by Maddy Hunter
“And she vowed to get even,” I lamented. “Somehow.”
“Enter the age of the Internet,” said Tilly, cradling her smartphone. “St. Francis Xavier High School creates a website that lists every student in every graduating class and posts the latest news about future reunions and who’s signed up for them. So Beth Ann can obsess over her father’s tormentors at length.”
“Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am,” said Jackie. “Beth Ann knew about this tour and was going to sign up for it no matter what. The way everything else came together was just plain bad luck.”
I glanced at Wally, smiling gently. “Did you know it was Beth Ann who pushed you?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly. When I finally regained consciousness, I told my doctor I’d been pushed, so he quizzed me about what else I could recall. That’s when I remembered smelling Beth Ann’s perfume. Oil of Roses. I hate that stuff.”
“Why did it take so long for the Amsterdam police to be contacted?” asked Jackie. “What was the holdup?”
Wally laughed. “Are you kidding me? With all the bureaucratic red tape between countries? That was pretty doggone fast.”
“That nice young police officer wasn’t none too happy about the delay,” confided Nana. “When he come into the dinin’ room lookin’ for Beth Ann, he was complainin’ about leavin’ this place one minute, then havin’ to turn around and come back the next.”
“Our new tour director arrives bright and early tomorrow morning,” I said, exchanging a look with Wally. “You’re being relieved of duty so you can recuperate. I bet you’ll be happy to leave this whacky crew of ours behind.”
He lifted his shoulders in a slow roll, as if he were doing warm-ups for yoga exercises. “Mmm, not so much. In fact, I’ve been thinking that I might just tag along and finish out the tour with you guys. What else am I going to do?” He raised his plaster-casted forearms. “Play the harp?”
“Do you play the harp?” cooed Alice. “That’s my very favorite stringed instrument.”
“I prefer steel drums,” said Dick Teig. “They’re louder.”
“Since when is a drum a stringed instrument?” asked Margi.
“Why does my favorite instrument have to have strings?” asked Dick.
“The steel drum is a tuned percussion instrument,” advised Tilly, “as opposed to the triangle, which is nontuned.”
“I’m fond of handbells,” said Grace. “Do they count as an instrument?”
“I prefer a gong myself,” admitted Osmond.
“You people are such morons,” huffed Bernice. “Next up, Osmond will want to know how many of you think a glockenspiel should be classified as a wind instrument.”
“What’s a glockenspiel?” asked Margi.
Nana stuck out her bottom lip in thought. “I think it’s some kinda gun.”
Bernice groaned. “Why do I come on these trips with you people? I should have my head examined.” She folded her arms across her chest, giving everyone a pinched look. “And before I sign up for the next one, someone had better buy me a replacement for the phone she smashed, or we’ll be talking major litigation. I might even offer this one to Judge Judy.”
As they continued to pick at each other in their nonsensical fashion, I leaned back in my chair and smiled, happy that everything was returning to normal.
A cellphone chimed nearby. Mine.
Digging it out of my shoulder bag, I left the affectionate anarchy of my hotel room and stepped out into the corridor. “Hi, sweetie! That was a pretty short fishing trip. How did it go? I’ve missed talking to you.”
“Your parents took great delight showing me how exciting it is to sit in a shallow-bottomed boat, attaching worms to fish hooks. We sat for hours in the rain, waiting for the fish to bite, only to throw them back into the water once they did bite, so we could begin the process all over again—some mystifying practice called catch and release.”
“Had the time of your life, huh?”
“Your parents did. In fact, they claimed they had such a wonderful time hanging out with me, they’re anxious to do it again.”
“I’ll talk to them. Fear not. You’ll never have to go fishing again.”
“It’s much worse than that, Emily. They’ve decided to sign up for the trip to Scotland.”
“What?” My heart stopped dead in my chest. “You mean, our trip to Scotland?”
“They’ve already made a deposit. They’re coming with us.”
“TOGETHER? Not together. Please, tell me they’re not coming together.”
“Together.”
Oh, God.
The End
Acknowledgments
When my Passport to Peril mystery series was canceled in 2007, I thought Emily, Nana, and the rest of the gang had been permanently grounded. So I began work on another project, which is when emails started trickling, then flooding, into my inbox. “When will the next adventure be published?” you asked. “Emily and Nana have become part of my own family,” you confided. “Please don’t let the series end.” You were eloquent, passionate, giddily enthusiastic, and relentless. I never realized how many loyal fans I had until the books stopped being published.
Then, in 2009, in a turn of events I never saw coming, newly hired Midnight Ink acquisitions editor, Terri Bischoff, contacted me to ask if I‘d like to resurrect the Passport to Peril series. It took me all of two seconds to realize the answer to that was YES! I was dying to reconnect with the Iowa gang, because sometime when I wasn’t looking, they’d become an integral part of my own family, too, and I missed them.
So, thank you, Terri, for renewing the gang’s passports and allowing them to travel again. Thank you to fellow writers Pam Johnson and Carrie Bebris for coming up with bankable ideas for me at our annual writers’ retreat. Thank you to my literary agent, Irene Goodman, who backs my projects enthusiastically, no matter what they are. Thank you to my husband, Brian, who always makes sure I’m fed when I’m in a writing frenzy. But most of all, thank you to my fans, whose words of encouragement and unflagging good wishes bolstered me when I needed it. You make me feel a little like Tinkerbell, who came to life again after she heard the wondrous applause.
Thank you, dear fans, for clapping.
About the Author
After experiencing disastrous vacations on three continents, Maddy Hunter decided to combine her love of humor, travel, and storytelling to fictionalize her misadventures. Inspired by her feisty aunt and by memories of her Irish grandmother, she created the nationally bestselling, Agatha Award-nominated Passport to Peril mystery series, where quirky seniors from Iowa get to relive everything that went wrong on Maddy’s holiday. Dutch Me Deadly is the seventh book in the series. Maddy lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband and a head full of imaginary characters who keep asking, “Are we there yet?”
Please visit her website at www.maddyhunter.com, or become a follower on her Maddy Hunter Facebook Fan Page.
Author photo by Photo Express.
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