Dutch Me Deadly

Officer Vanden Boogard eyed his clipboard. “Mr. Finnegan is also dead.”

“I know, but he was alive when we were in Volendam.”

He flipped through his sheaf of papers and cleared his throat when he found what he was looking for. “Ms. Gooch stepped off der curb into der path of a speeding bicycle. This account is corroborated by videotape presented at der Volendam police station yesterday by a Mrs. Dafne Herold, whose camcorder was accidentally left on der record position while she and her daughter were dining in der restaurant across der street. She was seated at a window table, purported to be der best seat in der house, and unknowingly videotaped dee entire event. The camcorder is apparently new, so she admits confusion about its operation. She was unaware of der recording until she played back der footage yesterday, at which point she contacted der local police.”

Mindy thwacked Ricky’s chest. “We ate at that restaurant! Remember? There was only one table in the window and we got it after those two women left. Do you hear that, Sheila?” She megaphoned her hands around her mouth. “It was the best seat in the house and Ricky and me got it!”

“Pete didn’t push her?” I asked Officer Vanden Boogard, my voice a mere decibel above a squeak.

“Ms. Gooch stepped off der curb of her own accord. She received no unwanted assistance.”

I slid down in my chair, wanting to crawl into the nearest sinkhole, which, with my luck, was probably in Florida.

“Ms. Paula Peavey, however, was pushed into der Kloveniersburgwal canal, and with such force, she exhibited significant bruising on her back.”

Nana nudged me with her elbow. “You hear that, dear? You’re right about this one.”

“So.” Officer Vanden Boogard scrutinized us with cool detachment. “Would any of Ms. Peavey’s former classmates care to paint a portrait of who she was, and why anyone would want to kill her?”

I scanned the room, anticipating a Tower of Babel type moment when everyone would leap into a pitched battle to have his voice heard above everyone else’s in denunciation of their nemesis, but what greeted me instead was silence. Prolonged silence. Uncomfortable silence. Self-conscience silence.

I spotted Mary Lou, who’d cried a river of tears at Paula’s hands, and Laura LaPierre, who’d been cruelly bullied by her. Both of them sitting quietly with their lips buttoned. I glanced at the classmates who’d suffered financial disaster because of her—Chip Soucy, Ricky and Mindy, looking satisfied to keep their mouths shut. I eyed Sheila Bouchard, whose social status had taken a hit because of Paula, stiff-lipped and wooden in the corner. What was wrong with them? This was their chance. Why weren’t they saying anything?

The answer to that seemed painfully obvious. No one was speaking up, because in the matter of Paula Peavey, everyone had something to hide.

Officer Vanden Boogard lifted his brows. “You may tear der lady apart if you like. She’s not here. What are you waiting for?”

More silence.

“Surely one of you must have something hateful to say about her.”

Nana stood up. “I got somethin’ to say, Officer. When I go out this door here, is the potty on the left or the right?”

After giving Nana directions and allowing Tilly and Margi to accompany her, Officer Vanden Boogard tried a different tact. He smiled. Albeit grimly.

“Perhaps I should approach dis in another way. We know Ms. Peavey was killed on her way back from der Red Light District two nights ago. How many of you were part of der group who went down there?”

Nearly everyone raised their hand.

“Good, good. How did you all get back?”

“Most of us walked,” Chip spoke up.

“Together?”

“The group broke up pretty early on,” said Mike McManus. “Around nine. So we all found our way back on our own.”

Vanden Boogard tipped his head. “Thank you. Dis is what der surveillance cameras indicate.”

Low grumbles of unease.

“What surveillance cameras?” asked Ricky.

“Der ones throughout der city—on your hotel, at large intersections, on university property, on buildings in dee Old City center. Wherever you go, you’re being watched. Oddly, some of our foreign visitors don’t find dis a comforting thought. I tell them, our streets are not as well monitored as those in London, but we’re getting there.”

I boosted myself back up to vertical. This guy knew something. He might not be Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot, but as he presented his case, I could sense that he was methodically tightening the noose around the killer’s neck.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hennessy.” He fixed his gaze on Mindy and Ricky. “Der hotel surveillance camera shows you returning from your outing just after midnight two nights ago. You appear to be arguing over a scarf dat Mr. Hennessy disposes of after Mrs. Hennessy walks out of der frame. ”

“How do you know it’s us?” Ricky challenged.

Vanden Boogard stared. “Seriously?”

Ricky snorted. “It’s those damn bows you stick in your hair,” he sniped at Mindy. “What’d I tell you? Didn’t I warn you that people could use them to identify us? It’s a dead giveaway. Who wears bows in their hair anymore? If you’d listened to me, this wouldn’t be happening. They could have looked at their flippin’ tapes all day and had nothin’!”

Except a refrigerator-sized bald guy stuffed into a varsity letter jacket with the words “St. Francis Xavier” plastered across the back. Yup. No way Ricky could have been identified by that description.

“Don’t you get snippy with me, Ricky Hennessy! I told you it was a bad idea from the start, but no-ooo. You had to have your way.” Mindy thwacked his arm.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hennessy,” Vanden Boogard persisted, “did you run into Ms. Peavey after you departed der Red Light District?”

“No,” they responded in unison.

“If your group broke up at nine, what took you so long to return to your hotel? And let me remind you once again, there are surveillance tapes.”

“Even in the Red Light District?” asked Ricky.

“Especially in der Red Light District,” said Vanden Boogard.

Ricky and Mindy rocked back and forth in their seats, harrumphing and hissing and glaring at each other, until Mindy spat, “You might as well tell him. He’s bound to find out anyway.”

Ricky ran his palm over his bald pate as if polishing a cue ball. “Okay,” he said flatly. “We took so long getting back because … well … we stopped to take in a show.”

“A show?” asked Vanden Boogard.

“You know. A show.” Ricky lowered his voice. “At the Live Sex Theater.”

Gasps of shock and ridicule. Hisses of condemnation.

“Did it have English subtitles?” questioned Osmond. “I can’t see paying good money to watch a show over here if there’s no subtitles.”

“Ah, yes,” said Vanden Boogard. “Der Sex Theater is in somewhat of a lower rent district.”

“I caught a souvenir,” Ricky confessed, hardening his tone when he turned to his wife, “but Mindy made me get rid of it. The gal on the stage had this scarf that she rubbed over every luscious curve of her nak—”

“Shut up, Ricky.” Mindy gave her hair a pouf. “I never witnessed anything so disgusting in all my life. The perversion. The wickedness. The immorality of all those sweaty, over-endowed nymphos with their gyrating bodies. And the men with their rock hard muscles, performing such obscene acts right before our naked eyes. It was appalling.”

A hush fell over the room.

“Do you remember the address for this place?” asked George.

“Leave it to Hennessy to take his wife to a low-brow strip joint,” taunted Gary. “You should have gone a little higher class, Rick. Like, the place with the neon pink elephant. I bet what we saw was a helluva lot more obscene than what you witnessed. Hey, you get what you pay for.”

“It was an eye-opening experience,” agreed Sheila. “Should anything so vile come to Bangor, I’ll be the first