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  “How is it secret if you tell everyone how we voted?” Bernice sniped. “We need a show of hands. How many of you good Christian people are willing to remain in this heavenly shade and save seats while the rest of us risk heat exhaustion and potential death to find sausages made out of Donder and Blitzen?”

  No one moved except George Farkas, Nana’s one-legged boyfriend, who inched his hand shyly into the air.

  Nana grabbed his sleeve and yanked it down. “Don’t pay him no mind. He was havin’ a muscle spasm.”

  “Listen here, Marion,” Osmond cautioned, “tampering with a fella’s vote is a federal offense.”

  I groaned inwardly. By the time they decided who would go and who would stay, their tongues would be dragging on the ground from dehydration and I’d be spending the rest of the day in the local emergency room instead of exploring Finland’s most famous clothing store.

  “George has volunteered to save our chairs,” announced Bernice. “Anyone want to stay behind with him?”

  “I didn’t volunteer,” protested George. “I only wanted to ask—”

  “How many people say George volunteered?” asked Osmond.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. “Leave!” I shooed them away. “All of you! Go! Get your food. I’ll save your chairs.”

  The usual stampede ensued, complete with bumping, elbowing, and cutting in front of each other. I shook my head as they disappeared into the crowd. You had to hand it to them. They really knew how to make a dignified exit.

  Jackie caught up to me as I tipped chairs forward against our tables to indicate the area was taken. She was wearing her own miniskirt and stilettoes, but she’d sweet-talked me out of my favorite pink V-neck cashmere sweater, so she was looking like Dolly Parton in the heat.

  “Are you allowed to save seats in Finland?” she asked as she pressed a tall Styrofoam cup to her cheek.

  “I’ve just refereed the election from hell, so don’t mess with my head,” I warned. “Seat saving is universal.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Ask Tilly. It’s probably a cultural thing.”

  After setting one of the chairs aright, she sat down beneath the umbrella and wagged a plastic spoon at me. “You better watch out, Emily. You could be breaking some obscure Finnish law that prohibits the rearrangement of ugly patio furniture in public fish markets or something.”

  “Where do you come up with this stuff?” I dug my Finnish/English dictionary out of my shoulder bag and scrutinized the “Useful Phrases” section. “Here you go. Remember this phrase for future reference: Olen kasvissyoja.”

  “Get out! Is that how you say ‘These seats are taken’?”

  “No, it’s how you say ‘I’m a vegetarian.’ I’m not finding any useful phrases about how to tell people you’re saving seats.” I eyed her Styrofoam cup. “What’d you buy?”

  She tilted the cup toward me so I could see its creamy pink contents. “Some kind of fruit smoothie. It was either this or a grilled concoction made of Rudolph’s internal organs. Like that was going to happen.” She shoved a spoonful into her mouth before pressing the cup to her cheek once again. “I should have bought a cold drink, but the line was really long and I needed shade. Are you as hot as I am?” She blew a puff of air up into her face. “I feel like I’m going to internally combust.”

  She looked like it, too. “I don’t want to alarm you, Jack, but your chest and throat are covered with bright red splotches. Has that ever happened before?”

  She looked down at her chest, panic setting in immediately. “Oh, God, do you think it’s menopause?”

  “At thirty-one? Who goes through menopause at thirty-one?”

  “It happens. Believe me, I’m extremely well informed about all the crappy things that are going to happen to us when we go through ‘the change.’”

  “Well, you’re one up on me.”

  She fanned her face with both hands. “I’ve read all the brochures, Emily. It’s definitely menopause. I’m having my first hot flash.”

  I studied the splotches more intently. “Maybe it’s an allergic reaction, or a heat rash. Cashmere probably wasn’t your best choice with the temperature at nine hundred degrees.”

  “But the color is so luscious.” She smoothed her fingers over the fabric, sniffing daintily. “I’m so bummed. Menopause wasn’t supposed to happen for another twenty years. I envisioned the two of us battling night sweats, weight gain, and osteoporosis at the same time, like sorority sisters. I can’t go through this alone. What am I going to do?”

