Dutch Me Deadly

“Where’s the lemon scented stuff ?”

“Gone!” snapped Margi in a wild-eyed frenzy. “All I have left is peony-pumpkin. You see? This is what happens when you’re restricted to forty-five pounds of luggage. I can’t fight the norovirus with only thirty pounds of hand sanitizer. It’s impossible!”

“Stick together out there, okay?” I advised, reverting to the old safety in numbers philosophy. “I’m serious about this. Do not wander away from the group.”

A groan from Helen. “But what if some people are slowpokes?”

Six sets of eyes riveted on Bernice.

“What?” she complained. “Why are you looking at me?”

“If people are slow, be polite and wait for them,” I instructed. “It won’t kill you. I’ll catch up to you as soon as I can.”

“Where are you going?” accused Bernice. “The cafeteria?”

“Nope. I have to see a man about a horse.”

They finished up their sanitizing and were out the door before I left my stall. When I stepped back into the main lobby area, I was surprised to find it deserted, save for Wally, who was in a far corner talking on his cellphone, and Jackie and Beth Ann, who continued to linger by the men’s room entrance in anticipation of ambushing Peewee.

“He’s still in there?” I marveled.

“With our luck he’ll have prostate problems, and it’ll take him all day to whiz,” griped Jackie. Running her hands over her skirt, she smoothed out imaginary wrinkles. “Thank God I don’t have to anticipate that happening anymore.”

I picked up my audio guide from the bin on the front desk, and when Wally pocketed his cellphone, I hurried over to him. “I need your help. Would it be terribly inconvenient for you to request everyone’s passport when we get back to the hotel so we can check if everyone is who they say they are?”

He threw up his hands. “Why not? Glad to oblige. Maybe the police will give me a pat on the back for thinking ahead and doing part of their job for them. Isn’t that what tour guides are supposed to do? Smile in spite of all the crap that people throw at us?”

I quietly tucked in my lips. Somebody was still angry.

“Why am I still in this business?” he ranted. He drilled me with a hard look. “Why are you still in this business?”

“Well, I was out of the business for a little while.”

“Got fed up with the loonies, did you?”

I shook my head. “Bank collapse.”

“Ahh, that’s right. You were part of some bank-sponsored travel club. Damn recession. Did your bank go belly up?”

“It collapsed. Literally.” I compressed air between my hands until my palms were flattened together. “F-4 category tornado.”

“And you came back?” He looked bewildered. “Why?”

Why? “Because … I love what I’m doing,” I said without hesitation. “I love the whole nine yards. The people. The places. The cuisine. The—”

“The coach drivers?”

“Aha. The truth comes out. So what are you going to do about Dietger’s showboating?”

“I already took care of it. I just called the company to request a substitute driver.”

“Oh, my God. You sacked Dietger?”

“Hell, yes. I’m not about to jeopardize the lives of forty-four people by tolerating any more of his antics.”

“You have the authority to do that?”

“I’m claiming the authority.” He marked the time. “The new driver should be here within the hour. His name is Jens.”

“Wow. That’s pretty gutsy of you. How did Dietger take the news?”

He squared his shoulders and jaw as Dietger swaggered through the front door. “I’ll let you know after I tell him.”

Unh-oh. No way did I want to be any part of this. In the next moment Peewee swooped out of the men’s room and blew past Jackie and Beth Ann, his jacket slung over his shoulder and his shoes squeaking across the floor. He picked up his audio guide at the front desk and without even giving it a trial run, charged out the door. Caught off guard, the girls sprinted after him, wrestling through the doorway at the same time like a couple of Iowans vying to be first in the buffet line.

I hurried out the door after them, intent on being out of earshot when Wally brought the hammer down. Dietger might be nothing more than an immature blowhard, but something about him made me nervous, so I was more than happy to have him traded in for a more functional model.

“He’s heading for the site,” said Jackie as we watched Peewee stride down the path signposted, Atlantikwall. She gave Beth Ann a thumbs-up. “He’s all yours, so as your coach and confidante, I have only one bit of advice: If he notices your hand on his butt, tell him there’s a string hanging out of his pocket that you’re pulling out. Guys always buy that line.”

Yup. This had disaster written all over it. “You know, ladies, Wally has agreed to collect passports when we get back to the hotel, so maybe you should forget about—”

“No,” objected Beth Ann. “I made my decision, and now I’m going to follow through. I want to show Jackie how far I’ve come. I want to prove to her that I could be the poster girl for Jackie’s Life Improvements, Inc.”

“Isn’t she adorable?” asked Jackie, preening like a proud parent.

“And maybe if we crack the case, we could write a story about it,” Beth Ann continued breathlessly. “A novel. Or a screenplay. We could have our names on the big screen! Or on a six-ninety-nine paperback. Really, I wouldn’t be fussy.”

I bet she wouldn’t, I thought, as a light bulb suddenly went on over my head.

“We could,” Jackie agreed, then warming to the idea, “We could! We could be writing partners. Co-authors. Two brains, one pseudonym. EEEEEEEE!”

They hopped up and down with their arms wrapped around each other. I threw a long look down the path.

“Peewee’s gone,” I said dryly.

“Get going,” Jackie urged, sending us both on our way. “Meet you back at the cafeteria.”

“I hope we haven’t lost sight of him permanently,” Beth Ann fretted as we followed the arrows around a series of embankments to the first venue.

“So how long have you wanted to be a writer?” I asked as I kept pace beside her.

She immediately slowed her steps, my question seeming to cut her off at the knees. “Everyone wants to be a writer, don’t they?”

“Apparently some more than others.”

“Come on, Emily. Haven’t you ever wanted to pen the great American novel?”

“Nope. I have a hard enough time writing notes in birthday cards.”

“They say everyone has at least one book in them.”

“And Jackie’s already written hers. It wasn’t a bestseller, but that’s not the point. She’s still a published author.” I went in for the kill. “Does she have any idea that the only reason you signed up for her life coaching instruction was because of her connections to publishing?”

She slowed to a standstill, her face reflecting the throes of self-conscious guilt. She threw her hands up as if surrendering to the police. “Busted. I was trying to be so subtle, but subtlety isn’t Jackie’s strong suit. I was having to drag out the neon arrows and baseball bats. I love Jackie, but at times, she can be really dense.”

I led the way up a short flight of stairs that opened onto a battery emplaced with a World War II anti-aircraft gun.

“Why didn’t you just tell her the truth?” I asked. “I bet she would have been thrilled to give you pointers on novel writing. She loves handing out advice.”

“Tom told me she had such a bad publishing experience that she swore she’d never have anything to do with