Authors: Maddy Hunter
Dutch Me Deadly (22 page)
“How should I know? Do you think I planned to hang around until he regained consciousness? Do you think I wanted to be there when he told his doctors he’d been pushed? He didn’t see me, but why risk it?”
“You … you …”
“I didn’t really want to hurt Wally. I would have preferred to push Ricky Hennessy or Gary Bouchard … or that annoying woman with the wiry hair who wouldn’t stop hounding me until I became her Facebook friend. All three of them were next on my list. But they were never by themselves, so I had to settle on Wally.”
Oh, my God. Bernice had been on her hit list? “I can’t believe what you’ve done! And to think I believed your phony story about sucking up to Jackie because you wanted writing advice. What a cover story for you. What an alibi!”
“That wasn’t a lie. I still want to be a writer. I’ll even do e-books if I have to, but what I’d really like is—”
“Why did you come back here? When you ran away from the hospital, why didn’t you just keep running?”
“I couldn’t.” I heard an irritated scuffing sound at the bottom of the door. “I forgot my passport in the room safe.”
“A lot of good it’s going to do you. I’m calling the police.”
As I tried to figure out how to exit Facebook so I could make the call, the door suddenly opened and Beth Ann flew at me, driving me against the opposite wall with enough force to knock the wind from my lungs. My spine screamed in protest. My head slammed against the wall. Bernice’s phone squirted out of my hand and fell to the floor, where it got crunched beneath Beth Ann’s foot. I doubled over, gasping, agony exploding in my chest, while Beth Ann pounded down the corridor toward the stairwell.
Uff-da
.
Inching upward, I sucked down gulps of air as I massaged my chest, kneaded my spine, and rubbed the back of my head. When I was able to breathe again without pain, I took off after Beth Ann at a half-run, picking up speed as I descended the stairs.
“You won’t get away,” I yelled down the stairwell.
I heard the ground-floor door open, then close.
I lunged recklessly over two and three stairs at a time. I hit the ground floor running, shot through the door and into the main lobby. I looked left and right.
She was heading for the revolving door.
“Stop her!” I shouted across the lobby, pointing in her direction. “Someone stop her!”
Officer Vanden Boogard raced into the lobby from the dining room.
“She’s the killer!” I gesticulated as she swooped into the glass enclosure.
Officer Vanden Boogard gave chase, but she speeded up the door’s revolutions by depressing the horizontal bar. Before Vanden Boogard could even cross the floor, she’d rushed onto the sidewalk and—
Screeeech. BAM. Thunk
.
I winced at the sound before peering through the revolving door at the tire that was still spinning crazily in the air.
Oops. I guess she forgot to look both ways.
“Tom is so embarrassed
about his part in this,” Jackie apologized
the following day. “Can you imagine his guilt? Hooking me up with a serial killer. But she seemed so normal to him. I think it was a case of his being dazzled by her hair.” She shot a look heavenward. “Men. They can be so dense.” She fluttered her lashes at Wally and smiled. “No disrespect to you, of course.”
We were gathered in my room, celebrating Wally’s return. He’d broken bones in both arms in his fall, so he was sporting casts that we’d all signed with goofy get-well wishes. Beth Ann’s lie about a slight concussion had turned out to be true, so he was battling a headache as well, but he seemed to be enjoying the attention we were heaping on him.
“That young woman is dang lucky to be alive after that bicycle run into her,” said Nana.
Tilly shrugged. “She might not think so, Marion. She’ll have to pay quite the penalty for what she’s done.”
“Did she ever talk to Tom about what happened to her dad?” I asked Jackie. “People probably dish more dirt in the styling chair than they do in the confessional.”
“Well, word on the rumor mill is that her dad suffered a complete nervous breakdown after Paula Peavey’s class graduated. One of Tom’s stylists knows someone who knows Beth Ann’s aunt, so we have this straight from the horse’s mouth. He couldn’t return to teaching, so he moved to Binghamton to be close to his brother, but the aunt says he was never quite the same. He performed menial jobs, married late in life, and fathered Beth Ann, but he went into a depression after his wife ran off, and his mental health got worse and worse as the years went by, and Beth Ann was left to deal with him. The aunt said that on his occasional good days, he’d work himself into a lather about the students back in Bangor, listing their transgressions and damning them all by name. I guess Beth Ann heard an earful growing up.”
“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, o
ur
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
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.
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.