  “Buy yourself a cold drink. Maybe you’re dehydrated.”

  “You can’t be suggesting that I stand in that insanely long beverage line in the scorching sun. I’ll melt, Emily. I will literally—melt.”

  Considering how miserable she looked, she probably wasn’t exaggerating. “Okay, tell you what. When the gang comes back, I’ll brave the UV rays and buy a drink for you.”

  “That’s so sweet!” She lowered her voice to a breathless basso. “But I’ll be suffering kidney failure by then. Can you go now?”

  “Can’t, I’m saving seats.”

  “I’ll save the seats.”

  “Oh, sure. How many times did I have to sit elsewhere in a movie theater because you gave up my seat when I went to the ladies’ room?”

  “Emily, will you just go? I’m dying! I’ll save the freaking seats. It’s not rocket science.”

  I gave her a hard look. “What’s your plan if someone gives you trouble?”

  “I’ll stand up!”

  That could work. She was seven feet tall in her stilettoes.

  I pushed through the crowd and located the Coca-Cola vendor between stalls of fresh green beans and plump red tomatoes. There were at least a dozen people ahead of me, so I became a sponge as I waited, listening to exchanges in incomprehensible foreign tongues and observing the spectacular good looks of the market goers. Based on my brief observation, I concluded that your typical Helsinkian was tall, blond, blue-eyed, perfectly proportioned, and jaw-droppingly gorgeous. If I were to guess Finland’s largest export, I’d have to say cellulite.

  “Look who I’ve found,” said a voice from behind me. “It’s the girl with the cushy job. Emily Andrew, right?”

  I turned around, smiling at the man with the beard and Harry Potter glasses. “You have a good memory.”

  “August Manning.” He shook my hand. “My friends call me Gus to my face. Who knows what they call me behind my back.”

  He had a head full of thick salt-and-pepper hair and a calmness in his eyes that invited strangers to divulge their most intimate secrets. His beard was scruffy, his stomach paunchy, and his trousers baggy, but August Manning seemed not to notice or care. “Quite a setup they have here,” he said as he looked around. “We should have something like this in the Hamlets. We could do it early every Saturday morning in the town square. Vendors selling farm fresh fruits and vegetables. The only problem would be getting them through the main gate. They’d need security clearance, and that could be a major hassle.”

  “Is the whole complex enclosed?”

  “Damn right. We have our own zip code and seventy-five thousand of the happiest retirees on the Gulf Coast. And the only way you’re getting through those gates is with a fingerprint ID. The builders spared no expense on security measures.”

  “You have seventy-five thousand residents? Must be a pretty big fence.”

  “You got that right. It’s fifteen feet high and made of white marble imported from Italy. We call it the Pearly Gates.”

  Iowans weren’t big on gates, except on hog farms. “So…what are you trying to keep out?”

  He blinked a couple of times as if he’d heard me incorrectly. “I’m sorry, say again?”

  I spoke more slowly. “What are you trying to keep out?”

  “Would you believe no one has ever asked me that before? Huh. I thought it was fairly obvious.” He looked beyond me and motioned enthusiastically. “Vern! Reno! G
et over here. Got a question for you.”

  I recognized both men from the Meet and Greet. Reno O’Brien was the suntanned Floridian who’d wanted to know the exact number of books Jackie had sold in the last two weeks. He was a snappy dresser who looked as if he spent half his time in the gym and the other half at an expensive spa being oiled, massaged, and exfoliated. He walked like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever and appeared to have twice as much ego. His friends probably called him Slick.

  Gus greeted him with a controlled high five. “I assume you remember Emily from the Meet and Greet?”

  Reno winked flirtatiously. “I can’t imagine anyone forgetting Emily. She’s the best-looking thing on this trip. Too bad she’s taken.” He tapped his name tag. “Reno O’Brien, in case you didn’t catch the name last night.”

