Dutch Me Deadly

by Maddy Hunter

  “I’m trying to figure out how Pete might know things that no one realizes he knows, because he claims he’s chock full of secrets that could ruin everyone.”

  “Really?” He sounded more amused than skeptical.

  “Really.”

  “He’s full of it.”

  “I have no idea if he is or not, but he sure sounded convinced.”

  He looked over his shoulder to find the video on the monitor still playing and the Mainers nowhere in sight. “Where’d everyone go?”

  “Next room.” I nodded toward the front of the warehouse, taking note that my guys were still huddled in the corner.

  “Gotta abandon you, Emily. Sorry. But I want to catch up with the group before they get too far ahead. I’m not about to let Mary Lou get separated from me again, whether we’re speaking to each other or not.”

  “No problem.” As he headed off in the opposite direction, I added a parting shot. “If you run across any skeletons in your closet, let me know, okay?”

  “You got it.” But I knew he wouldn’t. He’d looked so uneasy when we were discussing Pete that I found it a bit unsettling. Maybe I shouldn’t have revealed so much to him, but Mike was so nice, he couldn’t be hiding a ragbag of dark secrets, could he?

  “Are we ready to move on to the next room?” I asked the gang as I paused by the huddle.

  “Emily will know,” asserted Helen.

  “Don’t count on it,” said Bernice.

  “Emily will know what?” I inquired.

  Helen let out a frustrated sigh. “We’ve been going over and over this and we can’t agree. What was Dick wearing last night?”

  “It’s question number four on the form,” Grace added helpfully.

  I gave them a blank look. “Uhh—”

  “What’d I tell you,” droned Bernice.

  “That’s a toughie,” I admitted, unable to recall even seeing Dick Teig last night. “Did any of you take a picture of him?”

  “I tried,” said Tilly. “When we were in the coffeeshop. With my phone. But I ended up calling a shaman in New Guinea instead.”

  “Anyone else take a picture?”

  “I wanted to,” said George, “but the buttons on my keypad kept moving around.”

  “Nana?” I eyed her expectantly. She was such a photo hound, she had to have taken pictures last night.

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t snap the shutter, dear. It was too embarrassin’.”

  “Okay, no pictures, but you know for sure he was wearing a shirt, slacks, and jacket. Can you remember the color of the jacket?”

  “Gray,” said Alice.

  “Green,” said George.

  “Aha!” I regarded Helen hopefully. “Does Dick own a sage colored jacket?”

  Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she pondered the question. “The grandkids bought him a jacket for Christmas a few years back, but I don’t think it was sage. It was more like the color of baby asparagus when you overcook it in the microwave.”

  “Black?” asked Margi.

  “Morons!” snapped Bernice. “His jacket is denim with a fleece collar that makes him look like he has a flock of sheep living under his chins. What’s wrong with you people? Are you all blind?”

  They obviously were last night. “I tell you what,” I intervened, “why don’t you skip this question for now and go back to it later?”

  “Am I allowed to do that?” asked Helen.

  “You bet. In fact, answering all the other questions might help jog your memory with these earlier ones.”

  “I doubt it,” she fretted.

  “Unh-unh-unh.” I wagged my finger. “Don’t you dare sell yourself short. Once you put your mind to it, I suspect you’ll be able to remember every last detail of what Dick was wearing last night.”

  “I can’t honestly say as I remember the last time I really looked at Dick.” She let out a wistful sigh. “Is his head still big as an inflatable pumpkin?”

  “More like an inflatable planet,” said Bernice.

  She set a placating hand on my arm. “Maybe no one’s explained this to you, Emily, but when you’ve been married as long as Dick and I have, you notice certain changes in your relationship. Like, you don’t actually see each other anymore. You already know what each other looks like, so what’s the point? Dick could hang around the house in a ruffled tutu, and I could run errands in a sausage casing, and the truth is, neither one of us would probably notice.”

  “Oh.” I stared dumbly, a little taken aback. Is this how Etienne and I would end up in a few years? So bored with each other’s company that we’d be blind to each other’s fatal clothing choices?

