Dutch Me Deadly

by Maddy Hunter

I interpreted Dietger’s little temper tantrum to mean he hadn’t been pleased about Wally’s rebuke in the bar. Jackie had predicted there’d be consequences. Boy, she’d sure called that right.

  “I’m sorry I don’t got no research to report to you this mornin’,” Nana apologized as she fussed with her seat belt. “Me and Tilly was full a good intentions last night, but listenin’ to the financial news put us both to sleep.”

  “Pretty boring stuff, huh?”

  “Don’t know. It was in Dutch.”

  I’d had good intentions, too. I’d trekked down to the business center a couple of times, but on each occasion, someone was using the computer, so around midnight, I’d thrown in the towel and gone to bed, without finding out any more about Sheila and Gary Bouchard than I’d known the day before.

  “You want we should call you the minute we dig up anything promisin’ on our suspects?” asked Nana.

  I frowned. “That could get awkward, especially if I’m standing beside the person you’re ratting on.”

  “We could text you.”

  I perked up, suddenly enamored with the new advances in phone technology. “That could actually work.”

  “You bet it could. And all’s you’d have to do is read the message. You wouldn’t have to send nuthin’ back.”

  “Okay. Show me what I need to know.”

  So while Wally continued to entertain us with a brief history of Bruges, Nana instructed me on the dos and don’ts of text messaging. By the time we entered the city limits, I figured I knew as much about sending text messages as a fifth grader, so I could hardly wait to strut my stuff.

  “When the little alert goes off, all’s you gotta do is read what’s on the screen. It’s real easy, dear. And if you got questions about the message, type in a reply just like I showed you.”

  I regarded my cellphone with newfound affection. “Okay. I can do this.” I slid it back into the side pocket of my shoulder bag. “By the way, whose name did you draw last night?”

  She pulled the paper out of the handwarming pouch of her Vikings sweatshirt. “Ricky Hennessy,” she said, after rechecking the name.

  We catapulted forward as Dietger jumped the curb and jammed on the brakes, executing a tooth-rattling stop in front of a row of two-story mercantile shops.

  Gasps. Grunts. Groans.

  “Did we stop like that on purpose, or was our tires shot out?” asked Nana.

  Wally made a robotic move into the center aisle, his stiff body language signaling that his temper was simmering on low burn. “The streets in the old town can’t accommodate coaches, so we need to travel the rest of the way on foot. Does everyone have their map?”

  We waved them above our heads in response.

  “I’ve starred the spot where we’re parked because it’s where Dietger will pick us up again in four hours”—his voice bristled with sarcasm—“if he’s able to navigate the road without putting the bus in a ditch someplace. And as I look out the window, I see that our local guide is waiting for us, so why don’t we step off the bus and join her?”

  We gathered around our guide like drones around the queen bee. She was middle-aged, wore sturdy shoes, and kinda had a French/Dutch/German thing going on with her accent that forced us to have to listen really closely to what she was saying. Her name was Gheertrude.

  “I welcome you to Flanders,” she said cheerily.

  Stunned silence.

  “Wait just a darned minute,” balked Bernice. “We’re supposed to be in Bruges.”

  Gheertrude laughed. “You are in Bruges. But Bruges is in Flanders.”

  “I thought Bruges was in Belgium,” said Helen.

  “It is,” Gheertrude allowed.

  “So we’re not in Flanders?” asked Grace.

  “No, no. You’re still in Flanders.”

  “You just said we’re in Belgium,” corrected Bernice.

  “We are in Belgium. Bruges is the capital of the province of West Flanders in the Flemish region of Belgium.”

  Thoughtful silence.

  Margi raised her hand. “I’m sorry. Where are we?”

  “Why don’t we straighten that out later?” suggested Wally. “Moving right along, we’re giving you a host of options today. Option one: you can remain with Gheertrude and me for the walking tour and canal ride, and we’ll escort you back here to the pickup point. Option two: you can take the walking tour as far as the market square, then part company with us to get a bite to eat, shop, or take a carriage ride. You’ll be on your own to find your way back. Option three: head into Old Town on your own, eat, shop, then meet up with us for the canal ride, which I’ve marked on your maps. Option four: none of the above. Just make sure you get back to the pickup point on time.”

