Dutch Me Deadly

by Maddy Hunter

  My eyes froze in their sockets. “Her?”

  “She’s the surprise I e-mailed you about, Emily. Wait ’til you meet her. You’re going to love her! I sure do. She’s changed my life so much. There she is. Yoo-hoo!” She waved her arm. “We’re over here!”

  Unh-oh. After two years of marriage, Jack had left me for another man. Now that Jack was Jackie, was she pulling the same stunt and leaving Tom for another woman? Oh, my God. Was my ex-husband a serial home wrecker? Or was she simply crying out for a hormone replacement drug with more active ingredients?

  “Here she comes,” Jackie tittered, bouncing on her heels in anticipation. “Isn’t she adorable?”

  I wouldn’t have pegged her for Jackie’s type at all. She didn’t look self-absorbed, ditsy, or flamboyant, but rather gave the impression of being modest and quietly intelligent, the kind of person who’d be happy to give you directions or walk your dog if you were pinched for time. Her eyes were snappy, her makeup tastefully understated, her clothes fashionable without being overly trendy. She was about my height and weight and had hair the same color and length as mine, but hers was sleekly cut into cascading angles that rippled with movement and liquidy shine. I suppressed a twinge of envy. I supposed my hair could look like that, too, if I borrowed someone else’s head.

  Jackie grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled her close. “Emily,” she gushed, “this is Beth Ann Oliver. I told her all about you, but I didn’t want to tell you anything about her until she and I had set our relationship in stone.”

  I forced a tentative smile. Not only did Beth Ann and I share the same body type and hair color, we had the same shape face. The same green eyes. The same fair complexion. She extended her hand to shake mine.

  Holy crap! We were wearing the same color nail polish! We probably even used the same name-brand concealer and blush. Oh, Lord. This was terrible. The unthinkable had happened.

  Jack had fallen in love with me all over again. Only it wasn’t the real me. It was a lookalike me! The only difference between us seemed to be our perfume. I smelled like white tea and lemon; she smelled like a funeral parlor. Oil of roses. I hated oil of roses.

  “I’m so happy to meet you, Emily,” my lookalike effervesced as she gripped my hand with both of hers.

  “Me, too.” I pumped more energy into my smile. “Imagine. You. Me. Together on the same trip. Wow.” The smile remained plastered on my lips. “So, how long have the two of you been, you know … together?”

  They exchanged questioning glances. “Has it been two months already?” asked Beth Ann.

  “Two months, three days, and”—Jackie checked her watch—“six hours.” She lifted one shoulder in a coquettish shrug. “Approximately.”

  “They’ve been the most wonderful two months of my life,” Beth Ann confessed. “I’ve never felt so vital, or alive, or — or fulfilled.”

  Jack used to have that effect on me, too—before he realized he felt more fulfilled in my bikini panties than his boxer shorts. “It’s official then?” I asked squeamishly. “The two of you are a couple?”

  “I prefer to think of us as a team,” Beth Ann corrected. She looked up at Jackie. “What do you think? Does team work for you?”

  “Euw, I like that,” Jackie tittered. “A team. Like Laurel and Hardy, or Batman and Robin, or Rocky and Bullwink–”

  “I was thinking more like Huntley and Brinkley.” Beth Ann’s voice grew wistful. “My dad always claimed that television wasn’t worth watching after they broke up.”

  “Honey, if he came unglued over Christie Brinkley’s breakup, he must have been apoplectic when Brad Pitt ditched Jennifer Aniston for Angelina Jolie. I mean, celebrity breakups can absolutely destroy a fan’s sense of wellbeing. It can alter his whole vision of the universe.”

  Beth Ann regarded Jackie quizzically before breaking into a wide smile. “You’re such a kidder.”

  Sure she was. And I invented the Internet. “So am I correct in assuming that you’ve booted Tom off the team?”

  Beth Ann looked horrified. “Tom’s the one who introduced us, so we’re not about to boot him anywhere. He guaranteed we’d hit it off, and he sure knew what he was talking about. Look at us! We’ve been connected at the hip since the day we met.”

  “It’s so freaky, Emily. Who knew Tom would turn out to be such a dynamite matchmaker? I mean, your average guy is usually so wrapped up in himself that he doesn’t realize other people have emotions.”

