by Maddy Hunter
I kinda remembered saying that, but I’d said so much over the last twenty-four hours that I was having a hard time keeping it all straight. But one thing seemed clear. “Are you saying the police are back on the case?”
He nodded. “It was because of the bruising that showed up post-mortem. The medical examiner determined Paula’s death couldn’t have been an accident. You were right about that, too. She didn’t fall. She was pushed.”
Seventeen
The canal ride had been a blur.
I vaguely remember ducking as we’d motored beneath bridges low enough to knock our heads off, oohing as we’d passed a quiet commune of whitewashed almshouses, and aahing as we’d sped along the Canal of Ghent with its buzzing boat traffic. But mostly what I remember was wishing I hadn’t been right about Paula Peavey.
Things had gotten entirely too complicated.
Had Mary Lou and Laura teamed up to push Paula into the canal? Or had Mindy and Ricky Hennessy beaten them to it? Chip Soucy had sidestepped the question about whether he’d seen Paula after the blowup in the Red Light District. Was that because he’d taken a long look at her before he’d pushed her into the water? Were my suspicions about the Bouchards legitimate? Or was I doing nothing more than grasping at straws?
And what about Pete? Could Mary Lou and Laura have ganged up on him, too? But why would they want to? They’d had little to do with him in high school and even less to do with him afterward. Chip and the Hennessys might have wanted the IRS out of their financial hair, but would they have murdered Pete to resolve the problem? Why did the Hennessys look so guilty on the surveillance video? What was with the scarf that Ricky had gotten rid of ? And if Peewee wasn’t Norman Crowley, who was he, and why was he here?
Most puzzling of all, was any of this connected to Charlotte’s death?
I grabbed the handrail on the seat in front of me as the bus exited the off-ramp on three wheels, sending packages flying and our stomachs into our throats.
“I have motion sickness pills!” announced Margi as she waved a carton over her head. “A sampler pack. In six delicious flavors.”
I placed a steadying hand on Nana, who sat calm as a clock beside me, flipping through the most recent photos she’d shot with her camera phone.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I sputtered when the tires stopping screeching.
“Don’t pay him no mind, dear,” she advised without looking up. “I spent fifty years ridin’ with your Grampa Sippel. Compared to him, this fella’s a regular Mario Andretti.” She angled her phone toward me. “Isn’t this a nice shot of Wally and Beth Ann?”
It was a head shot of the two of them, eyes twinkling and smiles stretching from ear to ear. “You must have taken this before Wally found out about Paula’s autop—” I froze mid-word, the final syllable sliding back down my throat. Wally had asked me to keep mum about the autopsy results until we got back to Amsterdam and received further instructions from the police. Good going, Emily. Way to keep mum.
I sidled a look at Nana. On a brighter note, if her attention had wandered, maybe she hadn’t heard me.
“When you was talkin’ to Wally, dear, he didn’t have no bad news to share about the Dicks, did he? Since we run outta stuff for Grace and Helen to do, they’re gettin’ awful worried.”
I settled back in my seat, relieved she’d missed my faux pas. “As a matter of fact, Wally talked to the police earlier, and they told him they haven’t received any leads on the Dicks, but they’ve assigned an officer to the case. That’s encouraging, isn’t it?”
“I s’pose. Maybe I should tell the girls that no news is good news.”
“That’s the spirit.”
She fidgeted with her camera photos once again. “So when’s Wally gonna tell us that Paula was pushed?”
My eyelids flapped upward so fast, they nearly drove my eyelashes into my skull. Leaning in her direction, I said in a manic rush of breath, “Howdoyouknowthat? Nooneknowsthat.” I wheezed in sudden horror. “Didyouhackintotheautopsyreport?”
“I’m not that brave, dear. Holland don’t like foreigners hackin’ into their government files, so if they was to convict me, I’d have to serve more years in the pokey than I got left on the earth.”
“Here’s a thought. You can be thrown into jail back home, too.”
“But if I was back home, I’d get more visitors.”
