by Maddy Hunter
I stared at Bernice, her accusation zapping me like a shot of stray voltage. Uff-da! This whole time I’d been operating on the assumption that everyone was telling me the truth. But what if that wasn’t the case? What if everyone was lying to cover up what had really happened? Duh?
“Why was Pete left out?” Alice asked me.
“He wasn’t socially adept, he didn’t try to fit in, and no one enjoyed his company.”
Eight sets of eyes riveted on Bernice.
“What?” she balked.
Helen bristled with indignation. “If folks snubbed me like that, I wouldn’t take kindly to it at all. I might even find a way to make them regret it.”
Nana raised her hand. “If Pete Finnegan wasn’t at the park, where was he?”
I regarded her dumbly. “I don’t know. But I do know that he was the first person in the class to get his driver’s license, even though no one bothered to acknowledge it. So if he had access to a car, he could have easily cruised by to see what was going on with his classmates.”
“And seen something he shouldn’t have?” asked George.
A stillness fell over the room. Yes, he could have gotten an eyeful that day. But what in God’s name had he seen?
Tilly thumped her walking stick on the floor. “Have you considered the possibility that the person who picked Bobby up might not have been a random stranger? What if the person driving the car had been Pete Finnegan?”
Collective gasps, the loudest of which was my own.
“Pete could easily have offered Bobby a ride back to the orphanage,” she continued, “then made sure he never got there. What better way to wield power over the ruling elite than by eliminating the one student who stood in the way of your receiving the highest honor in your graduating class?”
“I think you’re all ignoring the obvious,” Grace spoke up. “Bobby Guerrette refused to attend the senior prom with Paula Peavey. Can you imagine how angry that must have made her? Don’t you think she would have wanted to get even? You said yourself she was vicious, Emily. And she had her own car. Maybe she was the one who picked up Bobby that night.”
“And made him pay the ultimate price,” said Helen.
“Hell hath no fury,” offered Osmond.
Was it Paula who’d picked Bobby up? Had Pete witnessed it? Could he have carried that secret around with him for five decades? But why wouldn’t he have spoken up at the time? “Arrrrhh!” I scrubbed my face with my hands. “I can’t think.”
“You people are so delusional,” Bernice grumbled. “What are you trying to prove? You think there was a murder fifty years ago? There wasn’t. That kid ran away. It happens all the time. They’re called runaways.”
“Oh, yeah?” countered Margi. “So if there was no murder to cover up back then, how come so many people are dying now?”
Bernice stared at her. “Is that supposed to make sense?”
Margi stared back. “It does to me.”
“It doesn’t make sense to Bernice because she doesn’t know how to connect the dots,” said Grace.
“Here’s some dots for you,” huffed Bernice. “Pete fell down a staircase because he wasn’t looking where he was going. Paula fell into a canal because she wasn’t looking where she was going. Not to mention, she had vertigo.”
My mouth fell open. “You knew about that, too?”
“Charlotte plowed into a speeding bicycle because … she wasn’t looking where she was going. Do you see any dots?”
George shooed something away from his line of vision. “I see ’em, but are you sure they’re not floaters?”
“Emily is getting us all hopped up over nothing,” accused Bernice. “If we listen to her, we’re all gonna end up having another lousy vacation, because she’ll convince us to waste all our time trying to prove her stupid conspiracy theories.”
“I thought that was the reason we come on these trips,” said Nana.
Eight sets of eyes pingponged from Bernice, to me, to Bernice again. “Show of hands,” announced Osmond. “How many people are in favor of ousting Bernice from our caucus?”
While he counted the eight hands that shot into the air, I excused myself to answer a sudden knock on my door.
“Don’t ask,” Jackie fumed as she stormed into the room. Beth Ann followed close behind her, like a beagle chasing a squirrel.
“Whatever you say,” I agreed as I closed the door.
Jackie paused in the center of the room, feet apart, hands on hips, eyes snapping. “Men!”
Silence. Gaping. Uncertainty.
“What’s wrong with ’em?” asked Nana.
She flashed a grateful smile. “You’re so sweet to ask, Mrs. S. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with them.” She snapped her fingers at Beth Ann.
“‘Our drinks arrived,’” Beth Ann read from her notebook. “‘My strawberry daiquiri was as pink as liquid antacid and twice as frothy. Jackie’s selection was more cosmopolitan—James Bond’s favorite, a vodka martini, shaken not stirred.’”
“I thought it was stirred, not shaken,” said Helen.
“What’s the difference?” asked Margi.
George scratched his head. “Are we talking about martinis or cosmopolitans?”
“Do cosmopolitans have olives?” asked Grace. “I love olives.”
“I love them little baby onions,” said Nana. “But they don’t taste real good in a Shirley Temple.”
I shot a pathetic look heavenward.
Knockknockknock.
“Hold that thought,” I said as I answered the door.
Wally stood in the doorway, out of breath and frazzled. He nodded toward Jackie. “Good. I was hoping she’d be here. Can I come in?”
I swept my hand toward the inner sanctum. “Be my guest.”
He gave a little wave of acknowledgment to everyone before confronting Jackie. “I want you to know I’m really sorry about what happened downstairs, and you have my word that it’ll never happen again.”