  The voice of experience talking.

  “Maybe we should show our appreciation by making Tom an honorary member of our duo,” Beth Ann suggested. “Do you think he’d go along with it?”

  Jackie gasped with excitement. “Would he ever! The three of us together on the same team? Can you imagine the possibilities? We’d rock!”

  So help me, if they became a threesome, Jack could do the honors of explaining ménage à trois to Nana.

  I startled as a horn blared long and loudly outside the hotel. Jackie peered out the lobby window. “Geesch, what’s with the guy in the bus? Why is he laying on the horn like that?”

  I followed her gaze. “That would be our driver. Dietger. A real charmer.” I checked the time. “He’s probably signaling us to board the bus.”

  “Isn’t that the tour director’s job?” asked Beth Ann, looking disappointed that someone with an official uniform and striped umbrella wasn’t herding us toward the revolving door.

  “It usually is,” I explained, “but at the moment, we have a vacancy in that department.”

  “Get out of here,” whooped Jackie. “What happened to our tour director?”

  I bolstered myself with a deep breath. “She had issues.”

  “What kind of issues?” asked Beth Ann.

  “Personality. Maaajor personality issues. And maybe some trouble with her peripheral vision. And balance problems. And—”

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” said Jackie.

  “As a doornail,” I replied.

  “Yes!” Jackie pumped both fists in the air, then to Beth Ann, “See what I told you? Emily always ends up with a body count on her tours. This is so exciting. Day one and we already have our first victim!” She grabbed my arm in a pleading gesture. “It was murder, wasn’t it? Are we going to investigate? Can Beth and I tail your suspects? Can we wear disguises? Pleeeeease? I packed some great outfits that I can wear undercover. No one will ever know it’s me.”

  I responded to her questions by ticking off the answers on my fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe. No, and forget it.”

  Her exuberance drained from her face in slow motion, making me suffer the kind of guilt I sometimes feel when I have to send my nephews to their rooms for shooting peas out their nostrils at the dinner table. She stared at me in disbelief, shoulders slumping, face flooding with disappointment, mouth sliding into a pout. Nuts. Why was I such a pushover for a pathetic look? I could think of only one way to redeem myself.

  “Love your boots.”

  “Really?” She threw off the pout for a pose, angling her foot to show off her stylishly pointed toes and pencil thin heels. “I ordered them online. At Nordstrom’s. And are you ready for this? Free shipping!”

  My jaw went into freefall. My heart fluttered. My fingertips tingled. There was nothing to get a girl’s adrenalin pumping like the prospect of having trendy footwear arrive on her doorstep minus shipping fees and handling.

  Dietger laid on the horn again, forcing guests in the lobby to cover their ears to prevent their hearing aids from exploding.

  “What is his problem?” Jackie snapped, marching to the window and pounding on the glass to get his attention. “Hey, you! Enough already!” She waved her arms above her head, then made a quick slashing motion across her throat.

  Dietger bore down on the horn even longer.

  “Try a time-out sign,” Beth Ann suggested, joining her at the window. “Maybe he’s a fan of the NFL.”

  Okay, I knew I wasn’t in charge of the tour, but someone n
eeded to take over before we all went deaf.

  I stuck my thumb and forefinger in my mouth and let fly a shrill whistle that cut through the blaring horn and spun every head in the lobby in my direction. “I’m acting in an unofficial capacity,” I said in a loud voice, “but that’s our bus outside, and Dietger isn’t going to lay off the horn until we board it, so will you please exit through the revolving door now so we can preserve whatever hearing we have left?”

  “I don’t recall anyone putting you in charge,” a dissenting voice protested.

  “I’m not in charge. I’m just hungry.”

  Everyone else must have realized they were, too, because a current of anticipation suddenly electrified the room as guests looked left and right, sizing up the competition. Bodies shifted. Feet scuffed forward. And in the next instant the floor shook as the entire lobby stampeded toward the door.

  “You can’t all squeeze through at one time!” I shouted as six guests wedged themselves into a space that was designed for one, forcing the revolving mechanism to jam mid-turn.