  My guys looked stricken. For people afflicted with lateness anxiety, being presented with options that could make them late was no option at all. Even if they could read a map better than the Rand McNally atlas guys, they needed to be reassured that someone in charge would guide them through the city streets and back to this spot before the bus took off. And there was really only one person in charge.

  “We’ll take option one,” I told Wally, making an executive decision for the group.

  “Me, too,” said Jackie.

  “And me,” said Beth Ann, causing Wally’s eyes to brighten and a hint of a smile to soften his lips.

  In the final tally, everyone took option one, though a few reunion people reserved the right to change their minds once they had a looksee at the central market. I wasn’t sure how the gang would be able to handle their individual investigations with the Mainers breathing down their necks, but I figured they were all pretty clever, so they’d find a way.

  “Our first stop this morning is only a few steps away,” announced Gheertrude as she gestured toward a side street. “The Begijnhof, a serene cluster of white-washed houses, where, for six hundred years, girls and widows dedicated their lives to charitable work without taking religious vows, and Minnewater, also called ‘the Lake of Love’, a thirteenth-century, man-made reservoir, famous for its beautiful white swans and utter tranquility. Please to follow after me.”

  The side street was called Wijngaardstraat, and was possibly as wide as a New York City alley, but a lot more high class. Tidy brick buildings lined both sides of the tidy brick pavement, their decorative doors inviting passersby into tea rooms, chocolate shops, and art galleries. As we strolled past an unassuming hotel hidden among the bricks, I glanced through the lobby window, noticing something that caused me to hesitate, then stop dead in my tracks.

  “Psssst! Jack.”

  She turned her head in my direction.

  “I’m ducking in here for a minute. I’ll catch up.”

  She gave me a thumbs-up before stutter-stepping over the pavers in her stiletto boots. I guess she hadn’t been daunted by the fact that the streets in Bruges were cobbled.

  I entered the hotel and made a beeline for a table that sat in front of the lobby window. On the table sat two computers—powered up and sitting idle.

  Yes! This was my chance.

  I approached the front desk and smiled at the clerk, a handsome young man with a buff body and bedroom eyes. “Would it be possible for me to use one of your lobby computers?”

  “Of course, madam. The computers are set up for the convenience of our guests.”

  “I’m not a guest. I’m staying at another hotel. In Amsterdam.”

  “Ahh. That presents something of a problem.”

  “Could I pay you to use it for a short time?”

  “We’re not set up to accept off-the-books fees, madam.”

  “Even if it’s a matter of life or death?”

  He lifted his brows. “You’re American?”

  “Guilty.”

  He motioned me closer. “Do you watch the Fox Network show American Idol?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I lied.

  “Me, too! I watch it at my cousin’s. He has a satellite dish. I even follow it on Fa
cebook.”

  “Me, too!” I lied again.

  Curving his mouth into a slow smile, he scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “The code to access the computer.”

  “Really?”

  He winked. “Let it be our secret.”

  With the small front lobby all to myself, I typed in the access code and in a few keystrokes was staring at the Google homepage. Now, where to begin? I typed “Gary Bouchard,” hit the return key, and in less than a nanosecond pulled up more than four million bits of information on the Gary Bouchards of the world. Four million. You gotta be kidding me.

  I decided to narrow my search. My fingers flew over the keyboard. “Gary Bouchard Bangor Maine.” I hit the return.

  Twelve thousand hits.

  Okay. Twelve thousand I could handle.

  I spent the next fifteen minutes unearthing pieces of Gary Bouchard’s life on a website called, Who’s Who in Bangor. His car dealership was apparently the largest in southern Maine, with satellite dealerships as far north as Presque Isle, which practically sat on the Canadian border. He’d received several Businessman of the Year awards from local service organizations, was an officer in the Knights of Columbus, and sponsored a basketball camp every summer for underprivileged youth. Gee, that was nice of him. He was a longtime member of the Bangor city council, president of the fine arts commission, and served on the board of trustees for St. Francis Xavier High School. My eyes slowly glazed over. The guy sounded like a saint. An elitist saint, but a saint nonetheless. I obviously needed to dig deeper into his background to find the real dirt.

