Dutch Me Deadly

“If you people in the back can’t put a sock in it, I’m going to move you to the front of the bus!”

Move my group away from the restroom? Oh, yah, that would go over big.

I heard a chorus of horrified snorts and gasps, followed by a flurry of clicking sounds.

Tingtingtingtingtingtingtingting.

Nana bobbled her phone as it lit up maniacally.

“Our first stop this morning will be at a windmill a few miles south of our destination town of Volendam,” Charlotte said pleasantly, returning to her canned narration. “It’s called Molen Katwoude— molen is Dutch for mill—and it’s a glorious example of a traditional Dutch windmill. Have your cameras ready because it’s a real Kodak moment. And I’ll give you fair warning. Stay! On! The! Sidewalk! If you wander into the road, you’ll be run down by a scooter or a bicycle, and will end up in the morgue, like the pig- headed guest on my last tour. I harped and harped about the dangers, but no one was going to tell Mr. Know-It-All what to do. So he ended up dead. People never listen. It’s epidemic.”

“See, Emily?” Nana encouraged in a grandmotherly undertone. “Charlotte’s had her problems, too. So don’t go blamin’ yourself for them tour guests what croaked while they was travelin’ with you. Just about anything can do in us old folks. Hit n’ run. Hearin’ loss. Stupidity.”

But my guests hadn’t just dropped dead. They’d been knocked off. In fact, so many had died on tours I’d escorted that the body count was hovering somewhere around the national debt. Which goes to prove something I’ve suspected for several years: a surprising number of homicidal maniacs treat themselves to really nice holiday tours.

“Enjoy the scenery until we reach the windmill,” Charlotte advised, “but when we arrive, do not jump out of your seats, trying to push and shove to be first off the bus. You will remain in your seats until I give you further instructions. Do you understand? Show of hands, please.”

Uh-oh. She obviously didn’t understand how important it was to an eighty-year-old with two hip replacements and a bum knee to be first off the bus. Claiming that honor not only gained the person rock star status, it earned him the kind of respect and awe usually reserved for people who could actually stay awake for events scheduled after luncheon buffets. Charlotte’s edict could destroy the whole social dynamic of our group! What was she thinking?

I could sense rebellion brewing when only a few hands crept into the air.

Charlotte twisted her mouth into a pouty contortion. “I see. You’re trying to be difficult. Is it any wonder I’m popping anti-anxiety drugs like Tic-Tacs? I just knew you people were going to be trouble. Well, put this in your pipes and smoke it: I’m in charge. You’re not. So there!”

She flung herself back into her seat. Nana leaned toward me. “You s’pose she forgot there’s no smokin’ on the bus?”

I hung my head and sighed. Eight whirlwind days in Holland. The trip had sounded so short. Now, I realized, it was going to be way too long.

Oh, God.

Two

As we sped along the two-lane road that hugged the dike, I realized that Iowa and Holland had a lot in common despite being separated by the North Sea, the Atlantic Ocean, and half a freaking continent. Both places were flat as ironing boards, with acres of level fields stretching as far as the eye could see. But while Iowans grew grain, the Dutch grew hay. While Iowa cornfields were crosshatched with a precise grid of gravel roads, Dutch hayfields were crosshatched with a precise grid of narrow canals. Iowans raised prize-winning hogs that became Blue Plate Specials; the Dutch raised woolly sheep that became winter sweaters. Iowans bought John Deere equipment to cut their grass; the Dutch bought scruffy sheep to eat theirs.

“Wow, look at that house.” I pointed out the window at a fairy-tale cottage made of rose-colored brick and trimmed with decorative gingerbread. The roof was a steep pyramid of red tile, the windows were offset with white shutters and window boxes, and the front lawn was a topiary maze surrounded by circular gardens and elegant footbridges. “It’s straight out of Cinderella.”

“Uh-huh,” Nana muttered as she studied her phone’s display screen.

Two seconds later, we were past it. “You missed it.”

“Uh-huh.” Her thumbs flitted over her keypad.

I gave her arm a playful nudge. “I hope you realize you’re missing all the scenery that you spent an incredible amount of devalued money to see.”

“I know, dear. But this is real important. The Dicks wanna start a movement to protest the way Charlotte’s handlin’ things. They say all our freedoms are bein’ threatened, so we need to take back our tour before it’s too late.”

I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. “By asking you to leave the bus without trampling each other, Charlotte isn’t exactly depriving you of all your freedoms.”

“It’s a slippery slope, Emily. She might start by tellin’ us we can’t be first off the bus, but what’ll be next? No more textin’ while we’re in transit?”

I’d like to suggest that one myself.

“You got any ideas about what we can call ourselves, dear? Tea-baggers is already taken. Carpetbaggers don’t make no sense now that wall-to-wall is out and hardwood is in. Helen come up with Handbaggers, but the Dicks say they’re not gonna join any movement where they gotta carry a purse.”

“Way too emasculating,” I agreed. “You could go generic and call yourselves anarchists. Then you could eliminate any fashion accessory problems.”

Her eyes lit up behind her new glasses. “I like that. Lemme see if it flies with the gang.” She poised her thumbs over her keypad. “How do you spell that, dear?”

As I provided the correct spelling, the bus decelerated into the breakdown lane and coasted to a complete stop near a pristine complex of multi-level town homes that boasted steeply pitched roofs and paint jobs in pink and charcoal. Charlotte stepped into the center aisle, her gaze lasering down the length of the bus. “Before we exit to see the windmill, I want you all to synchronize your watches. It is now precisely 10:06, so please set your watches. Ten. Oh. Six.”

She waited a few beats, looking pleased that everyone seemed to be following instructions and no one was giving her grief. “We’re scheduled to be here exactly fifteen minutes, so don’t squander your time. Take your photos, then head directly back to the bus so we can continue on to Volendam. We won’t wait for stragglers. If you miss the bus, you’re on your own.”

Hmm. That seemed a bit excessive. I wondered who’d established that policy—the tour company or Charlotte? I bowed my head close to Nana’s. “Does your movement have any age requirements?”

“When Dietger opens the front door, I want you all to file out in an orderly fashion,” Charlotte announced. “One row at a time. Right side first. And remember what I told you. Stay on the sidewalk!”

The door shushed open. Dietger vacated his driver’s seat and hustled down the stairs. Charlotte clapped her hands as if she were keeping time to a military march and started herding guests into the aisle and down the stepwell. I fished my new digital camera out of my shoulder bag and slid to the edge of my seat, pumped to hit the pavement.

“Is everyone jazzed to see the windmill?” I asked my guys.

“We’re not going, dear,” Nana informed me as she poked her keypad with the tip of her forefinger.

I stared at her, nonplussed. “Not going? You have to go. It’s a windmill. The most iconic symbol in all Holland.” Well, besides wooden shoes, tulips, and Hans Brinker’s silver skates. I shot to my feet. “Cellphones down! Refusing to participate in the tour experience should not be part of your movement. Why are you boycotting the windmill?”

“She lost me at ‘synchronize your watches’,” complained Dick Stolee. “I haven’t figured out how to adjust mine yet. The counter clerk at Walmart set it for Dutch time when I bought it last week, but it’s still off by a few minutes.”

I gaped at him. Dick was such an accomplished gearhead that he could have Humpty Dumpty put back