Dutch Me Deadly Page 7

  Even though I hadn’t gotten beyond the Chinese vegetable soup course, I wasn’t ready to face any more food this evening, not with Ricky Hennessy’s command performance still so fresh in my mind. “I’m looking forward to a long soak in a hot bath, and then I’m going to hit the sack.” I looked beyond the lobby proper to the French doors of the dining room. “Is the hotel dining room open for dessert?”

  “Just a sec.” She typed my question and sent it off, then stayed focused on the screen as she waited patiently for a reply. “Margi’s good about gettin’ right back to me.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Right behind you.”

  I turned around to find Margi standing by the revolving door, less than ten feet away, typing a message into her phone.

  “She says the dinin’ room’s closed, so we gotta go someplace else.” Nana’s phone chimed again. “We’re s’posed to meet by the front door in two minutes.”

  I glanced around the room. “That shouldn’t be too hard, considering you’re all standing within ten feet of the door already.”

  “It’s nice to have a little cushion, dear. Takes some of the pressure off.”

  As I ushered Nana toward the front entrance, Jackie pushed her way through the revolving door and swooped into the lobby like a rock star in search of an entourage, heels clacking and eyes gleaming.

  “Well, would you look at that,” said Nana. “It’s that nice girl what you was married to.”

  “Mrs. S!” cried Jackie, smothering her in a rib-crushing hug that pushed her wirerims off her nose and flattened her hair. “I waved to you at dinner.” She readjusted Nana’s glasses and fluffed her hair. “But you had your back to me, so you probably didn’t see me. So what did you think of the meal? Pretty awesome Asian fusion, huh?”

  Nana gave her teeth a thoughtful suck. “Osmond said the rubber in the soup was a bit salty. Margi ate one a them slices a toast with the onions and said it bit back. And Bernice said cat food woulda tasted better. Don’t know if she was talkin’ about canned or dry.”

  “But the Bang Bang Chicken, Mrs. S. Wasn’t it the best?”

  “It burned the skin off my tongue.”

  “Mine too!”

  “And I don’t got no feelin’ in my lips.”

  “Me either!”

  “So what’d you like about it so much?”

  Jackie paused, looking suddenly bewildered. “That it burned the skin off my tongue and left me with no feeling in my lips. I thought that’s what made it so good.”

  Nana peered up at her, smiling indulgently. “You’re very tall, aren’t you, dear?”

  “What did you do with Beth Ann?” I inquired when “lookalike Emily” failed to follow Jackie through the door.

  Jackie tittered excitedly. “If all goes according to plan, she should be negotiating with the people from Maine right now.”

  “About what?” asked Nana.

  She bowed her head and cupped her hand over her mouth, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Our dinner companions expressed a keen interest in seeing the Red Light District at night, so they’ve offered Dietger a really big tip to take them on an unauthorized field trip. Beth Ann and I are trying to get in on the action.”

  Nana’s jaw dropped to her navel. “The Red Light District? The real one? The place where ladies of the evenin’ earn high-yieldin’ investment capital by boinkin’ complete strangers in storefront windows?”

  Jackie nodded. “Impressive, isn’t it? The Dutch are so enterprising.”

  “Are you guys nuts?” I looked from one to the other. “According to the guidebooks, the Red Light District is a seamy cesspool of perversion, pot, porn, and prostitutes. It’s overrun with sex shops, opium dens, live nude revues, junkies, drug dealers, brothels—”

  Nana held up her hand. “You don’t need to say no more, dear. I get the picture.” She stared up at Jackie with an imploring look. “Can I go, too?”

  “Nana!” I cried. “What are you thinking? It’s too dangerous! You— you could get mugged, or—or drugged—or kidnapped at knife-point and sold into white slavery.”

  Her face lit up. “No kiddin’?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Do you know how much hot water I’d be in if Mom discovered I’d encouraged you to wander around the Red Light District in the company of perverts and prostitutes?”

  “I wasn’t plannin’ to tell her, dear.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Emily, lighten up.” Jackie patted the crown of Nana’s head as if she were a favorite pet. “She’ll be with me and Beth Ann and all the people from Maine. What could possibly happen to her?”