“Words are cheap,” she fired back. “What are you planning to do if it does?”
“Dietger will be looking at immediate dismissal, not only from this tour, but from the company. We have a zero tolerance policy against any type of fraternization between guests and drivers. I’ll file a report. If it happens again, he’s outta here.”
Jackie twitched her lips, unwilling to give an inch. “His people skills are abhorrent.”
“I know,” Wally said contritely.
“I hope you realize that the fiasco last night was all his fault. How does he get off leading a bunch of old geezers into the Red Light District and then just dumping them?”
“I’ll include that in my report,” he promised.
She flexed her shoulders, thawing slightly. “All right then. I’m not a total troglodyte.”
“What’s a troglodyte?” whispered Nana
“Neanderthal,” Tilly whispered back.
Nana waited a beat. “That don’t help none.”
“Is there any way I can make it up to you?” Wally glanced from Jackie to Beth Ann.
“Well, you did act the gallant when you came to our rescue.” Jackie batted her lashes and brushed an imaginary fleck off his shoulder. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Me either,” said Beth Ann a little breathlessly.
“Just doing my job.” But if his chest puffed out any more, his buttons would be history. “I—uh, I guess I should be getting back to my computer before the bartender forgets he’s supposed to be keeping an eye on it for me. I just wanted to make sure we were squared away.”
Bernice raised her hand. “Are you on Facebook?”
“Company requirement. Look for me under Peppers. Wally Peppers. I’m the only one listed.”
Halfway to the door he paused, then turned around to offer Beth Ann a come-hither smile. “You mentioned you were pretty good with computers. Could I steal you away for a few minutes to help me with mine? I keep getting a message that tells me I have a runtime error
28, but I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you’re out of stack space.”
“Do you know how to fix it?”
She shoved her notebook into her purse and returned his smile, looking delirious to be singled out for special duty. “Piece of cake.”
I closed the door behind them and tossed Jackie an inquiring look. “What’s up with that?”
“Long story short. Dietger was making a pest of himself wanting to join us for drinks. I told him it was a private party. He interpreted that to mean we’d like to sleep with him. I told him to bugger off. He sat down at the next table, leering at us. Wally saw what was going on and read Dietger the riot act, which is when Beth Ann and I split. Not a good scene. Dietger was sooo angry that he was being dressed down. No good is going to come of this. Mark my words. Our little Belgian coach driver is trouble.”
I shook my head. “What I meant was, what’s up with Wally? Do I detect a little sexual chemistry going on between him and your favorite client?”
“There better not be any sexual chemistry going on.” Jackie trained an arch look at the door. “How can I teach Beth Ann anything about the fine art of decision-making if she decides to hang out with him instead of me? Do you realize how devastating that would be to my career? I can’t have clients making their own decisions. I’d be rendered obsolete!”
She worried her bottom lip, unconsciously gnawing the gloss clear off. “You know, I should have suspected he was up to something. Before he burrowed himself into a corner with his computer, Wally stopped by our table all friendly and chatty and polite. I figured he was hitting on me.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “It happens a lot, you know.”
“Maybe not this time,” I suggested.
“But … but … how could he prefer Beth over me?” Her face crumpled in slow, agonizing waves, her voice became a plaintive wail. “Oh, my God, Emily. I’ve lost my touch. I’m all washed up. I’ve become invisible!”
“I wish to heck you’d become invisible,” cracked Bernice. “Will you park it someplace? You’re blocking my view.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and offered smiles all around. “So, what were you doing before yours truly barged in on you?”
Pursed lips. Puckered brows. Blank looks.
“Isn’t that somethin’?” Nana said, chiding herself. “I can’t rightly recall what we was doin’.”
“I think we were discussing snack foods,” said Helen.
“Seems like we were fixing to vote on something,” said Osmond. “But doggone if I can remember what.”
I beamed. Failing memory wasn’t such a bad thing, especially when you were trying to keep the troops focused. “We were discussing our murder investigation and what we should do next.”
“That’s right,” said Margi. “Someone suggested we should all pitch in to help Emily prove her theory.”
“I think it was Bernice,” Alice marveled.
“First time that’s ever happened,” muttered George.
“Eww.” Jackie did a little pattycake clap. “The noose tightens. So, whose neck is in the noose?”
It took me less than a millisecond to pare down our tsunami of hunches into a single coherent thought. “I think that someone is killing reunion guests … to avenge something that happened at a high school outing fifty years ago.” I nodded approval at myself. That’s what I’d been wanting to say all along, wasn’t it?
“Who?” pressed Jackie.
I frowned. “That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet.”
“But Pete Finnegan and Paula Peavey are at the top of the leader board,” said Helen.
“Pete and Paula?” Jackie let out a hoot. “Hel-looo? Your main suspects are dead. I can hardly wait to hear the confessions you drag out of them.”
“Laura LaPierre and Gary Bouchard might be suspect,” said Tilly, reading the names she’d written on her notepad.
“I think there’s somethin’ shady about that Hennessy fella’s wife,” said Nana. “She don’t look like no cheerleader I ever seen.”
