suppose Paula did anything with her life besides sue people?”
“Maybe she was a serial suer,” said Jackie. “Winning frivolous lawsuits can be a lucrative profession for people who prefer not to work for a living.”
In the next few minutes I was bombarded with a flurry of messages that pointed to one conclusion: If you need to dig up information on the Internet, have an eighty-year-old do the searching for you.
From Alice: “Mike McManus attended U of Maine, served in military, married Mary Lou O’Leary, relocated to DC. Spent none of adult life in Bangor. Worked in insurance industry as safety inspector. Retired after thirty years of service.”
From Helen: “Chip Soucy sued by Paula Peavey after she slipped on wet floor in his grocery market. Damages bankrupted him. Lost store. Unresolved tax issues up the wazoo.”
From Bernice: “We’re in stupid lace store watching demonstration. BORING. No poop on Bobby Guerrette. What a waste of time.”
From Nana: “Ricky Hennessy opened Penobscot Auto Repair after high school. Went bankrupt after being sued by Paula Peavey ten years later. Spotty work record until landing job as gas station attendant and repairman at Pine Tree State Tires and Auto Repair. Lots of tax troubles.”
From Osmond: “Mary Lou McManus (born O’Leary) earned nursing degree from Eastern Maine General Hospital. Moved to DC area after marrying Mike McManus. Worked at Walter Reed Hospital in surgical unit. Two children, Mike Junior and Laura.”
From Grace: “Mindy Hennessy’s wedding took up five columns in newspaper. Name appears eight times in birth announcement section. Worked part-time at Freese’s Department Store, J. J. Newberry’s Five and Dime Store, and Standard Shoes. Trouble with IRS.”
From Bernice: “No one wears lace. Why do I have to watch this? I notice YOU’RE not here.”
From George: “Laura LaPierre attended Colby College and did graduate work at Stanford. Remained in CA. Headed admissions office at Berkeley. Married decorated army vet. One daughter.”
From Margi again: “Paula Peavey lived in family home on Maple Street entire life. Can’t find work record. Showed dogs. Many awards. Constant trouble with IRS.”
From Tilly: “Pete Finnegan attended Bowdoin College. Worked for local IRS as tax examiner and later tax compliance officer. Never married. Avid hunter and woodworker. Photo of him and 24-point buck in paper.”
“Oh, my God, Jack. Look at this.”
She frowned as she read. “Tilly must have found the same picture I did, but I don’t get it. What’s so special about a twenty-four point buck? How many points are they supposed to have?”
“The buck isn’t the important part. Pete was the tax police. An IRS agent. A G-man! Do you know what that means?”
“Of course I know what it means. Federal retirement. The government offers much better benefits than Social Security.”
“No! It means he was in a position to make his classmates’ lives a living hell, and I suspect that’s exactly what he did.” I scrolled back through my messages. “A slew of them had a history of tax troubles—Chip Soucy, Ricky and Mindy, Paula Peavey. I bet if I were a better searcher, I’d probably discover that the Bouchards have been battling the IRS most of their married lives, too.”
Jackie’s eyes glazed over with horror. “My Tom was audited once. He said it was the most terrifying experience of his life. Even more terrifying than his first Brazilian wax.”
My brain was clicking at a thousand miles an hour. “Paula drove them into bankruptcy and Pete rode roughshod over whatever money they had left. What a duo. They must have been the two most hated people in Bangor.”
“Which makes you wonder why they ever came on this trip. They sign up to spend eight days with the enemy, and they think nothing’s going to happen? Duh?”
My thought process executed a sudden detour. Would anyone have had the opportunity to settle old scores with Pete and Paula if the reunion had been held in Bangor? Would the hometown setting have been too safe to create any kind of chaos? Was the reunion held abroad for the sole purpose of inserting Pete and Paula into unfamiliar surroundings so they’d be more vulnerable? Oh, my God. Were Pete and Paula’s deaths premeditated? Could the reunion be nothing more than a convenient ruse to commit murder?
“Whose idea was it to have a class reunion in Holland anyway?” asked Jackie.
I felt a wrenching in my gut as I supplied the answer.
“Mary Lou McManus.”
_____
“You been able to figure out who done it yet, dear?”
After a fifteen-minute hike over meandering canals, through parks with umbrellaed tables, around whimsical sculptures, and past stone houses rippling with ivy, we arrived at the Market Square, to find Nana and the gang exactly where her latest text message said they’d be—in front of an official-looking building with a soaring octagonal tower.
“I’m coming up with a new suspect every five minutes,” I confessed. “I’m making myself crazy.”
“You want we should hold off sendin’ you any more messages?”
“No! Keep them coming. They’re helping me piece together a narrative of the Mainers’ lives. I just don’t know how many pieces are involved.”
Market Square reminded me of some of the grand squares of Italy. The center was filled with canopied booths as plentiful as carnival tents, where vendors hawked flowers and food, clothing and jewelry. Flagpoles ringed the far side, their heraldic banners floating overhead like United Nations flags. Horse-drawn carriages clattered by in the street, chased by bicycles pedaled by men in three-piece suits, and women in skirts and high heels. A row of guild houses flanked the opposite side of the square, their brick facades boasting vibrant shades of red and brown, their stepped gables as picturesque as the cafes that spilled onto the sidewalks beneath them. I doubted many Americans had ever heard of Bruges, but it was their loss, because walking through Bruges was like strolling through the pages of a storybook, where all the ugly ducklings had turned into swans, and every house was a fairytale castle.
I retrieved a message from Osmond, who was leaning against a bicycle rack about six feet away, his eyes glued to his phone. “Maid of Honor at Mary Lou’s wedding was Laura LaPierre. After the wedding, little contact between them. Checked old phone logs. No record of long-distance calls between DC and CA until about a year ago.”
A year ago? Had Mary Lou and Laura planned the reunion together?
But wait a minute, Osmond had checked old phone logs? Logs from four or five decades ago? I tossed him a curious look. How in the world had he done that?
“Would you excuse me for a minute, Nana?”
I held my phone in front of Osmond’s face. “Good work on Mary Lou McManus,” I complimented him. “But how were you able to check old phone logs? Who are you? The CIA?”
“Your grandmother showed me a website where I could access all sorts of archived classified files. Phone records. Buying habits. Financial records. Medical records. Did you know the government keeps records on all that stuff ?”
I guess I did now. I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “When you say Nana ‘showed’ you, do you mean she gave you the web address, or she helped you hack into the site?”
“Oh, she helped me hack into the site, all right. I wouldn’t have known how to do it otherwise. But it was pretty easy once she showed me, so maybe I can do it on my own next time.”
He mulled that over. “Would I get my name printed in the
“This is serious, Osmond. You can search legitimate sites on the Web without having to resort to the cloak- and-dagger stuff. Okay?”
He sighed. “Does that mean you don’t want to hear about the e-mails Mary Lou and Laura have been sending