  “And this is Vern Grundy,” said Gus, thwacking the gut of the man with the buzz cut who’d grilled Jackie about how much money she made. “The Hamlets’ only three-star general.” Vern looked to be seventy-something and coping with two bad knees that added a slight limp to his gait. He was fleshy without being fat, had no smile lines on his face, and looked as if his idea of a great night out would be jumping into his Hummer and invading a neighboring state.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Vern nodded politely. “What’s your question, Manning?”

  “Emily here has a question. What are we trying to keep out of the Hamlets?”

  “Solicitors,” barked Vern. “We’re showing those jeezers they can’t knock on Hamlet doors trying to peddle everything from politics to religion. No Avon lady. No petition-toting environmental activists. No doe-eyed Girl Scouts sending us into cardiac arrest with their thin mint cookies.”

  Wait a minute. I’d been a Girl Scout. “You’re not required to buy thin mints,” I spoke up. “They have some nice low-fat selections now.”

  “Blah.” He waved off the suggestion. “I’d rather eat my wallet.”

  “It’s a wonderful benefit, not having to open your door to strangers,” Gus asserted. “Living in a gated community is like having virus protection for your computer. It filters out potentially destructive unknowns and keeps your computer happy, healthy, and connected to only recognized web networks. You have anything to add, Reno?”

  “Yeah, this is all news to me. I thought the wall was there to keep out alligators.”

  “Damn fool,” grumbled Vern.

  “Hey, no one’s been eaten. I thought it was working pretty well.” Reno gave me another playful wink. “Can I buy you a drink, Emily? Coke? Beer? If you’re waiting for these two misers to offer, you’ll have a long wait. They’re still carrying the first dollars they ever earned.”

  I’d have to introduce them to the Dicks. They’d have a lot in common. “Thanks, but I need to grab a Coke for Jackie and get back to her before she dies from heat stroke. She was making funeral arrangements when I left her.”

  “She’s really something,” said Gus as we moved up in line. “We appreciated her handing out copies of her novel last night. I don’t usually read commercial fiction, and I never read romance, but I skimmed the first page and was sucked in by page two. I read half the book before I fell asleep. It’s a real page-turner.”

  “I read a few pages, too,” said Reno. “She’s a dynamite storyteller. I was right there in the Big Apple, sipping that half-caf decaf caramel macchiato extra hot and suffering through those grueling Broadway rehearsals. But what’s with our heroine? Sharing an apartment for two years and not knowing her roommate bats for the other team? Get real.”

  I stared at Reno. Emma Anderson had a gay roommate? Huh, what a coincidence.

  “Remember,” said Gus, “Emma’s from the Midwest, so she’s probably more naive than dense. Her naivete is part of her charm. Where are you in the story?”

  “Her roommate just ran off with another actor, so Emma’s scrambling to find a replacement.”

  “I think she’s gonna ask the drop-dead-gorgeous detective to move in with her,” said Vern, “even though he doesn’t know he’s a detective. Hell, he might not even know he’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

  “Impaired vision?” I asked.

  “Amnesia.”

  What?

  “I couldn’t buy the grandfather’s accident,” Reno admitted. “Too over the top. Real people don’t die like that.”

  “Exactly how did he die?” I asked in a wary voice.

  “The roof of his ice shanty caved in,” said Gus. “Killed him instantly.”

  Oh. My. God. The…the…plagiarist! I was going to strangle her! Of all the sneaky, low-down, conniving—She’d handed out a suitcase full of books! Did she think I wouldn’t overhear details? Did she think I was entirely stupid? Her book wasn’t about Emma Anderson; it was about me!

  “I hope Jackie’s working on a sequel,” said Gus.

  “I’d read the next installment,” said Reno.

  “Me, too,” said Vern. “But I have a few words of advice for her: more exploding vehicles and more midget wrestlers.”

  I smiled as an evil thought took root. “You like her book so much, you know what would be fun? Why don’t you tell her about all the scenes you like in person? I can hardly wait to see the look on her face.”

  All three men agreed to my suggestion, so after we bought our drinks, I led them through the maze of food stalls to our vacant tables, only to discover they were no longer vacant. “My whole group is back,” I said in surprise. “That was quick. They usually take forever deciding what to order.”