“You think there’s something shady about her?” Bernice snorted. “Get a gander of Peewee’s graduation picture on his nametag. He didn’t even look like the same species back then.”
“People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” Margi said in a small, tight voice.
“Should we take a vote?” asked Osmond.
“No.” I waved off the idea with both hands. “Research first, then voting.”
“What kinda research?” asked Nana.
“You’re the ones with the smartphones and Web access, so would each of you be responsible for a single name and dig up whatever information you can on that one person? Anything you can find. Public records. Newspaper articles. Obituaries. Service organization rosters. Genealogical records. Anything that looks in the least bit relevant. When we get together again, we’ll pool our findings to see if we can establish any new leads.”
I could feel the energy level rise like the mercury in a Fahrenheit thermometer. “We only need to investigate about twelve people, so that should be doable. Maybe we should call them the dirty dozen.”
“Can we choose the name we want to research?” asked Alice.
“Sure,” I agreed. “Out of a hat.”
But since I didn’t have a hat, I put the names into my ice bucket instead.
“I don’t like this name,” whined Bernice. “Anyone want to trade?”
There were no apparent takers as everyone held fast to the slips of paper they’d selected.
“Twits.”
“How am I going to do this?” asked Jackie. “I don’t have a smartphone.”
“The hotel has a business center. Maybe you can access a computer there. I’ll have to do that, too.” Either that, or call Mom, which could leave me with a bad case of hives. “Any other questions?”
They looked a little twitchy, as if they’d overdosed on caffeine. Snatching up their belongings, they put a bead on the door and began shuffling their feet.
“Okay, then.” I stepped out of the way. “Meeting adjourned.”
They raced across the room in a tangle of hips, legs, and elbows.
“Get to bed early,” I reminded them as they shouldered their way out the door. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Jackie stared after them. “Why do they always have to run?”
I gave her a palms-up. “Because they can?”
“Whatevvver. Say, you got stuck with two names. You want me to give one to Beth Ann?”
“I think Wally might have plans to keep Beth Ann a little preoccupied in the days to come, so I’d better handle them myself. I don’t want anyone accusing me of standing in the way of true love.”
“It’s so unfair,” she pouted as I ushered her to the door. “She’s supposed to be furthering my career, not his lovelife. What’ll I do if they decide to get married?”
I snapped my fingers. “The perfect career change for you, Jack. Wedding planner!”
She cocked her head and flashed a broad smile. “Ooh. That could work.”
Having orchestrated Jack’s next career move, I flopped onto my bed and unfolded the slips of paper I’d pulled from the ice bucket. “Sheila Bouchard” read the first one. “Gary Bouchard” read the second.
It was only then that I recalled my brief encounter with them in the Rijksmuseum—the one where they’d been standing within earshot of Pete Finnegan as he’d ranted about divulging secrets powerful enough to ruin all his classmates.
Damn. I’d forgotten about that.
Fifteen
“In the fourteenth century, the medieval city of Bruges was hailed as the premier center for trade and commerce in all of northern Europe,” Wally announced over the mike the next morning. “A hundred and fifty years later, a majority of its residents were living in poverty. Can you guess why?”
“Black Death!” called someone from the front of the bus.
“Nope.”
“Extension of the Bush tax cuts!” blurted Margi.
“Nope.”
I lunged for the seat in front of me as Dietger swerved into the passing lane, causing the whole bus to shimmy.
“Total economic collapse brung on by competition from foreign wool markets,” spouted Nana. “And then one of their big rivers silted up, so they couldn’t ship nuthin’ to no seaports.”
Wally paused. “That’s right,” he said, sounding a bit shocked.
She leaned toward me. “Globalization screwed ’em, but they didn’t call it that back then on account of in them days, the world wasn’t shaped like no globe. It was flat.”
I regarded her indulgently. “National Geographic Channel?”
“Reader’s Digest. I been a little irregular lately.”
“Bruges remained economically crippled for three hundred years,” Wally continued, “until British tourists rediscovered it in the mid-nineteenth century, prompting new cottage industries to spring up around chocolates, beer, and lace. It’s nicknamed the ‘Venice of the North’ for its many canals and waterways, but you’ll note that unlike Venice, it’s not sinking. Its guildhalls, warehouses, cathedrals, and merchants’ houses are some of the finest examples of Medieval Gothic architecture on the Continent, and lucky for us, perfectly preserved. Hitler’s armies left it untouched in the war, so the city you’re going to see today is the same city you would have seen six hundred years ago, with some minor updating to accommodate modern-day traffic and sanitation.”
The bus swerved back into the traveling lane, causing the contents of my stomach to slosh like a rogue wave.
“Geez!” Wally barked, making me think his stomach was sloshing, too. “If you can’t keep this rig on the road, how’s about I find someone who can?”
Dietger had been swerving a lot since our early morning departure from Amsterdam, jolting us awake from our catnaps with his dramatic over-corrections, accelerations, and staggering lurches to left and right. Our seat belts prevented us from slamming face first into the seat in front of us, but there was nothing we could do about the sleep deprivation, which meant, we’d be touring Bruges looking like an army of zombies.