“Howdidyoufindout? OhmyGod. DidBernicetellyou?”
“It’s on account of the course they was offerin’ at the senior center, dear. A young fella from the clinic showed us ways to deal with hearin’ loss, and I turned out to be pretty good at one a them.”
I eyed her narrowly. “Which one? Eavesdropping?”
“Lip readin’. He said he never seen no one take to it quicker than me. Isn’t that somethin’?”
I stared at her, dumbfounded. “You can read lips? Really?”
“You bet. At least, I can read ’em as long as I can see someone’s mouth, but it’s kinda hard when folks walk in front of you. If it hadn’t been for Peewee, I mighta caught Wally’s whole conversation.”
“How many people have you told about Paula?”
“I been keepin’ it to myself, dear. No tellin’ what the killer might do if word leaks out that the police are on to ’im. Folks like that will do crazy things when they’re backed into a corner.”
Yeah, just like a rat.
“Emily, I been thinkin’. You don’t s’pose the Dicks have ended up like Paula, do you?”
“No!” I lied. “They’re lost. I’m sure they’re lost, or, or something. Remember, they’re still wearing the wrong glasses, so they probably can’t read street signs worth beans.”
“I just hope they wasn’t nowhere around Paula when she got pushed. I worry that if the killer seen ’em …” She paused, her voice faltering.
“I know,” I finished for her in a hushed tone. I clasped her hand in mine. “I’m worried about that, too.”
_____
After a brief stop at Flanders Fields to visit a cemetery dedicated to the soldiers who died in the Great War, we headed toward the coast, to another town I’d never heard of.
“Oostende is a resort town on the North Sea,” Wally informed us as we rattled down roads that cut through land as wide and flat as an Indiana corn field. “The city center is a concrete jungle of high rises, shops, and grand promenades, but the real attraction in Oostende is its uninterrupted stretch of white sand beach, which played a prominent role in World War II. Hitler was so fearful that the coastal beaches of Europe would be invaded by allied armies, that as a deterrent, he ordered an intricate system of trenches, bunkers, and pillboxes to be built from Norway to the Spanish border. It was called the Atlantic Wall, and we’re going to see a well-preserved section of it today.”
“I thought we were scheduled to stop for Belgian waffles,” shouted Ricky.
“We are,” said Wally. “After our visit.”
“But I’m hungry now.”
A tightlipped pause. “There’s a cafeteria in the museum if you’d prefer to eat rather than tour the site.”
“Do they serve Belgian waffles?” asked Mindy.
“I don’t know what the cafeteria serves,” admitted Wally. “But the tour takes ninety minutes, so pick your poison. Food or history? It’s your choice. But you’ll need a ticket no matter what you decide to do, so you need to pick that up first.”
Dietger gunned the engine as we passed through the entrance gates, laying rubber across the parking lot like a hood on a joyride. Screeching into an empty space, he jammed on the brakes and snickered into the rearview mirror as the bus shimmied to a full stop. Wally was first out the door, and from what I could tell by his body language, he wasn’t a happy camper.
We followed a well-marked path through a field of tall coastal grasses toward a sprawling complex of buildings that were all painted the same color yellow. I hung out behind my group like an old mother hen, wanting them to enjoy the open-air museum, but hesita
nt to let them out of my sight. I was battling an unnerving feeling that something bad was about to happen, but my psychic wires were so crossed right now, my reception was probably a little dodgy. I mean, maybe what I was feeling was nothing more than an acute case of hunger pangs.
“Emily! Slow down, will you?”
I turned to find Jackie leaning on Beth Ann’s shoulder as she hobbled toward me, her mouth rounded into an O of pain. “Maintaining status as a fashion icon can be such a bitch.” She braced her free arm on my shoulder and hung her head, studying her spike-heeled size fourteens. “Tell me honestly, Emily, do these boots make my feet look big?”
Everything made her feet look big. Shoes. Boots. Sidewalks. But the great thing about a true friend is, she’d rather dodge the truth than hurt your feelings. “What a dumb question. I’m not even going to dignify it with an answer. But you don’t look as if you’re up for a ninety-minute walking tour.”
