Dutch Me Deadly

“Eww.” Jackie did a little pattycake clap. “The noose tightens. So, whose neck is in the noose?”

It took me less than a millisecond to pare down our tsunami of hunches into a single coherent thought. “I think that someone is killing reunion guests … to avenge something that happened at a high school outing fifty years ago.” I nodded approval at myself. That’s what I’d been wanting to say all along, wasn’t it?

“Who?” pressed Jackie.

I frowned. “That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet.”

“But Pete Finnegan and Paula Peavey are at the top of the leader board,” said Helen.

“Pete and Paula?” Jackie let out a hoot. “Hel-looo? Your main suspects are dead. I can hardly wait to hear the confessions you drag out of them.”

“Laura LaPierre and Gary Bouchard might be suspect,” said Tilly, reading the names she’d written on her notepad.

“I think there’s somethin’ shady about that Hennessy fella’s wife,” said Nana. “She don’t look like no cheerleader I ever seen.”

“You think there’s something shady about her?” Bernice snorted. “Get a gander of Peewee’s graduation picture on his nametag. He didn’t even look like the same species back then.”

“People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” Margi said in a small, tight voice.

“Should we take a vote?” asked Osmond.

“No.” I waved off the idea with both hands. “Research first, then voting.”

“What kinda research?” asked Nana.

“You’re the ones with the smartphones and Web access, so would each of you be responsible for a single name and dig up whatever information you can on that one person? Anything you can find. Public records. Newspaper articles. Obituaries. Service organization rosters. Genealogical records. Anything that looks in the least bit relevant. When we get together again, we’ll pool our findings to see if we can establish any new leads.”

I could feel the energy level rise like the mercury in a Fahrenheit thermometer. “We only need to investigate about twelve people, so that should be doable. Maybe we should call them the dirty dozen.”

“Can we choose the name we want to research?” asked Alice.

“Sure,” I agreed. “Out of a hat.”

But since I didn’t have a hat, I put the names into my ice bucket instead.

“I don’t like this name,” whined Bernice. “Anyone want to trade?”

There were no apparent takers as everyone held fast to the slips of paper they’d selected.

“Twits.”

“How am I going to do this?” asked Jackie. “I don’t have a smartphone.”

“The hotel has a business center. Maybe you can access a computer there. I’ll have to do that, too.” Either that, or call Mom, which could leave me with a bad case of hives. “Any other questions?”

They looked a little twitchy, as if they’d overdosed on caffeine. Snatching up their belongings, they put a bead on the door and began shuffling their feet.

“Okay, then.” I stepped out of the way. “Meeting adjourned.”

They raced across the room in a tangle of hips, legs, and elbows.

“Get to bed early,” I reminded them as they shouldered their way out the door. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Jackie stared after them. “Why do they always have to run?”

I gave her a palms-up. “Because they can?”

“Whatevvver. Say, you got stuck with two names. You want me to give one to Beth Ann?”

“I think Wally might have plans to keep Beth Ann a little preoccupied in the days to come, so I’d better handle them myself. I don’t want anyone accusing me of standing in the way of true love.”

“It’s so unfair,” she pouted as I ushered her to the door. “She’s supposed to be furthering my career, not his lovelife. What’ll I do if they decide to get married?”

I snapped my fingers. “The perfect career change for you, Jack. Wedding planner!”

She cocked her head and flashed a broad smile. “Ooh. That could work.”

Having orchestrated Jack’s next career move, I flopped onto my bed and unfolded the slips of paper I’d pulled from the ice bucket. “Sheila Bouchard” read the first one. “Gary Bouchard” read the second.

It was only then that I recalled my brief encounter with them in the Rijksmuseum—the one where they’d been standing within earshot of Pete Finnegan as he’d ranted about divulging secrets powerful enough to ruin all his classmates.

Damn. I’d forgotten about that.

Fifteen

“In the fourteenth century, the medieval city of Bruges was hailed as the premier center for trade and commerce in all of northern Europe,” Wally announced over the mike the next morning. “A hundred and fifty years later, a majority of its residents were living in poverty. Can you guess why?”

“Black Death!” called someone from the front of the bus.

“Nope.”

“Extension of the Bush tax cuts!” blurted Margi.

“Nope.”

I lunged for the seat in front of me as Dietger swerved into the passing lane, causing the whole bus to shimmy.

“Total economic collapse brung on by competition from foreign wool markets,” spouted Nana. “And then one of their big rivers silted up, so they couldn’t ship nuthin’ to no seaports.”

Wally paused. “That’s right,” he said, sounding a bit shocked.

She leaned toward me. “Globalization screwed ’em, but they didn’t call it that back then on account of in them days, the world wasn’t shaped like no globe. It was flat.”

I regarded her indulgently. “National Geographic Channel?”

“Reader’s Digest. I been a little irregular lately.”

“Bruges remained economically crippled for three hundred years,” Wally continued, “until British tourists rediscovered it in the mid-nineteenth century, prompting new cottage industries to spring up around chocolates, beer, and lace. It’s nicknamed the ‘Venice of the North’ for its many canals and waterways, but you’ll note that unlike Venice, it’s not sinking. Its guildhalls, warehouses, cathedrals, and merchants’ houses are some of the finest examples of Medieval Gothic architecture on the Continent, and lucky for us, perfectly preserved. Hitler’s armies left it untouched in the war, so the city you’re going to see today is the same city you would have seen six hundred years ago, with some minor updating to accommodate modern-day traffic and sanitation.”

The bus swerved back into the traveling lane, causing the contents of my stomach to slosh like a rogue wave.

“Geez!” Wally barked, making me think his stomach was sloshing, too. “If you can’t keep this rig on the road, how’s about I find someone who can?”

Dietger had been swerving a lot since our early morning departure from Amsterdam, jolting us awake from our catnaps with his dramatic over-corrections, accelerations, and staggering lurches to left and right. Our seat belts prevented us from slamming face first into the seat in front of us, but there was nothing we could do about the sleep deprivation, which meant, we’d be touring Bruges looking like an army of zombies.

I interpreted Dietger’s little temper tantrum to mean he hadn’t been pleased about Wally’s rebuke in the bar. Jackie had predicted there’d be consequences. Boy, she’d sure called that right.

“I’m sorry I don’t got no research to report to you this mornin’,” Nana apologized as she fussed with her seat belt. “Me and Tilly was full a good intentions last night, but listenin’ to the financial news put us both to sleep.”