  I stared at the people shoehorned into the compartment, sighing at the faces crushed against the glass, noses flattened, and lips twisted askew.

  Yup. That had gone well.

  Five

  “Melted brie and caramelized onion bruschetta,” announced our waiter as he placed the serving platter in the middle of our table.

  “Dank u,” I called out to his quickly retreating back.

  We were packed into a glass-enclosed canal boat, enjoying unobstructed views of Amsterdam at twilight. Watercraft flanked both sides of the waterway—houseboats longer than mobile trailer homes, their sliding glass doors opening onto wraparound patios. Derelict schooners with boxcar-shaped dwellings perched on the main deck. Fishing boats converted into two-story, open-air eateries. Powerboats and skiffs, barges and rowboats—all moored in a magnificent clutter against the canal wall, like a floating passenger train. Narrow Dutch buildings lined the streets: centuries-old brick structures with tiers of window glass rising all the way to their decorative gables. Some stood as straight as church steeples, while others looked slightly off kilter, as if they’d tired of perfect posture after six hundred years and decided to slouch. Strings of white lights hung from an array of fairytale bridges, twinkling above us as we tunneled through spaces so confined that I waited for the inevitable shattering crrrunch of stone bridge against glass roof.

  We’d been directed into booths that accommodated three diners on either side of a table that was bolted to the floor and covered in crisp white linen. I’d hoped to park myself at the same table as grouchy Pete, but the best I could manage was a space directly across the aisle from him, in a booth with two reunion couples and a woman with bulldog jowls and small, inscrutable eyes that were completely devoid of warmth. Her hair was steel-gray and cut painfully short, as if she were more interested in ease of care than style. She wore a long print scarf that showcased every dog known to man, and only when she unfurled it from around her neck did I see her nametag.

  I tried unsuccessfully not to wince.

  Paula Peavey. St. Francis Xavier’s “mean girl.” Oh, no. I let fly a quick prayer that the description no longer applied. I mean, wasn’t there some natural cycle at play that forced meanies to mellow after fifty years?

  She directed a suspicious look at me from across the table. “If I look puzzled, it’s because I’m trying to figure out why you’re sitting with us. Shouldn’t you be at a different table, hanging out with your own group?”

  Okay, so maybe she was on a hundred-year cycle.

  “Where do you want her to sit?” asked the man beside me. “On the floor? Looks to me as if all the other booths are full.”

  He was the guy Mike and Mary Lou had pointed out as Xavier’s former basketball captain, the well-dressed six-footer who reeked prosperity and country club taste. “Don’t pay any attention to Paula,” he advised me in a casual tone. “No one else does.”

  She pulled a face and stuck her tongue out at him.

  He ignored her.

  “The rest of us are happy to have you join us,” he assured me. “I’m Gary Bouchard.” He angled his nametag toward me so I could see for myself. “And this is Sheila.” He leaned back so I could catch a glimpse of his wife, the four-time class president, who nodded politely, but seemed either unable or unwilling to manage a hello.

  “They’re married,” Paula explained in a sarcastic tone. “To each other.”

  “So are we,” chimed the woman sitting beside Paula—Xavier’s former head cheerleader, the woman with the helmet of black hair and pink bows, and her husband, the no-neck bruiser who’d once quarterbacked the football team. “I’m Mindy,” she said, joining her hand with her husband’s and holding it up to indicate they were together. “And this is Ricky. Hennessy. Two n’s, two s’s, no e before the y. It’s annoying how many people spell it wrong.”

  Ricky grabbed a bruschetta with his left hand and stuffed it into his mouth, making no attempt to chew before he swallowed it whole. Nice. I could hardly wait to see what he did with a Belgian waffle.

  “Emily Andrew,” I said with a subdued wave, averting my gaze as Ricky grabbed another bruschetta. “Escort for the Iowa contingent.”

  “Honestly, Mindy,” Sheila protested in disgust. “Fifty years of marriage and he still eats like an animal? Couldn’t you at least teach him how to chew?”

  “It’s no wonder he’s the size of the Goodyear blimp,” droned Paula. “He probably hasn’t digested a scrap of food for decades. What do you say, Rick?” She angled her head in his direction. “Have you chewed anything since those six pepperoni pizzas you devoured on Senior Skip Day? Refresh my memory. How many beers did it take to wash them down?”