“My feet and I are going to sit this one out in the cafeteria. But I’m sending in Beth Ann to do reconnaissance.”
“On what?”
She broke out in a smile. “I have a plan.”
As we shuffled our way to the ticket office, she laid out the elaborate plan she’d concocted to discover Peewee’s true identity. “I figure his real name is on his driver’s license, so if we relieve him of his wallet, we just might find out who the heck he is.”
“We’ll handle it like a tag team,” said Beth Ann. “If he heads for the cafeteria, the ball will be in Jackie’s court, but if he decides to tour the wall, he’ll be all mine.”
I regarded them skeptically. “Do either of you have experience lifting wallets?”
“I accidentally shoplifted a ballpoint pen once,” said Beth Ann, her eyes clouding with guilt . “I had it in my hand and walked right out of the store without paying for it.”
“See?” said Jackie. “Accidental shoplifting. That counts, doesn’t it?”
I rolled my eyes.
“It’s a great plan,” Jackie defended. “Peewee might have gotten away with giving the tour company a fake name, but to board an international flight, he had to have made airline reservations under the name that’s on his passport and/or driver’s license.”
I puffed up my cheeks and blew out a slow breath. “How about I speak to Wally about requesting some type of trumped-up passport check back at the hotel? It’s bound to be less dangerous than petty thievery.”
Jackie pondered my suggestion as we watched the group file into the ticket office building. “You can ask him, but if we see a bulge in Peewee’s back pocket, we’re going in.”
By the time we got inside, people were hitting the restrooms, checking out the photos and war artifacts that were on display throughout the room, testing the electronic audio guides that were being handed out as part of the self-guided tour, and picking up their tickets from Wally, who was finding a way to smile despite the angry set of his jaw. Peewee was notably absent, so assuming he was in the men’s room, Jackie and Beth Ann posted themselves outside the door to await his reappearance. I picked up my ticket from Wally, mentioning that I needed to speak to him when he was done, then hit the restroom myself, to find Nana and the other girls queuing up at the sink so Margi could wipe their audio guides down with hand sanitizer.
“This thing smells like doggie breath,” whined Bernice as she sniffed her freshly decontaminated device. “Where’s the lemon scented stuff ?”
“Gone!” snapped Margi in a wild-eyed frenzy. “All I have left is peony-pumpkin. You see? This is what happens when you’re restricted to forty-five pounds of luggage. I can’t fight the norovirus with only thirty pounds of hand sanitizer. It’s impossible!”
“Stick together out there, okay?” I advised, reverting to the old safety in numbers philosophy. “I’m serious about this. Do not wander away from the group.”
A groan from Helen. “But what if some people are slowpokes?”
Six sets of eyes riveted on Bernice.
“What?” she complained. “Why are you looking at me?”
“If people are slow, be polite and wait for them,” I instructed. “It won’t kill you. I’ll catch up to you as soon as I can.”
“Where are you going?” accused Bernice. “The cafeteria?”
“Nope. I have to see a man about a horse.”
They finished up their sanitizing and were out the door before I left my stall. When I stepped back into the main lobby area, I was surprised to find it deserted, save for Wally, who was in a far corner talking on his cellphone, and Jackie and Beth Ann, who continued to linger by the men’s room entrance in anticipation of ambushing Peewee.
“He’s still in there?” I marveled.
“With our luck he’ll have prostate problems, and it’ll take him all day to whiz,” griped Jackie. Running her hands over her skirt, she smoothed out imaginary wrinkles. “Thank God I don’t have to anticipate that happening anymore.”
I picked up my audio guide from the bin on the front desk, and when Wally pocketed his cellphone, I hurried over to him. “I need your help. Would it be terribly inconvenient for you to request everyone’s passport when we get back to the hotel so we can check if everyone is who they say they are?”
He threw up his hands. “Why not? Glad to oblige. Maybe the police will give me a pat on the back for thinking ahead and doing part of their job for them. Isn’t that what tour guides are supposed to do? Smile in spite of all the crap that people throw at us?”
