Dutch Me Deadly

“You got it.” But I knew he wouldn’t. He’d looked so uneasy when we were discussing Pete that I found it a bit unsettling. Maybe I shouldn’t have revealed so much to him, but Mike was so nice, he couldn’t be hiding a ragbag of dark secrets, could he?

“Are we ready to move on to the next room?” I asked the gang as I paused by the huddle.

“Emily will know,” asserted Helen.

“Don’t count on it,” said Bernice.

“Emily will know what?” I inquired.

Helen let out a frustrated sigh. “We’ve been going over and over this and we can’t agree. What was Dick wearing last night?”

“It’s question number four on the form,” Grace added helpfully.

I gave them a blank look. “Uhh—”

“What’d I tell you,” droned Bernice.

“That’s a toughie,” I admitted, unable to recall even seeing Dick Teig last night. “Did any of you take a picture of him?”

“I tried,” said Tilly. “When we were in the coffeeshop. With my phone. But I ended up calling a shaman in New Guinea instead.”

“Anyone else take a picture?”

“I wanted to,” said George, “but the buttons on my keypad kept moving around.”

“Nana?” I eyed her expectantly. She was such a photo hound, she had to have taken pictures last night.

She shook her head. “I couldn’t snap the shutter, dear. It was too embarrassin’.”

“Okay, no pictures, but you know for sure he was wearing a shirt, slacks, and jacket. Can you remember the color of the jacket?”

“Gray,” said Alice.

“Green,” said George.

“Aha!” I regarded Helen hopefully. “Does Dick own a sage colored jacket?”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she pondered the question. “The grandkids bought him a jacket for Christmas a few years back, but I don’t think it was sage. It was more like the color of baby asparagus when you overcook it in the microwave.”

“Black?” asked Margi.

“Morons!” snapped Bernice. “His jacket is denim with a fleece collar that makes him look like he has a flock of sheep living under his chins. What’s wrong with you people? Are you all blind?”

They obviously were last night. “I tell you what,” I intervened, “why don’t you skip this question for now and go back to it later?”

“Am I allowed to do that?” asked Helen.

“You bet. In fact, answering all the other questions might help jog your memory with these earlier ones.”

“I doubt it,” she fretted.

“Unh-unh-unh.” I wagged my finger. “Don’t you dare sell yourself short. Once you put your mind to it, I suspect you’ll be able to remember every last detail of what Dick was wearing last night.”

“I can’t honestly say as I remember the last time I really looked at Dick.” She let out a wistful sigh. “Is his head still big as an inflatable pumpkin?”

“More like an inflatable planet,” said Bernice.

She set a placating hand on my arm. “Maybe no one’s explained this to you, Emily, but when you’ve been married as long as Dick and I have, you notice certain changes in your relationship. Like, you don’t actually see each other anymore. You already know what each other looks like, so what’s the point? Dick could hang around the house in a ruffled tutu, and I could run errands in a sausage casing, and the truth is, neither one of us would probably notice.”

“Oh.” I stared dumbly, a little taken aback. Is this how Etienne and I would end up in a few years? So bored with each other’s company that we’d be blind to each other’s fatal clothing choices?

“Emily and her young man don’t gotta worry about that for another fifty years,” Nana spoke up, “which is about how long it’s gonna take us to fill out these forms if we keep dillydallyin’.”

Nods. Grunts of agreement.

“Before you get back to work,” I broke in as Helen smoothed the folds out of her papers, “please don’t spend all your time filling out forms. We only have two hours, so if you want to see the whole house, you have to get moving. Okay?”

More nods.

“I’m going to continue the tour, so I’ll be on the first floor if you need me.”

“I thought we were on the first floor,” said Margi.

“We’re on the ground floor,” explained Tilly. “The first floor is one level up. Europeans number their floors differently.”

“But …” Margi regarded the ceiling in confusion. “I thought we were on the first floor.”

“Question number five,” Helen read in a rush of words. ‘“Does the subject in question have any distinguishing features that would make him stand out in a crowd?’”

“’Bout time we got an easy one,” said George.

“His head,” Helen scribbled with authority.

I proceeded through the room at the front of the building and entered a vestibule that housed a staircase as steep as a cliff, with treads no wider than my hand. Uff-da. These must be the notorious Dutch stairs that Wally had warned us about. I wondered if Ricky and Mindy had made it to the top, hampered, as they were, by their excessive weight and possible balance problems. But they must have managed somehow, because they were nowhere in sight.

The first floor was a rabbit warren of rooms off a long hallway. I followed the prescribed route through private offices and supply rooms, learning that Otto Frank operated a second business while he was in hiding—one that distributed pectin used for making jam. I browsed the exhibits, taking note of identity cards, accounting books, and Anne’s favorite movie magazine, Cinema & Theater, then climbed a circular staircase to the next floor, where the memorabilia on display told tales of both extraordinary heroism and unimaginable horror.

The Mainers must have breezed through this level, because I didn’t see a one of them until I entered a narrow hallway that funneled traffic to the rear of the building. At the far end of this passageway, where a hinged bookcase swung away from the wall to reveal the once secret entrance to the annex, Mike and Peewee stood toe to toe, locked in an intense exchange.

Hmm. I wondered what that was about. But before I could get close enough to hear what they were saying, Mike saw me coming, broke off his discussion with Peewee, and tossed me a furtive wave before disappearing into a doorway beneath an awkwardly placed map on the wall. Peewee followed close behind, doubling over at his waist to clear the space without bumping his head.

I quickened my steps. Nuts. Where were Jackie and Beth Ann when I needed them?

The door to the secret annex was wedged open and held in place by a steel brace that blocked access to an ascending stairway. Patrons were apparently expected to reach the next story by climbing what looked like a bookshelf, but only after touring the Frank’s apartment and passing through a door on the opposite side of the barrier. I peered up the nearly vertical staircase to the opening cut in the floor above and felt the bottoms of my feet tingle in alarm. Holy crap! My guys couldn’t climb these things. I wasn’t sure I could climb them!

I pulled out my cellphone, hoping they were still on the ground floor, dithering over the questionnaires. I checked the screen.

No service.

Shoot! I looked back down the hallway to find a crowd of tourists streaming toward me. Swimming against the tide would take too long. I had to go forward. If I didn’t stop to look at anything, I could probably reach the ground floor in a few minutes.

Mike suddenly appeared on the other side of the barrier, aiming to head up the stairs.