Dutch Me Deadly

by Maddy Hunter

  “Hennessy scrambles. He fakes.” Ricky wishboned his arms over his head. “Touchdown!”

  Gary gave him a squinty look. “Homecoming? Senior year? Xavier versus Brewer?”

  Ricky nodded.

  “You lost the game by thirty points.”

  Ricky shrugged. “I know. But it was still a great pass.”

  “And furthermore,” Mindy ranted, “if that blouse is made of silk, I’ll eat it.”

  “Why don’t you let Ricky eat it?” Paula volunteered. “It might be easier on his digestive system than bruschetta.”

  Ricky curled his lip into a sneer. “Stuff it, Paula. I’m not eating no cussid blouse.”

  I wouldn’t be able to eat a blouse after downing a whole platter of appetizers either, but before the mudslinging deteriorated into food slinging, I decided to redirect the discussion to a less controversial topic.

  “Did anyone actually see what happened to Charlotte today?” I asked off-handedly.

  “A bicycle plowed into her,” said Gary. “Did you sleepwalk your way through Volendam?”

  “I know she was hit by a bicycle. I’m just curious if any of you were nearby when it happened.”

  “What if we were?” Paula’s tone was combative. “What’s it to you?”

  I offered her my most innocent look as I concocted what I believed to be a credible story. “It’s nothing to me personally, but my group is balking at having to cross the street now, so you can imagine how much that’s going to slow us down. I figure if I can reassure them that Charlotte died not because a bicyclist was

  flagrantly reckless, but because she failed to look both ways when she stepped off the curb, they might feel less skittish.”

  Mindy pointed a stubby, manicured forefinger at me. “Are you with those old geezers who are pestering all of us to become friends with them on Facebook?”

  I flashed a clueless smile. “Excuse me?”

  “They practically accosted us in the lobby tonight,” groused Ricky, looking slightly less gray than he had five minutes earlier. “They were so desperate, they even offered to access our accounts from their cellphones so we could accept their invitations and become friends immediately. Why should I become friends with them? I don’t even know them. They’ve got a lot of nerve wanting to stick their noses in my private Facebook business.”

  “I’m sure they were just trying to be cordial,” I defended. “They’re quite respectful of other people’s privacy.”

  “Maybe they’d like to become friends of Bouchard Motors,” Gary piped up. “Do they ever travel to Maine? I give senior citizen discounts on year-end models.”

  “For God’s sake, give it a rest,” his wife bristled. “Do you always have to be groveling at the feet of complete strangers?”

  “There you go again.” Paula wagged her finger at Gary. “Acting common. Shame, shame. You know how much it pisses Sheila off when you associate with the little people. She’s afraid you’ll catch something vulgar. Like poverty.”

  “Shut up, Paula,” snarled Sheila.

  I sighed inwardly. Man, trying to keep these people focused was harder than trying to herd cats. I breathed with relief when I saw our waiter heading toward us, balancing a tray with the next course.

  “Chinese vegetable soup,” he announced as he placed small soup bowls in front of each of us. He removed the empty appetizer platter from the table and hurried off again to someplace where the conversation was probably less hostile, which made me realize that if I was going to tease any information out of these people, I needed to skirt the issue rather than be so direct. Who knew that Chinese vegetable soup would provide the perfect diversion?

  “Did anyone get a chance to eat in Volendam today?” I picked up my soup spoon and poised it over my bowl. “I lost my appetite after Charlotte’s accident, so I missed lunch.”

  Mindy stared into space, her eyes crinkling in thought. “Come to think of it, that’s where Ricky and me were when Charlotte got creamed. We were waiting in line to get into a little restaurant across the street from the scene of the accident.”

  “What’s this white gunk floating in the soup?” asked Ricky. He nudged it with his spoon. “Looks like a hunk of rubber.”

  “We only had to wait about five minutes because two women who were sitting at a window table were just finishing up, so the hostess showed us right to their table.” She smiled smugly, her voice dripping with entitlement. “It was absolutely the best seat in the house. We saw the ambulance arrive, the bicyclist getting first aid, Charlotte’s body being carted off. We didn’t miss a trick.”