I quietly tucked in my lips. Somebody was still angry.
“Why am I still in this business?” he ranted. He drilled me with a hard look. “Why are you still in this business?”
“Well, I was out of the business for a little while.”
“Got fed up with the loonies, did you?”
I shook my head. “Bank collapse.”
“Ahh, that’s right. You were part of some bank-sponsored travel club. Damn recession. Did your bank go belly up?”
“It collapsed. Literally.” I compressed air between my hands until my palms were flattened together. “F-4 category tornado.”
“And you came back?” He looked bewildered. “Why?”
Why? “Because … I love what I’m doing,” I said without hesitation. “I love the whole nine yards. The people. The places. The cuisine. The—”
“The coach drivers?”
“Aha. The truth comes out. So what are you going to do about Dietger’s showboating?”
“I already took care of it. I just called the company to request a substitute driver.”
“Oh, my God. You sacked Dietger?”
“Hell, yes. I’m not about to jeopardize the lives of forty-four people by tolerating any more of his antics.”
“You have the authority to do that?”
“I’m claiming the authority.” He marked the time. “The new driver should be here within the hour. His name is Jens.”
“Wow. That’s pretty gutsy of you. How did Dietger take the news?”
He squared his shoulders and jaw as Dietger swaggered through the front door. “I’ll let you know after I tell him.”
Unh-oh. No way did I want to be any part of this. In the next moment Peewee swooped out of the men’s room and blew past Jackie and Beth Ann, his jacket slung over his shoulder and his shoes squeaking across the floor. He picked up his audio guide at the front desk and without even giving it a trial run, charged out the door. Caught off guard, the girls sprinted after him, wrestling through the doorway at the same time like a couple of Iowans vying to be first in the buffet line.
I hurried out the door after them, intent on being out of earshot when Wally brought the hammer down. Dietger might be nothing more than an immature blowhard, but something about him made me nervous, so I was more than happy to have him traded in for a more functional model.
“He’s heading for the site,” said Jackie as we watched Peewee stride down the path signposted, Atlantikwall. She gave Beth Ann a thumbs-up. “He’s all yours, so
as your coach and confidante, I have only one bit of advice: If he notices your hand on his butt, tell him there’s a string hanging out of his pocket that you’re pulling out. Guys always buy that line.”
Yup. This had disaster written all over it. “You know, ladies, Wally has agreed to collect passports when we get back to the hotel, so maybe you should forget about—”
“No,” objected Beth Ann. “I made my decision, and now I’m going to follow through. I want to show Jackie how far I’ve come. I want to prove to her that I could be the poster girl for Jackie’s Life Improvements, Inc.”
“Isn’t she adorable?” asked Jackie, preening like a proud parent.
“And maybe if we crack the case, we could write a story about it,” Beth Ann continued breathlessly. “A novel. Or a screenplay. We could have our names on the big screen! Or on a six-ninety-nine paperback. Really, I wouldn’t be fussy.”
I bet she wouldn’t, I thought, as a light bulb suddenly went on over my head.
“We could,” Jackie agreed, then warming to the idea, “We could! We could be writing partners. Co-authors. Two brains, one pseudonym. EEEEEEEE!”
They hopped up and down with their arms wrapped around each other. I threw a long look down the path.
“Peewee’s gone,” I said dryly.
“Get going,” Jackie urged, sending us both on our way. “Meet you back at the cafeteria.”
“I hope we haven’t lost sight of him permanently,” Beth Ann fretted as we followed the arrows around a series of embankments to the first venue.
“So how long have you wanted to be a writer?” I asked as I kept pace beside her.
She immediately slowed her steps, my question seeming to cut her off at the knees. “Everyone wants to be a writer, don’t they?”
“Apparently some more than others.”
“Come on, Emily. Haven’t you ever wanted to pen the great American novel?”
“Nope. I have a hard enough time writing notes in birthday cards.”
“They say everyone has at least one book in them.”