  Oh, yeah. That was reassuring. “Which would you prefer to hear first? Best-case scenario or worst-case scenario?”

  “Who’s Beth Ann?” asked Nana.

  “Oh!” Jackie gushed. “I need to introduce you! Beth Ann is my—”

  I clapped my hands over Nana’s ears.

  Jackie fired me a narrow look. “She’s going to have a really hard time hearing me with your mitts covering her ears.”

  “I know.”

  Nana tapped the back of my hand. “What’d she say?”

  I shook my head and mouthed, “Noth-ing.”

  “Marion!” Dick Stolee hurried over to us, his thumb resting on the button of his stop watch. “What’s the holdup here? We’re thirty seconds behind schedule. Time’s a wastin’.”

  Nana squinted hard at his face. “WHAT’D HE SAY?”

  I dropped my hands. “He says it’s time to go. Have a good time.” I scooted her toward him. “Eat hearty. Stay on the main thoroughfares. Don’t wander down any dark alleys.”

  “Where are you guys headed?” asked Jackie.

  “We’re going out for dessert,” said Dick, “but we don’t know where yet because Osmond is still tallying the votes.” He lowered his voice to an exasperated whisper. “Grace and Helen’s phones are out of juice, so he’s insisting on secret ballots.”

  “Stop the balloting!” cried Jackie. “Have I got a place for you.” Grabbing Dick’s arm, she aimed him toward the front door. “Exit the building. Turn right. Walk two blocks, and it’s on the left-hand side of the street. A delicious little pastry shop with all kinds of scrumptious chocolate cakes and fruit tarts in the display cases. To die for.” She turned to Nana. “Trust me, Mrs. S, I guarantee you’ll be happier gorging yourself on chocolate than checking out the nightlife.”

  “You think?” she said, not looking entirely convinced. “Well, maybe me and George can share somethin’. We love whipped cream and chocolate sauce.” She grinned wickedly. “Sometimes we even put ’em in a bowl.”

  I hung my head. Oh, God.

  She looked up at Jackie. “If I give you my spare camera, would you take a few pictures? We’re studyin’ the seven deadly sins at the Legion of Mary this month, and they’re handin’ out door prizes for photos what capture the best nonliteral interpretation of the featured sin. Last week we done sloth.” A beatific smile split her face. “Next week, it’s lust.”

  Jackie squeaked out a sound like a faulty vacuum cleaner leaking air. “There’s absolutely no picture-taking in the Red Light District, Mrs. S. None. Nada. Forget it. Show up with a camera anywhere in that part of the city at night and you could be flirting with serious consequences.”

  “Red Light District?” hooted Dick. “Hell, I vote we cancel dessert. I didn’t know we had another choice.”

  “You don’t got no other choice,” Nana informed him as she dragged him toward the waiting group. “You’re married to Grace.”

  “Call me when you’re done eating to let me know you’re all back safely,” I called after her.

  Jackie splayed her hand over her heart and smiled. “She handles disappointment so well. She’s an inspiration to us all.” She leveled her gaze on me, brows arched and sparks flying in her eyes. “So, would you care to explain?”

  Even though we’d been husband and wife only briefly, we still retained the ability to discuss serious issues like veterans of
a much longer marriage. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The earmuff business?”

  “Oh, that.”

  I looked to see who was within earshot, then motioned her to an isolated corner of the room. “Okay, Jack, here’s the deal. If I have to explain your flip-flops to Nana yet again, I’ll probably overload her circuits and cause her to have a stroke. Or acid reflux. Or something equally life altering.”

  “Flip-flops?” She stuck out her foot. “Hel-looo? I’m wearing boots.”

  “Flip-flops, Jack. You’ve developed a pattern. When you were a he, you married me but ran off with another guy. When you became a she, you married a guy, but now you’ve run off with another woman. What is it with you? Back and forth and back and forth. Can’t you just make up your mind and live with it?”

  “Emily Andrew! Are you accusing me of leaving my adoring husband to engage in a tawdry affair with—with?” She paused, elongating her eyes to tiny slits. “Refresh my memory. Who have I run away with?”

