” asked Grace.

In their defense, they were so worried about their husbands, they obviously weren’t thinking straight, but having them this addled could become dangerous. I leaned close to Nana and lowered my voice to an undertone. “How did Grace and Helen perform on the eyeglasses task?”

Nana gave me a thumbs-up. “They missed their callin’, dear. Them two girls are natural-born opticians. They done such a good job, everyone ’ceptin’ Bernice and George has got their own glasses back again. When the Dicks show up, we’ll do the final swap. And I sure hope it’s soon. Bernice is so afraid of walkin’ into another wall, have you seen what she done to herself ?” Stealing a glance in her direction, she whispered, “She’s got so much tissue shootin’ out her nose, she looks like a bull walrus.”

“We’re touring the Anne Frank house,” Wally repeated in an even tone, “and for those of you who might need a refresher course, during World War II, thirteen-year-old Anne, her family, and four other people hid from the Gestapo for two years in the back section of this house. They were eventually betrayed, imprisoned, and transported to concentration camps, but Anne’s diary survived and remains one of the most seminal documents chronicling life in Amsterdam during Nazi occupation. I think it’s been translated into sixty different languages.”

“Isn’t that somethin’?” marveled Nana. “Who knew there was sixty languages?”

I dropped my voice another decibel. “Do you think Helen and Grace would benefit from having another diversion?”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Missing person forms. I was going to fill them out, but it might be better if the girls did it. The paperwork is pretty extensive, so it’s bound to keep them busy for a while.”

“Any word on the Dicks?”

I sighed. “Still missing.”

“That’s not good. Them drugs musta wore off by now. Could be they’re just too stubborn to admit they’re lost. Think of the humiliation, dear. How would they ever show their faces in Iowa again if they was forced to break down and ask someone for directions? They’d be broken men.”

I prayed it was that innocent, but the longer they were missing, the more frightened I was becoming.

As the doors of the bus whooshed open, I scooted into the aisle to catch Helen and Grace before they left. “I have homework for the two of you,” I said amiably as I pulled a wad of papers out of my shoulder bag. “We’re going to put the police on the trail of the boys, so—”

“You haven’t notified the police yet?” cried Grace.

“It’s the same protocol as back home,” I reassured them. “A person has to be missing for a certain number of hours before the police can get involved.”

“Children get Amber alerts,” fussed Helen. “You mean to tell me there’s nothing like that available to track down old men?”

I shrugged. “Seniors are in a different category. They’re supposed to be mature enough to take care of themselves.”

“I wonder who decided that?” asked Grace.

“Someone who never met our Dicks,” said Helen.

“As I was saying”—I passed the forms to both of them—“once you fill out the paperwork, the police can do their part to help find the boys.”

As she riffled through the pages, Helen arched what would have been an eyebrow if she’d been wearing any. “How much time have we got to fill them out?”

“It’s not a test. You can take as much time as you need. But the sooner you finish, the quicker the police can step in.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Grace effused as she scanned the first page. “This is wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Thank you so much, Emily.” She threw her arms around me in an uncharacteristic hug. “I’m so relieved!”

“No problem.” I returned the hug, flattered that she appreciated my efforts so much. “I promise you, we’ll find the boys if it’s the last thing we do.”

Helen regarded me, deadpan. “She’s not patting you on the back. She’s talking about her eyes. This is the first thing she’s been able to read since last night.”

Wally called out final instructions as we shuffled toward the exits. “Mind the traffic when you cross the street, people. We have reserved tickets, so we need to congregate outside number one-six-seven Prinsengracht and enter the museum as a group. Any more questions?”

He paused. “Okay, take note of the church on the corner as you pass by, because it’s where Rembrandt was buried in 1669. It’s called the Westerkerk and was built in 1620 as part of the Canal-Ring development. It’s famous for its fifty bell carillon, which plays Dutch folksongs for sixty seconds every fifteen minutes, twenty-four hours a day. If any of you have read Anne Frank’s diary, you’ll recall she mentions the bells of the Westerkerk by name.”

I exited through the side door, then corralled my people and herded them toward the traffic light at the corner. “Watch out for the trams,” I cautioned as we crossed to the opposite side. “And bicycles!”

Prinsengracht was a picturesque canal street with brick pavers, Victorian street lights, shade trees, park benches, and bicycles cluttered against every rail and railing like discarded erector sets. Watercraft motored up and down the canal, filling the air with sounds reminiscent of buzz saws. Houseboats as long as semitrucks lined the opposite side of the waterway, while glass-topped tour boats glided past them, their engines putt- putting along with a muted hum. As we hiked past the church, all fifty bells began ringing in the tower above us, marking the quarter hour with a rousing melody that echoed over the rooftops. The carillon smacked of Old World quaintness and charm, but I wasn’t sure how charming the locals found it at two o’clock in the morning. Then again, maybe the peel of bells became such an ordinary part of their lives, they simply stopped noticing it.

The reunion group was ahead of us, clumped in a Greek phalanx kind of formation that walled them off from nosy outsiders, like me, who wanted to pepper them with bothersome questions. Is this how they protected the secrets Pete accused them of hiding? By closing ranks? Were their purported secrets relevant to Paula’s drowning? Or were Pete’s accusations the rants of an antisocial genius who’d come unhinged and was trying to cover up his own involvement in the deaths of two women?

I was sure of only one thing: My instincts told me that someone in the group was a cold-blooded murderer with a deadly axe to grind, and if we didn’t nab him soon, he could very well kill again. But how could I sniff anyone out with all my potential suspects giving me the cold shoulder? If I sent them running in the opposite direction, how would I even get close enough to overhear a conversation or ask a question?

“Emily, will you stop walking so fast?”

I looked over my shoulder, a smile forming on my lips. Bingo.

Jackie and Beth Ann jogged toward me, legs pumping and handbags flopping. “You want to hear the latest?” Jackie asked, wheezing to catch her breath. “I just gave Dietger a piece of my mind for stranding us in the Red Light District last night, and you know what he had the nerve to say?” She nodded to Beth Ann. “Go ahead. Tell her.”

Beth Ann whipped her notebook out of her coat pocket. “He responded, and I quote—‘You want to go to bed with me?’”

I let out a snarky laugh. “I think that must be his standard line with all the girls.”

Beth Ann’s face fell. “How come he hasn’t tried it on me?”

“He will,” I assured her. “Give him a little time. So what was your comeback?”

Jackie swept her hand toward Beth Ann in a little ruffles and flourishes gesture. “‘Honey,’” Beth Ann recited,