  Ricky fished the questionable ingredient out of his soup and dumped it onto a saucer. He poked it with his finger. “What the hell? It is a hunk of rubber.” He squinted at his wife. “I’m not eating no rubber vegetables.”

  “You’re never up for trying anything new,” Mindy complained. “Rubber vegetables are probably the latest trend in Chinese cuisine. I bet they’re a delicacy, like grilled scorpions or chicken’s feet.” She shrugged. “Could be that rubber has more nutritional value.”

  Gary dipped his spoon into his soup bowl then held it aloft for Ricky to see what he’d retrieved. “It’s not rubber, dufus. It’s tofu.”

  “Toe what?”

  “Tofu. Unfermented soybean curd. It’s the vegetarian version of a T-bone steak.”

  Ricky snorted derisively. “T-bone steak. Right. You’re so full of crap, I’m surprised your eyes haven’t turned brown.”

  Gary shook his head, his voice almost sympathetic. “You haven’t changed at all, Hennessy. Still the same mental giant you were fifty years ago.”

  “Like you’re so smart,” Mindy fired back. “I didn’t see you graduating first in our class. Or second. Or third. I can’t imagine how disappointed your daddy must have been when you told him you got beaten out by an orphan, a social misfit, and a girl who was afraid of her own shadow. If Bobby hadn’t disappeared from the picture, you wouldn’t have even ended up in the top five. That would have killed your daddy, wouldn’t it? Hard to show your face around town when your kid’s high school career ends up a total bust. No basketball scholarship and no academic awards.”

  “Ya,” Ricky piled on. “You must have been turning cartwheels when Bobby made his exit. Finnegan gets bumped up to valedictorian, Laura gets salutatorian, and you get upgraded to fifth in the class. Pretty convenient if you ask me.”

  I sat up straight in my seat. Pete Finnegan became valedictorian only after the infamous Bobby Guerrette disappeared? I sidled a glance across the aisle at Pete. Hmm. How interesting was that?

  “Are you accusing my Gary of something criminal?” Sheila demanded.

  “If the shoe fits,” taunted Ricky.

  “How come you’re not throwing accusations at Pete?” Sheila raved on. “He’s the one who benefited most from Bobby’s absence.”

  “And you know damn well I would have earned a basketball scholarship if I hadn’t blown my knee that last semester,” Gary defended.

  “Ouch.” I cringed. “Basketball injury?”

  “He slipped on a piece of toilet paper in the boys’ restroom,” Paula said with barely contained humor. “The captain of the basketball team, felled by a square of generic two-ply.”

  “One-ply,” Ricky corrected. “They were too cheap to spring for two-ply.”

  “Yah, well, if you football lunkheads hadn’t been horsing around, it never would have happened,” Gary sniped.

  “You can’t take a joke,” accused Ricky. “You never could. Getting rid of all the toilet paper in the restroom was hilarious.”

  “You and your stupid prank ruined my basketball career,” Gary bellowed.

  “Ya, he coulda been a contenda,” said Paula, aping Marlon Brando.

  “Are you blaming me?” Ricky challenged. “Hey, I ain’t taking the rap for your accident. Nobody pushed you. You went down all on your own.”

  “And one of these days you’re going down, too, Hennessy.” Gary’s jaw pulsed
angrily. “We’ll see how you like it.”

  Mindy gasped. “Is that a threat?”

  Paula threw her arms into the air and circled them around her head erratically, like a mime imitating chaos. “Geez-Louise, don’t get Mindy in a huff, or she’ll make up a derogatory cheer about you. Remember the one she made up about Laura and taught to the whole squad? Lau-ra, Lau-ra, she’s so scary. Looks like a dog, and acts like a ferret.”

  I stared at Paula, horrified. Oh, my Lord. If my schoolmates had been that cruel to me, I’m not sure I would have had the courage to show my face in class again. The Francis Xavier cheerleaders apparently weren’t paragons of school spirit and good will.

  They were bullies.

  I sucked in a deep, calming breath.

  I hated bullies.

  “Ferret doesn’t rhyme with scary,” Sheila pointed out.

  “No one asked you,” spat Mindy.

  “Was there anyone on your squad of losers who realized that ‘scary’ could be rhymed with ‘fairy’?” questioned Paula. “Laura acted a hell of a lot more like the good fairy than a rodent.”