  “Duh? Beth Ann Oliver?”

  “What?”

  “Maybe you can’t help it, Jack. Maybe your brain chemistry is so out of whack that it’s caused an irreparable tear in your moral fabric.”

  She circled her hand around her throat as if trying to hold together the fabric that hadn’t already split apart. “Oh, my God. This sounds serious.” She grew silent, then perked up again, as if her brain were rebooting itself. “Wait a minute. My moral fabric isn’t coming apart at the seams. You know why? Because I’m not cheating on my husband. You know why? Because Beth Ann isn’t my girlfriend.”

  “Then who is she?”

  “My client.”

  “What kind of client tags along with you on a European vacation?”

  “The kind who pays me to give her advice on a daily basis!”

  I blinked my surprise. “You mean, like Dear Abby?”

  “Oh, please. I blow Abby out of the water with all the services I offer. I’m available to accompany my clients to any location in the world. My advice is individual and immediate. I’m equipped to handle any problem from what book you should read next, to how to prevent yourself from falling apart when you smudge a fresh manicure. And as a special bonus, I offer professional fashion advice, lessons in makeup application, and best of all, free foot massages. I’d like to see Abby top that.”

  “So, you’re like a globetrotting Dear Abby?”

  She fisted her hand on her hip. “What I am, Emily, is an honest to goodness, card-carrying, board-certified … life coach!”

  “Wow.”

  “Isn’t that awesome?”

  “Awesome. What’s a life coach?”

  She groaned in disgust. “Have you people in the Midwest ever heard about any popular trend before it became passé?”

  “Mom says we were ahead of the curve with the hula hoop.”

  “Being a life coach is only the most thrilling job I’ve ever had, Emily. Better than acting off-Broadway. Better than caulking bathroom and kitchen tile. Better than writing a romance novel. People pay me to tell them what to do. And they don’t snarl at me to butt out or get lost. They want me to make decisions for them. It’s the dream job of every control freak. It’s like—like being a parent, with financial benefits!”

  Or a psychologist without a license. “Did you say you were actually certified to do this?”

  “I most certainly am. It usually takes six months to complete the course work, but I took the accelerated course on the Web, so I was certified in two short weeks!”

  I shuddered with terror. Jack telling people how they should live their lives was like Donald Trump telling men how to style their hair. “Two weeks and bam—a whole new career. I’m—I’m speechless.”

  “I know. Isn’t it amazing? Internet training allows just about anyone to hang out a shingle these days.”

  “How many clients do you have?”

  “Well, only one so far, but I’ll probably have to beat them off with a stick when word gets out how good I am.”

  “How did Beth Ann find you?”

  “She read the ad I stuck up on the bulletin board at the salon. She asked Tom for particulars, he said he thought we’d hit it off, and here we are.”

  I glanced across the room to find Beth Ann chatting with Mike and Mary Lou McManus and several other Mainers. “Actually, I’m surprised she responded to your ad. She seems so together. It’s hard to believe she needs help making everyday decisions.”

  Jackie flicked her hand back and forth at the wrist. “Honey, the poor girl is a mess. Tom has done her hair for years, so he’s gotten an earful. Her husband left her. She got laid off from her job. Her father died. She might look cool, calm, and confident, but trust me, she’s being held together by piano wire.”

  “She doesn’t seem to have any trouble mingling with people.”

  “That’s because she’s on special assignment. If we’re going to nail the killer, we have to infiltrate the enemy camp, so she’s practicing her infiltration techniques—smiles, flattery, and a wad of Euros to defray the cost of Dietger’s tip. Money always talks.”

  “Whoa! I never said anything about a killer.”

  “You didn’t have to. Our dinner companions told us all about Charlotte’s dictatorship, so it was pretty obvious. Take it from me, there’s a killer. And since you have such a lousy record for apprehending criminals, I’ve decided you need more boots on the ground to assist with the investigation, so Beth Ann and I are teaming up to help you.”

  Oh, God. Just what I needed. Scooby-Doo and friend turning my subtle fact-finding mission into an afternoon soap opera.