  A sudden silence fell over the table.

  “I distinctly remember you arriving at Cascade Park with a six-pack of Schlitz under each arm,” she persisted. “If you drank all of them yourself, it probably would have killed you. So who’d you share with? And why do I keep thinking it was Bobby Guerrette?”

  My ears perked up. Bobby Guerrette again? His name was certainly popping up a lot, and the two couples at my table seemed none too happy about it.

  Ricky stuck five meaty fingers in the air. “Five pizzas,” he snuffled in a spray of caramelized onions. “Three pepperoni. Two sausage with double cheese. Five pizzas, not six.”

  “That’s not the point, genius.”

  “Do you mind keeping your spittle on your own side of the table?” Sheila griped as she flicked onions off the tablecloth.

  “I’m on it.” Ricky gave her a sassy grin as he crammed another appetizer into his mouth, his expression changing dramatically when we lurched crazily in the wake of a passing boat. His eyes widened. His face paled. His brow beaded with sweat.

  “You’re looking a little seasick, Hennessy,” Gary needled. “Cruising in the little putt-putt boat too rough on the ole quarterback’s system?”

  “He gets terribly seasick,” Mindy admitted as she fanned his face with her napkin. “And I’ll warn you right now, he’s descended from a wicked line of hurlers.”

  “I told you I didn’t want to sit with them.” Sheila thwacked her husband’s shoulder. “Move! I’m leaving.”

  “I have motion sickness pills,” I said as I riffled through my shoulder bag.

  “If they’re whiskey flavored, he’ll be happy to down the whole bottle,” jibed Paula.

  I held up the package. “Orange flavored.”

  Mindy made a gimme motion with her hand. “I’ll take ’em anyway.” She tore the box open and popped four pills out of their foil-backed packaging. “Chew on these,” she said as she forced them into his mouth.

  “There’s optimism for you,” taunted Sheila. “Maybe you should demonstrate how it’s done so he won’t be at a complete loss.”

  My stomach fluttered as we dipped into a trough and rolled sideways on the wake of another boat. Ricky slumped against his wife and groaned.

&nb
sp; “There, there,” Mindy soothed as she patted his head. “Listen to me, hon. If you feel that sudden urge coming on, aim it at Sheila.”

  “You better damn well hope I don’t get spattered with half-chewed motion sickness pills!” Sheila threatened.

  “Or else what?” Mindy challenged, her eyes lengthening to slits. “You’ll stick us with the dry cleaning bill?”

  “You got that right.” Sheila thunked her forearm on the table and wrenched the sleeve of her blouse back and forth in an adult version of show and tell. “See this? It’s silk. Silk requires special handling, and it’s damn expensive to have laundered.”

  Mindy thrust out her bottom lip and fused her pencil-blackened eyebrows together in an angry vee over her nose. “So … what are you saying? You think we can’t afford to have your crummy blouse cleaned?”

  “The thought did enter my mind. Frankly, I’m amazed you’re even on this trip. What did you have to do? Mortgage your house?”

  Ricky shook free of his wife and planted his elbows on the table, cushioning his chin in the palms of his hands. His eyes were bleary, his words labored. “You guys wanna hear about … the thirty-three-yard touchdown pass I threw in the game we played against—”

  “Zip it, Ricky,” snapped Mindy, then to Sheila, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ll have you know that a land transportation engineer earns some of the highest wages in Bangor.”

  “Land transportation engineer?” Sheila crowed with laughter. “He changes oil and rotates tires. He’s a grease monkey! Where do you get off calling him an engineer?”

  “It was fourth down,” Ricky rambled on. “Five ticks left on the clock. Brewer’s throwing everything they got at us …”

  “Let me tell you whose oil he changes,” bellowed Mindy. “He services all the lemons that Gary Bouchard sells at Bouchard Motors. You hear that?” She drilled a menacing look at Gary. “Your cars are crap. And the more dealerships you open, the crappier your cars get. But don’t change anything. Ricky’s getting rich repairing the defective brake lines and electrical systems in your over-priced clunkers.”