  Mindy skewered her with a look that inspired more fear than the Death Star’s going operational. “You would have sold your grandmother’s dentures to be on the cheerleading squad, Paula Peavey, so I’m not listening to any of your trash talk. Here’s a cheer for you: Paul-a, Paul-a, can’t you see? You’re eaten up by jeal-ou-sy.”

  Paula snorted with laughter. “Oh, please. Your glory days have gone to your head.” She flashed a snarky grin. “And everything else has gone to your butt.”

  “Is the Laura you’re talking about Laura LaPierre?” I asked, leaping into the fray.

  Dead silence, followed by an incredulous look from Mindy. “You know Laura?”

  “In a roundabout way,” I fibbed. “She’s quite the celebrity. Did any of you read the interview she gave to Fitness Magazine? It was dynamite. She offered tips on how to stay ultra toned and flab-free past sixty-five. And she should know, because she looks like she has about zero percent body fat.” I smiled at Mindy. “She provided statistics on the high correlation between a pissy attitude and the high incidence of halitosis, boils, and rickets.” I smiled at Paula. “And she gave pointers on how to turn ordinary business ventures into cash cows. I guess she’s an entrepreneurial genius with more money than God.” I smiled at Gary. “Have you spoken to her?”

  Eyes bulged. Expressions froze. Jaws fell.

  “We haven’t run into her yet,” Mindy finally said in a small, tight voice.

  “Well, you might not recognize her because she looks like she graduated last year instead of fifty years ago. What a knockout! You must be thrilled that a member of your class has made such a big name for herself. I think Vanity Fair is doing a feature article on her next month, and after that, she’ll be on the cover of Vogue. You should corner her sometime so you can reminisce about old times. I bet she’s dying to thank all of you.”

  Ricky looked confused. “What’s she got to thank us for?”

  “For treating her the way you did. If you’d been nice to her, she probably would have stayed in Bangor … and ended up like the rest of you.”

  The floor tilted as we quartered into a wave. “Oh, jeez,” Ricky squawked, grabbing the table with both hands. We slammed into a trough with a boom strong enough to shake the table and cause the silverware to jump. Dishes rattled. Soup sloshed onto the table-cloth. And Ricky’s head fell forward as if he’d been guillotined.

  “Is everyone ready for the next course?” I asked brightly as our waiter strode toward us, seemingly immune to the lurching deck. “Wow. Looks like a week’s worth of food. Hope everyone’s hungry.”

  Ricky let out a groan like a wounded animal.

  “Would you get him off the table?” Paula exploded. “Unless you expect the waiter to serve the next course around his head.”

  “Is he going to be sick?” Sheila asked anxiously.

  I stuck my nose in the air and sniffed. “Smells like onions, and hot chile oil, and peppercorns, and—”

  “Somebody …” Ricky pleaded in a whisper of breath, “shut her up.”

  “Bang Bang Chicken,” our waiter announced as he snapped open his tray jack and set his heavy serving tray atop it. “Very piquant.” He arched his brows at Ricky’s head. “Does der gentleman vish to try der entree?”

  “He’s feeling a little out of sorts,” explained Mindy, “but he wouldn’t want his meal to go to waste, seein’s as how it’s already paid for, so you can give it to me, and I’ll just pick on it after I finish mine.”

  “Give her mine, too,” Sheila instructed. “There’s no way I can enjoy my meal with Jumbo’s head in my lap.”

  “His head is nowhere near your lap,” argued Mindy.

  “How would you know what a lap looks like?” railed Sheila. “When’s the last time you saw yours?”

  Paula laughed. “I doubt she can remember that far back.”

  “I’ll tell you what I do remember,” Mindy shot back. “I remember who Bobby Guerrette refused to go to Senior Prom with. The girls were supposed to ask the boys. Remember him turning your invitation down flat? He decided to stay home rather than go with you. How’d that make you feel, Paula? Or did it happen too long ago for you to recall?”

  “Witch,” hissed Paula.

  “Bitch,” spat Mindy, proving that her rhyming skills had improved appreciably since high school.

  “Duck!” cried Sheila, which seemed a lame entry in a name-calling contest, until I realized it wasn’t a name.

  It was a warning.

  “He’s ready to blow!”