  “Emily and her young man don’t gotta worry about that for another fifty years,” Nana spoke up, “which is about how long it’s gonna take us to fill out these forms if we keep dillydallyin’.”

  Nods. Grunts of agreement.

  “Before you get back to work,” I broke in as Helen smoothed the folds out of her papers, “please don’t spend all your time filling out forms. We only have two hours, so if you want to see the whole house, you have to get moving. Okay?”

  More nods.

  “I’m going to continue the tour, so I’ll be on the first floor if you need me.”

  “I thought we were on the first floor,” said Margi.

  “We’re on the ground floor,” explained Tilly. “The first floor is one level up. Europeans number their floors differently.”

  “But …” Margi regarded the ceiling in confusion. “I thought we were on the first floor.”

  “Question number five,” Helen read in a rush of words. ‘“Does the subject in question have any distinguishing features that would make him stand out in a crowd?’”

  “’Bout time we got an easy one,” said George.

  “His head,” Helen scribbled with authority.

  I proceeded through the room at the front of the building and entered a vestibule that housed a staircase as steep as a cliff, with treads no wider than my hand. Uff-da. These must be the notorious Dutch stairs that Wally had warned us about. I wondered if Ricky and Mindy had made it to the top, hampered, as they were, by their excessive weight and possible balance problems. But they must have managed somehow, because they were nowhere in sight.

  The first floor was a rabbit warren of rooms off a long hallway. I followed the prescribed route through private offices and supply rooms, learning that Otto Frank operated a second business while he was in hiding—one that distributed pectin used for making jam. I browsed the exhibits, taking note of identity cards, accounting books, and Anne’s favorite movie magazine, Cinema & Theater, then climbed a circular staircase to the next floor, where the memorabilia on display told tales of both extraordinary heroism and unimaginable horror.

  The Mainers must have breezed through this level, because I didn’t see a one of them until I entered a narrow hallway that funneled traffic to the rear of the building. At the far end of this passageway, where a hinged bookcase swung away from the wall to reveal the once secret entrance to the annex, Mike and Peewee stood toe to toe, locked in an intense exchange.

  Hmm. I wondered what that was about. But before I could get close enough to hear what they were saying, Mike saw me coming, broke off his discussion with Peewee, and tossed me a furtive wave before disappearing into a doorway beneath an awkwardly placed map on the wall. Peewee followed close behind, doubling over at his waist to clear the space without bumping his head.

  I quickened my steps. Nuts. Where were Jackie and Beth Ann when I needed them?

  The door to the secret annex was wedged open and held in place by a steel brace that blocked access to an ascending stairway. Patrons were apparently expected to reach the next story by climbing what looked like a bookshelf, but only after touring the Frank’s apartment and passing through a door on the opposite side of the barrier. I peered up the nearly vertical staircase to the opening cut in the floor above and felt the bottoms of my feet tingle in alarm. Holy crap! My guys
couldn’t climb these things. I wasn’t sure I could climb them!

  I pulled out my cellphone, hoping they were still on the ground floor, dithering over the questionnaires. I checked the screen.

  No service.

  Shoot! I looked back down the hallway to find a crowd of tourists streaming toward me. Swimming against the tide would take too long. I had to go forward. If I didn’t stop to look at anything, I could probably reach the ground floor in a few minutes.

  Mike suddenly appeared on the other side of the barrier, aiming to head up the stairs.

  “That was quick,” I said nonchalantly.

  He gave me a palms-up. “Not much to linger over.”

  I hurried through a short hallway to arrive in the Frank’s family room—a modest space with pinkish wallpaper and woodwork painted institutionalized green. I blew past several people into an even narrower room, where the photos of long-dead movie stars graced the walls, then hurried into a connecting room that housed a sink and toilet. Following the tour route out the bathroom door, I stepped into the hallway to find myself back at the entrance to the annex, on the opposite side of the barrier, at the foot of the staircase I really didn’t want to climb.