  “So …” she leaned over close to my ear, “who do we think did it?”

  Was I starting to question my own suspicions? Or was I simply afraid what Pete Finnegan might do if he found himself being stalked by a six-foot transsexual with a penchant for playing dress-up?

  One thing was for sure though. If I refused Jackie’s help, she’d find a way to play detective anyway, so if I couldn’t talk her out of it, I’d be better off giving her my blessing to get into it … with a few guidelines. “Okay, Jack, you and Beth are in, but you need to follow the ground rules.”

  “Yes! I love ground rules!”

  “You hate ground rules.”

  She sighed. “I know. I’m in denial.”

  “Three things.” I waved a trio of digits in her face. “These folks from Maine aren’t cream puffs; they’re pretty tough hombres. So whatever you do, don’t bug them. Stay out of their personal space. And don’t ask them stupid questions.”

  “How am I supposed to know if a question is stupid or not?”

  “As a general rule? Anything out of your mouth that contains the words ‘Did you kill the tour director?’ is a stupid question.”

  She looked confused. “Why is that stupid?”

  “It’s a go,” Beth Ann announced as she joined us, “but it’s costing us twenty Euros apiece for the honor. Is twenty too much? Do you think I should have haggled the price down to ten?” She compressed her head between her hands and squeezed. “Did I do the right thing? I think I screwed up.” She gave Jackie a beseeching look. “I’ll die if I screwed up. Really. I’ll just open a vein, lie down, and die.”

  Yup. Jackie had called that one. Beth Ann’s cool, calm, and confident demeanor was all window dressing, which meant that despite Jackie’s wanting to play Nancy Drew, her hands were going to be so full addressing Beth Ann’s insecurities that she’d have precious little time to derail my investigation.

  I smiled impishly. Thank you, Jesus!

  “Twenty Euros is a fair price,” Jackie reassured her. “You think twenty Euros is fair, don’t you, Emily?”

  Twenty Euros was highway robbery, but Beth Ann didn’t need to hear that, especially if she was carrying sharp objects in her shoulder bag. “Sounds good to me.”

  Beth Ann gasped with relief. “Ehh! I was really sweating it.” She fanned her face at warp speed. �
�We can leave as soon as two couples and a female guest change their clothes. They were sitting in the booth where the guy got seasick and blew his cookies all over his table companions. I’m surprised they’re coming with us. Word on the grapevine is that the aggrieved guests are so incensed, there could be an old-fashioned rumble.”

  “How very West Side Story of them,” cooed Jackie. Then to me, “Do we need to cover that?”

  “Consider all guests in the Maine contingent persons of interest,” I suggested. “You can judge for yourself what you want and don’t want to cover.”

  “I don’t want to cover a rumble,” she said with an admiring glance at her hands. “I just had my nails done.”

  Figuring my influence here was about spent, I spotted someone standing by herself near the front door and realized there was one more thing I needed to do. “Stay out of trouble,” I cautioned Jackie and Beth Ann before making my way across the lobby to the pretty blonde in the skinny jeans and ponytail. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said by way of greeting, “but my name is Emily, and I have a confession to make.”

  “Don’t we all,” she said, laughing. “Glad to meet you, Emily. I’m Laura, and if you have something to confess, I’m all ears.” Her smile was magnetic, her eyes warm and lively. She looked like the type of person who could coax a cat out of a tree or a child out of a tantrum. I liked her already.

  “You’re going to think this is pretty weird, especially since you don’t know me, but I took the liberty of inventing a personality profile for you at dinner tonight.”

  Her smile widened. “Did you make me sound good?”

  “I made you rock. You are now as financially savvy as Oprah and as physically fit as Wonder Woman.”

  She threw her head back with laughter. “Fantastic! Do I wear hot pants and a brass bra?”

  “You’re wealthy enough to wear whatever you want. You’ve already done an interview for Fitness Magazine with tips on how to remain flab-free, optimistic, and disgustingly rich throughout retirement, and next month, you’ll be doing a feature article for Vanity Fair and a cover shoot for Vogue.” I shrugged. “Just a few minor events in your life.”