Dutch Me Deadly

Finnegan did for a living.”

She hovered over me, her foot tapping out an impatient rhythm on the floor. “Are you coming?”

“Just … just … I’m almost there.”

“Are you supposed to be using this computer?”

“The front desk clerk gave me the access code. Free of charge.”

“Get out of here.” She stilled her foot and settled into the chair beside me. “What is it?”

I gave her the code.

“Ooh. Google access.” She paused. “I can’t just Google the word Peewee. What’s the guy’s real name?”

I continued clicking on links. “Check the guest roster in your tour packet.”

She rummaged through her designer bag. Shuffling. Sorting. Swearing. “Let’s see. Here it is. ‘Peewee’ Crowley. Phoenix, Arizona. This can’t be right. Are they telling us his real name is Peewee?”

“Try the Francis Xavier yearbook. Maybe they’ve archived copies online.” I combined Pete’s name with various businesses in Bangor and got no hits. Guess he wasn’t a local merchant.

“Okay, his real name is Norman Crowley,” said Jackie, fingers flying and screen changing as fast as the beams in a laser light show.

I tried banking, the bar association, the medical field. Nothing.

“Ta-da!” She veed her arms over her head. “Norman Crowley was drafted right out of high school. Here’s a picture of him and some of his buddies packing up and heading off to boot camp. ‘Local Boys Put College on Hold to Serve Country First,’ is the title of the newspaper article. Man, he really was a squirt back then.”

I sat straight up in my chair. The draft? That’s right! Up until the early seventies, all men had been inducted into the military, even my dad. Was it possible that Pete and Gary had served together? Maybe even been in the same platoon or regiment?

I Googled the United States Military.

“I know people change,” Jackie quipped, “but this kid in the picture looks nothing like the guy who’s on the tour with us.”

“You don’t look anything like your high school graduation picture either,” I reminded her. I stared at the required fields I needed to fill in to access any information on Peter Finnegan’s military history. Damn. I didn’t know any of this stuff.

“At least I have the same nose,” Jackie argued. “And cheekbones. That’s more than I can say for Norman Crowley.”

Impasse. I’d have to forget the military for now. What next? Could Pete have been an undertaker? A teacher?

“Maybe Peewee underwent a growth spurt when he was in the service.” Jackie’s fingers danced over the keyboard, nails clicking. “I wonder if the newspaper shot a picture when he came home?”

I leaned back in my chair. Flummoxed.

“Aha! Private Norman Crowley … blah, blah, blah … discharged after two years … blah, blah, blah … There’s an article, but no picture. I guess we’ll just have to assume he grew, and had a nose job.”

I checked the time. “We better go. Let’s hope Gheertrude is walking slowly.”

“Did you see this photo of Pete Finnegan? It’s on the same page.”

“What photo?”

“The one where he’s posing with the carcass of a deer he shot on the first day of hunting season. ‘Local Man Shoots Twenty-Four Point Buck.’ Ick.”

Pete had been a deer hunter?

Bingo.

Sixteen

“So, does this blow the hell out of your senior class outing theory?”

“I don’t know what it does, but I’ll feel less anxious if I can convince Wally to pass the information along to the Amsterdam police, for whatever it’s worth.”

We were taking a breather on an ancient stone bridge that offered a panoramic view of the city with its towering church spires, witch-capped turrets, winding lanes, iconic gables, hidden alleyways, moss-covered walls, and ivy-clad dwellings. Beneath us, in a narrow canal flanked by houses that looked centuries old, fairytale swans glided in silence, their passage barely ruffling the water.

We hadn’t spied the rest of the group yet, but given that Jackie had developed a killer limp that was slowing us down to a crawl, I wasn’t surprised. In a footrace between seniors in flats and transsexuals in stilettos, seniors win hands down, especially if there’s food involved.

“Both Gary and Pete were hunters,” I rattled on as I snapped a photo of a step-gabled house across the street. “What if Pete had been hunting the day Gary Senior suffered his mishap? What if he saw the whole thing?”

Jackie winced as she tested her weight on her right foot. “You don’t think the Bouchards would have noticed Pete Finnegan standing around, gawking at them?”

“Not if Pete had built a blind for himself. He could have been so well camouflaged, he might have been invisible to the human eye.”

“So you’re speculating that Pete saw something he wasn’t meant to see?”

I panned to the left and pressed my shutter, capturing a horse and open carriage as they clattered over the cobblestones. “Think about it, Jack. What if the accident didn’t happen exactly like Gary Junior said? What if Pete could implicate Gary in his father’s death?”

“Then Gary would have good reason to push Pete down a flight of stairs and hope for the worst. But if Pete saw something, why didn’t he speak up at the time of the accident? I mean, wouldn’t that be the normal thing to do? And if Gary knew that Pete knew, why did he wait over forty years to deal with him?”

“Okay, I still have a few holes in my theory, but I’m getting closer.”

Ting!

“Text message alert,” Jackie deadpanned. She nodded at my shoulder bag. “It’s yours.”

“How do you know?” I quickly dug out my phone.

“My ring tones are a lot more annoying.”

I felt a sudden rush of excitement. “It’s from Nana. My first!” I read the message on the screen. “‘Where r u?’ Aw, isn’t that cute?” I held the phone up so she could read the message for herself. “It’s like reading a little vanity license plate.”

“Really, Emily,” Jackie said in an undertone. “Please don’t tell me you’ve never seen texting shorthand. What planet have you been living on?”

“The same one you’ve been living on, only in the technologically challenged section. Do you want to send the reply?” I handed her the phone. “Go ahead, smartie. Wow me.”

She flexed her thumbs in the same way a gunslinger might flex his trigger finger. “If you insist.”

I spread my map out on the low wall of the bridge and traced several squiggly lines before stabbing an unremarkable speck. “Tell her we’re standing right here.”

Jackie looked over my shoulder. “Oh, yeah. That’s really helpful.”

With a theatrical sigh, she labored over my phone for the next two minutes before handing it back. “Would you do me a favor and buy yourself a phone with a dedicated keypad?”

“Sure. Right after I buy the Lear jet I’ve been eying. So what did you tell her?”

“Sightseeing. Will catch up.”

I eyed my screen as the alert chimed again. “Text message from Margi Swanson.” I punched the view key. “Bless her heart. She’s really been doing her research. Listen to this. ‘Paula Peavey sued Penobscot Auto Repair forty years ago. Claimed faulty brake repair work caused accident.’” I exchanged a look with Jackie. “Do you