  I inhaled a deep breath to bolster my courage. It was a good thing Paula Peavey wasn’t here. Given her struggles with vertigo, there was no way she—

  The thought went unfinished as a body came crashing down the stairs and fell in a mangled heap at my feet.

  Thirteen

  Our visit ended up lasting a lot longer than two hours.

  “Question number one hundred-eighteen,” said Helen, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. She blinked away tears as she stared bleary-eyed at the questionnaire. “‘What is the subject’s favorite television program?’”

  George’s head fell onto his chest, startling him awake. “Make something up,” he grumbled.

  We were gathered in the museum cafeteria, battling spotty cellphone service while seated at tables with sweeping views of bicyclists, pedestrians, and canal traffic. The police were still questioning patrons about the tragic mishap that had forced the museum to close its doors for the remainder of the day. Interviewees were being held in the administrative offices in another part of the complex and were being released one at a time in a very orderly process. I complimented the police on their efficiency and thoroughness. But the downside was, it was taking forever.

  I guess it was no easy task determining what had caused Pete Finnegan to plunge to his death.

  “How much longer have we gotta sit here?” Bernice griped as Gary Bouchard sauntered into the room.

  “We almost got everyone back,” said Nana, recording Gary’s arrival with a hash mark on her napkin. She tallied the count. “Only three to go.”

  Being on the ground floor when the mishap occurred had proven to be fortuitous for my group. No interrogation for them. But the reunion people had fared less well. The police wanted to interview all patrons who’d been touring the third floor rooms when Pete took his header down the stairs. And, wouldn’t you know? Every single Mainer had apparently been crowded into the apartment when Pete fell. Little wonder the interrogation was taking so long. I couldn’t imagine how underwhelmed the police must be with the feedback.

  I rubbed my hands together, trying to warm my icy fingertips. I’d finally stopped shaking after downing six pots of hot tea, but I still felt brittle and a little wobbly. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Pete, frantically windmilling his arms as he plummeted toward me. All I could hear was the bone-jarring thunk as he landed at my feet. I found solace in only one detail: Had I been standing a hairsbreadth closer, I’d be lying in the morgue with him.

  I shuddered at the thought.

  Grace flipped through the remaining pages of her questionnaire. “We’re making progress, everyone,” she announced proudly. “Only eight pages left.”

  A collective groan.

  “Look at the woman across the street!” Margi leaped from her chair and pressed her nose to the window glass, her voice trembling with anguish. “She’s talking on a cellphone. She’s probably even able to text.”

  “Where?” cried Osmond and Alice, racing to the window to join her.

  “You want I should fetch you another pot a tea, dear?” Nana spoke softly, as if a louder tone might cause me to shatter. “Your great-gramma Maccoull used to say there wasn’t no misery in this world what couldn’t be made better by a hot cup a tea.”

  I squeezed her hand and smiled. “I’m good, Nana.” Which wasn’t exactly true, because if Pete died the way I suspected he died, I’d never be able to live with myself again. “But, I do think I’m about to float away, so if you’ll excuse me.” I pushed away from the table.

  “Going back to the television question,” Helen fussed, “what do you think they want to know? Dick’s favorite show of all-time, or his pick in the new fall lineup?”

  Since the museum had been cleared of all patrons except us, I didn’t have to wait in line to use the ladies’ room. In fact, I had the room all to myself … until Jackie charged through the door, fisting her hands on her hips when she saw me.

  “Why is it that every time you find a dead body, I end up getting grilled by the police?” she asked in a tight voice.

  “Finally!” I sloughed water from my hands as I spun around to face her. “I’ve been going nuts not knowing what’s going on. Why is it taking so long? What did they ask you? What did you tell them? Did you actually see anything?”

  She made a beeline toward the closest mirror and plopped her metallic bag on the countertop. “You don’t mind if I multi-task while I answer, do you? My lip gloss is in desperate need of freshening up.”

  “Your lips are fine, Jack. Talk to me!”