  “That’s not your group,” said Gus. “It’s ours.”

  “Yours?” I looked more closely. Aha. That explained the quick decisions. No one at the table was from Iowa; they were from Florida, and Jackie was making the rounds, schmoozing cordially with them all.

  “Someone must have bought your friend a drink,” Vern observed. “She’s still alive.”

  Yup, but when the gang returned to find their seats gone, she was going to wish she was dead.

  CHAPTER 4

  I caught Jackie’s eye and fired her a look that could have singed her eyelashes. To her credit, she excused herself immediately and hurried over to me. Being female had really increased her ability to interpret dirty looks.

  “Emily, I’m so glad you’re back. Would you gentlemen excuse us for a moment?” She seized my arm and dragged me aside. “What am I going to do? They arrived en masse and just made themselves at home!”

  “Did you happen to mention the seats were saved?”

  “How could I? They’re my reading public. If I didn’t let them sit down, they might have gotten even by giving me a nasty review on Amazon. People can be so petty. Besides, Joleen Barnum was so nice. She gave me her own drink and made Jimbob go back and get her another. How could I tell them to go plunk themselves down somewhere else?”

  “The gang is not going to be happy about this, Jack.”

  “I know.” She gnawed the nail on her pinky as she glanced back toward the tables. “Why am I driven by this exhausting need to please everyone? I never felt like that when I was a guy.”

  “I think it has something to do with the female hippocamus.”

  “Well, it’s really annoying.” She rolled her shoulders as if readjusting her bra straps. “I’m not sure I would have made the change if I’d known this was going to happen. Life was so much easier when I could be selfish and unaccommodating.”

  “Speaking of which—” I poked my finger into her sternum. “Emma Anderson? Gay roommate? Detective friend with amnesia? Grandfather dies when an ice shanty collapses on him? Sound like anyone you know?”

  “It sounds like you.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Jack! You can’t bluff—” I paused. “You admit it?”

  “Novelists are supposed to write what they know, Emily, and who do I know better than you? No one.”

  “You splashed my life all over the pages of your book?”

  “Honestly, Emily, who’s going to know? I gave you a new name, and I fudge
d most of the important details.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…Emma is addicted to half-caf decaf caramel macchiatos. You, on the other hand, never cared for them.”

  “You call that an important detail?”

  “I’ll have you know that caramel macchiatos play a crucial role at the end of the book.”

  “DICK, GET OVER HERE!” Helen Teig’s voice flew off the decibel chart. “SOMEONE’S IN OUR SEATS!”

  “Uh-oh, you better get over there, Emily.” Jackie shielded herself behind me and nudged me forward. “Looks like trouble.”

  “And whose fault is that? So help me, Jack—”

  The Dicks, their wives, and the rest of the group huddled near the occupied tables with their arms full of takeout and their eyes throwing daggers, paring knives, and a few spitballs—the Iowa version of Gun-fight at the O.K. Corral. “Those are our seats,” huffed Dick Teig.

  Portia Van Cleef elevated her chin at an imperious angle. “Obviously, if we’re sitting in them, they’re our seats.”

  “We were here first,” Dick Stolee protested.

  “And then you left,” said Portia. “Sorry.”

  “Emily was supposed to save those seats for us!” sniped Lucille Rassmuson.

  Portia took a calm sip of her drink. “She didn’t do a very good job of it, did she?”

  “She doesn’t do a very good job of anything,” grumbled Bernice.

  “There’s been a terrible mixup,” I explained as I inserted myself between the two groups, “but I know we can fix the problem with minimum inconvenience to everyone.” The number one rule of being a successful tour escort was to sound as if you knew what you were doing, even if you didn’t have a clue.

  Portia smiled without humor. “Really, Emily, our only problem is how to make your group disappear so the rest of us can enjoy our meals.”

  “Okay, blondie, I’ve had all I’m going to take of you.” Bernice stepped out from the group like a self-deputized Wyatt Earp. “Give up the seat.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Portia.

  “You better do what she says,” warned Dick Teig. “She’s armed with Diet Coke.”