  I accessed the local paper and plunged into the archives, hitting the mother lode under “weddings.” Gary’s name led me to a bridal photo of Sheila in her “peau de soie gown, sewn with seed pearls and aurora borealis crystals.” Wow. The article described every single detail of the wedding, from the bride’s and attendants’ gowns, to the altar flowers and mother-of-the-bride outfits. It listed out-of-town guests, the country club where the reception was held, and where the newlyweds would be traveling on their honeymoon.

  I studied the photo of Sheila (Eaton) Bouchard, thinking how incredibly young she’d been when she married. Babies having babies. But she and Gary were still together, so they’d obviously found a way to make it work. The article mentioned that she’d graduated third in her class from St. Francis Xavier and would be “at home” after the honeymoon, setting up housekeeping in their new house, which had been a wedding gift from her parents.

  I read that twice to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. A house as a wedding gift? Who could afford it? My parents had given us a blender, but it had twenty-four speeds and a self-cleaning button, so it was a really good one.

  The article wrapped up with the scoop on the groom. He’d been the highest scoring basketball player in Xavier’s history, graduated fifth in his class, and planned to attend Husson College in the fall to pursue a degree in business, while at the same time joining his father at Bouchard Motors as part owner.

  Gary’s life had apparently been all mapped out for him, but I wondered if Gary had done any of the planning. He might have pursued a basketball career if Ricky Hennessy hadn’t monkeyed with the toilet paper in the boys’ bathroom. He might have attended one of the big Ivy League schools if Sheila hadn’t been pushing marriage. He might have tested his wings in another part of the country if his in-laws hadn’t anchored him in place with a new house. At some point in his life had he rebelled against the status quo and exacted revenge on the people who’d stolen his options? But what could he have done that Pete Finnegan might have found out about? And how did Paula fit in?

  I accessed birth announcements, obituaries, and entries in Bangor’s social calendar. I found a birth announcement for Gary Allen Bouchard III a few months after the wedding and an obituary for Gary Bouchard Senior two years later. Gee. He’d only been forty-five years old. Died in a hunting accident. I clicked on a link to find that Gary Senior had been fatally wounded when his gun accidentally discharged while he was deer hunting with Gary Junior.

  I stared at the words until the letters ran into each other. Holy crap. Was this my smoking gun? Literally?

  I scanned the rest of the article, learning that Gary Junior would be taking over the family car dealership, insuring that loyal customers would suffer no disruption in sales or service. Armed with his two-year business degree, twenty-one-year-old Gary professed readiness to step into his father’s shoes, although his mother would remain the titular head of the business. Accessing a second link, I found another obituary—that of Gary’s mother, who died in a car accident eight months later. “A defect in the braking system of her Chrysler Saratoga,” a subsequent article reported, explaining how Mrs. Bouchard had careened down Newbury Street hill and crashed headlong into a tree. I didn’t know if Gary’s dealership had been responsible for maintaining her brakes, but I did know that with both his parents dead, Gary was free to run the whole show without interference from anyone. Barely in his twenties, he becomes one of the wealthiest men in the city, which probably did a lot to make up for a few of his earlier disappointments.

  Coincidence, or deliberate plan?

  I expanded my search to include Sheila Bouchard and in a few clicks discovered entries in the social calendar announcing her induction onto the boards of the Maine State Historical Society, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and the Junior League of Bangor. She even established her own social club, the Minerva Society, where local women came together on a weekly basis to discuss literature and the arts. I found pictures of an ever-evolving Sheila with the conductor of the Bangor Symphony orchestra at a Christmas extravaganza, and with St. Xavier’s Sister Hippolytus at the parish’s annual Coffee Party. I studied the photo of the nun, remembering this was the teacher none of the girls had liked. Sister Hippo. I wondered if she was still alive. She’d be pretty old now, but when nuns retired to the Mother House, they oftentimes seemed to live forever. Kinda like Osmond.