  “What did I see?” she repeated as she removed a lip brush from her cosmetic bag. “A sink and wall spigot. World War II vintage. Not in the best of shape. An alcove where a stove used to sit. A closed off fireplace. Beamed ceiling. A menu for an anniversary dinner. An adjoining room I never got to see because of Pete Finnegan’s swan dive down the staircase.”

  “Were you near him when it happened?”

  “Everyone was near him, Emily. We were packed in like sardines. I bumped into, stepped on, or smacked elbows with every person in the stupid room. But that’s what makes eavesdropping such a specialized skill. You can’t stand in one place. You have to keep moving around.”

  “And?”

  “And my boots have scuff marks all over them because of it.” She pivoted her foot, toe out, to show me. “You don’t happen to have a suede cleaner bar on you, do you?”

  “Jack!”

  “What! I was on the other side of the room when all the commotion started, along with a whole host of other people, who, by the way, were blowing off the rules and taking photos.”

  “Was Mike McManus on your side of the room? Tall, good-looking guy with a golf tan and Wolf Blitzer’s hair?”

  “Mmmm …” She unscrewed the cap on her lip gloss. “Not that I recall. I was surrounded by a clique of plushy women who were rehashing their dislike of some nun named Sister Hippolytus when the wheels fell off.”

  “So Mike could have been standing near the staircase when Pete fell?”

  She leaned close to the mirror as she brushed a dab of gloss over her lips. “I don’t know who was standing nearest the staircase, but you might want to ask Beth Ann, because she was working that side of the room for me. I had this ingenious idea to divide the room into two hal—” She gasped suddenly, wheeling around to face me. “Oh, my God. Do you think this Mike McManus pushed Pete?”

  “I don’t know.” I inhaled a breath and let it out, but it did nothing to lessen the taste of guilt lingering in my mouth. “I … I’m terrified I might have killed him.”

  “WHAT?”

  “I feel so horrible, Jack. Pete ranted at me earlier today that he could ruin all his classmates by blabbing some secrets no one realized he knew, and I made the mistake of telling
Mike, and a few flights of stairs later, Pete ends up dead. See?” My voice rose to a breathless squeal. “I killed him!”

  Jackie rolled her eyes. “Can I give you some friendly advice, Emily? Stop making everything about yourself. You were nowhere near Pete when he took his dive, so cool your jets. You didn’t do it.”

  “I know I didn’t do it directly. What I did was worse. I drove someone else to do it!”

  “The guy tripped and fell. Have you seen the stairs in this place? They’re enough to scare the climbers who scaled Everest. One misstep, and splat!”

  I winced. “But what about—”

  “When Pete dive-bombed at you, was he wearing the kind of look that screamed, ‘Holy shit! Someone just pushed me?’”

  I regarded her blandly. “I don’t know how he looked. I mean, I didn’t see his face. It all happened too quickly.”

  “My point exactly. These stairs are killers.” She recapped her lip gloss and brush and stuffed them back in her bag. “Look, Em, if it’ll make you feel any better, the police seem to be treating Pete’s death as an accident. These guys are very thorough interrogators, so trust me, if Mike McManus had entertained even a fleeting thought about shoving Pete down the stairs, they would know. Their interrogation techniques are brilliant. You wouldn’t believe what they were able to get out of me.”

  “Like what?”

  She gave her eyelashes a demure flutter. “Like, I had written a novel that can still be purchased on Amazon from select sellers.”

  Oh, right. Who knew what sordid threats they’d had to make to get that out of her?

  The restroom door swung open.

  “Thank God,” Jackie gushed as Beth Ann crossed the threshold. “Could you please do me a colossal favor and convince Emily she didn’t kill Pete Finnegan?”

  Beth Ann did a double-take. “Pardon me?”

  “Go ahead.” She made a scooting motion with her hand. “Tell her what you saw just before Pete fell down the stairs.”

  “Uh—he was hanging out by the stairs, waiting for the queue to Peter Van Pels’ room to shorten, and the next thing I knew, I heard a series of thumps, a scream, and poof. He wasn’t there anymore.”