  Which he did, with animation, sound effects, and impressive range.

  “Jeesuz, Hennessy!”

  “OH MY GOD!!!”

  I launched myself out of the booth, escaping across the aisle before my cashmere twinset fell victim to Ricky’s malaise. Unfortunately, my dinner companions were less mobile, so they bore the full impact of the assault, their screams and cries attracting the attention of the entire boat.

  I regarded them in disbelief. Ugh. They could kiss those clothes good-bye. I couldn’t even read their nametags anymore. Euuuw.

  As the scene escalated into a full-blown shouting match, I realized that even though I’d failed to trick them into coughing up any new details about Charlotte’s death, I’d learned two intriguing facts: first, that Pete Finnegan had benefited hugely from the death of a fellow student fifty years ago, and second, if Ricky Hennessy had been able to throw a football half as far as he could hurl, he could have gone pro.

  Six

  “Our waiter told us the Bang Bang Chicken was real ‘pee-kant’,” Nana confided when we returned to the hotel, “but he didn’t say nuthin’ about it bein’ so dang spicy. Two bites done me in. Feels like I don’t got no skin left on my tongue.” Peering down the length of her nose, she stuck her tongue out and studied it cross-eyed. “Whath it look like?”

  We were loitering in the lobby along with other guests who were reading the schedule on the whiteboard, bugging the front desk clerk for brochures, and queuing up at the elevator. “Skin’s still there,” I said, wrapping my arm around her shoulder and giving her an affectionate hug. “But I think ‘piquant’ is restaurant code for hot. Like, ‘Yeow, my mouth is on fire’ hot.”

  “No kiddin’?”

  “I’m surprised Tilly didn’t interpret for you.”

  “We got split up, so she ate with George and I ate with a fella named Peewee. Awful nice young man. He’s one of them reunion folks. He don’t live in Maine no more though. He lives in Arizona in one a them retirement communities.” She scanned the lobby. “That’s him over there by the front desk, gettin’ hit on by Bernice.”

  I found Bernice locked in conversation with a guy who probably had to duck his head when he passed through most doorways—a big bear of a man with shaggy white hair and a jacket that wouldn’t zip over his stomach. I laughed aloud. “I see him, but I can’t believe his name is P
eewee.”

  “He grew.”

  “Why is Bernice hitting on him? Is she on the prowl for husband number two?”

  “Psssh. You see the way she’s wavin’ her phone around? I bet she’s askin’ him to be her friend on Facebook. But it won’t do her no good because I already asked him, and he said he don’t do social networkin’.”

  A lightbulb slowly brightened over my head. “My dinner companions mentioned that all you guys had been pestering them about Facebook. ‘Accosted’ was the word one of them used. So why the frantic push to collect more online friends?”

  “You can’t never have enough, dear.” She whipped out her phone and fingered the touchscreen. “What’s their names? Maybe I don’t got ’em yet.”

  “You don’t. They’re not interested in sharing their personal information with strangers from Iowa.”

  “But I wouldn’t be no stranger if we was friends.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Okay, what’s this really about?”

  She peeked at me over the tops of her wire-rims, her eyes sheepish, her voice resigned. “It’s on account’ve Bernice. She’s been so obnoxious braggin’ about how many Facebook friends she’s got that the rest of us decided to one-up her. So it’s kinda turned into a competition.”

  I regarded her sternly. “That’s why you’re pestering the other guests? You’re trying to sign up more friends than Bernice on Facebook?”

  She nodded contritely. “Yup.”

  I gave her confession a moment’s thought. “I like it! So how are you doing so far?”

  She snapped back into action like a brand new rubber band. “We got a lot a catchin’ up to do, but we been gainin’ on her.” She quickly consulted her screen. “I got forty-eight friends so far. Tilly’s got fifty-two. George has thirty-five.”

  “And how many does Bernice have?”

  She swept her forefinger across her screen. “Six hundred eighty.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Ain’t that somethin’? Bernice don’t got no friends except me, and sometimes even I’m on the fence, so how’d she come up with six hundred?” Her phone chimed. “Oh, boy. Incomin’ text message.” She read the screen. “It’s from Margi. She says everyone’s starvin’, so we’re gonna get some dessert. You wanna join us, dear?”