  Sheila graced the pages of the Bangor Daily News throughout the decades, and almost exclusively on the front page—at the opening of the State Fair, at the ribbon cutting for a new wing of the medical center, at the Bowdoin College graduation ceremony when Gary III received his degree, at the county courthouse where she gazed sourly at a jubilant Paula Peavey.

  Courthouse?

  I scanned the accompanying article. Oh, my God. Paula had won a discrimination suit against Sheila and the Minerva Society. Paula’s application for membership had been rejected on the basis that since she hadn’t graduated in the top tenth of her class, she wasn’t actually smart enough to discuss Lolita or Green Eggs and Ham. Paula had called foul, and the judgment had been decided in her favor, along with a significant cash payment for damages. A week later, another article announced the dissolution of the Minerva Society, which “in its two years of existence, had become the premier ladies group in Bangor, surpassing even the Junior League in popularity among the well-heeled.”

  I leaned back in my chair, thinking. Had Sheila eventually forgiven Paula for the lawsuit, or had she bided her time until she could even the score? Paula had definitely knocked her down a few pegs. Sheila wouldn’t have liked that. But how far would Sheila have gone to get even? Could she have been bitter and angry enough to commit murder? The idea seemed pretty far-fetched, and yet one thing I’d learned in my travel experience was that, what seemed far-fetched to me might seem perfectly normal to a homicidal maniac.

  I stared out the lobby window in a daze. Was this the kind of information that would be useful to the police? Or would they tell me to come back when I’d found a direct link between my suspects and their victims? I’d already found a link between Paula and Sheila, but I needed something concrete to connect Pete to Gary. Something that I could point to and say, “See this? I think Pete is dead because he threatened to reveal this about Gary.” But what could Pete possibly know?

  I heard a loud rapping on the window. Jackie grimaced a
t me with every muscle in her face before mouthing something I couldn’t hear.

  “What?” I mouthed back.

  Rolling her eyes in disgust, she charged through the front door and into the lobby. “I said—What are you doing in here? Gheertrude isn’t waiting for you. But I know which way she’s headed, so if we leave now, we might be able to catch up.”

  I typed a flurry of words, my eyes riveted on the monitor. “Gimme a minute. I need to find out what Pete Finnegan did for a living.”

  She hovered over me, her foot tapping out an impatient rhythm on the floor. “Are you coming?”

  “Just … just … I’m almost there.”

  “Are you supposed to be using this computer?”

  “The front desk clerk gave me the access code. Free of charge.”

  “Get out of here.” She stilled her foot and settled into the chair beside me. “What is it?”

  I gave her the code.

  “Ooh. Google access.” She paused. “I can’t just Google the word Peewee. What’s the guy’s real name?”

  I continued clicking on links. “Check the guest roster in your tour packet.”

  She rummaged through her designer bag. Shuffling. Sorting. Swearing. “Let’s see. Here it is. ‘Peewee’ Crowley. Phoenix, Arizona. This can’t be right. Are they telling us his real name is Peewee?”

  “Try the Francis Xavier yearbook. Maybe they’ve archived copies online.” I combined Pete’s name with various businesses in Bangor and got no hits. Guess he wasn’t a local merchant.

  “Okay, his real name is Norman Crowley,” said Jackie, fingers flying and screen changing as fast as the beams in a laser light show.

  I tried banking, the bar association, the medical field. Nothing.

  “Ta-da!” She veed her arms over her head. “Norman Crowley was drafted right out of high school. Here’s a picture of him and some of his buddies packing up and heading off to boot camp. ‘Local Boys Put College on Hold to Serve Country First,’ is the title of the newspaper article. Man, he really was a squirt back then.”

  I sat straight up in my chair. The draft? That’s right! Up until the early seventies, all men had been inducted into the military, even my dad. Was it possible that Pete and Gary had served together? Maybe even been in the same platoon or regiment?