I dropped my voice another decibel. “Do you think Helen and Grace would benefit from having another diversion?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Missing person forms. I was going to fill them out, but it might be better if the girls did it. The paperwork is pretty extensive, so it’s bound to keep them busy for a while.”
“Any word on the Dicks?”
I sighed. “Still missing.”
“That’s not good. Them drugs musta wore off by now. Could be they’re just too stubborn to admit they’re lost. Think of the humiliation, dear. How would they ever show their faces in Iowa again if they was forced to break down and ask someone for directions? They’d be broken men.”
I prayed it was that innocent, but the longer they were missing, the more frightened I was becoming.
As the doors of the bus whooshed open, I scooted into the aisle to catch Helen and Grace before they left. “I have homework for the two of you,” I said amiably as I pulled a wad of papers out of my shoulder bag. “We’re going to put the police on the trail of the boys, so—”
“You haven’t notified the police yet?” cried Grace.
“It’s the same protocol as back home,” I reassured them. “A person has to be missing for a certain number of hours before the police can get involved.”
“Children get Amber alerts,” fussed Helen. “You mean to tell me there’s nothing like that available to track down old men?”
I shrugged. “Seniors are in a different category. They’re supposed to be mature enough to take care of themselves.”
“I wonder who decided that?” asked Grace.
“Someone who never met our Dicks,” said Helen.
“As I was saying”—I passed the forms to both of them—“once you fill out the paperwork, the police can do their part to help find the boys.”
As she riffled through the pages, Helen arched what would have been an eyebrow if she’d been wearing any. “How much time have we got to fill them out?”
“It’s not a test. You can take as much time as you need. But the sooner you finish, the quicker the police can step in.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Grace effused as she scanned the first page. “This is wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Thank you so much, Emily.” She threw her arms around me in an uncharacteristic hug. “I’m so relieved!”
“No problem.” I returned the hug, flattered that she appreciated my efforts so much. “I promise you, we’ll find the boys if it’s the last thing we do.”
Helen regarded me, deadpan. “She’s not patting you on the back. She’s talking about her eyes. This is the first thing she’s been able to read since last night.”
Wally called out final instructions as we shuffled toward the exits. “Mind the traffic when you cross the street, people. We have reserved tickets, so we need to congregate outside number one-six-seven Prinsengracht and enter the museum as a group. Any more questions?”
He paused. “Okay, take note of the church on the corner as you pass by, because it’s where Rembrandt was buried in 1669. It’s called the Westerkerk and was built in 1620 as part of the Canal-Ring development. It’s famous for its fifty bell carillon, which plays Dutch folksongs for sixty seconds every fifteen minutes, twenty-four hours a day. If any of you have read Anne Frank’s diary, you’ll recall she mentions the bells of the Westerkerk by name.”
I exited through the side door, then corralled my people and herded them toward the traffic light at the corner. “Watch out for the trams,” I cautioned as we crossed to the opposite side. “And bicycles!”
Prinsengracht was a picturesque canal street with brick pavers, Victorian street lights, shade trees, park benches, and bicycles cluttered against every rail and railing like discarded erector sets. Watercraft motored up and down the canal, filling the air with sounds reminiscent of buzz saws. Houseboats as long as semitrucks lined the opposite side of the waterway, while glass-topped tour boats glided past them, their engines putt-putting along with a muted hum. As we hiked past the church, all fifty bells began ringing in the tower above us, marking the quarter hour with a rousing melody that echoed over the rooftops. The carillon smacked of Old World quaintness and charm, but I wasn’t sure how charming the locals found it at two o’clock in the morning. Then again, maybe the peel of bells became such an ordinary part of their lives, they simply stopped noticing it.
The reunion group was ahead of us, clumped in a Greek phalanx kind of formation that walled them off from nosy outsiders, like me, who wanted to pepper them with bothersome questions. Is this how they protected the secrets Pete accused them of hiding? By closing ranks? Were their purported secrets relevant to Paula’s drowning? Or were Pete’s accusations the rants of an antisocial genius who’d come unhinged and was trying to cover up his own involvement in the deaths of two women?
I was sure of only one thing: My instincts told me that someone in the group was a cold-blooded murderer with a deadly axe to grind, and if we didn’t nab him soon, he could very well kill again. But how could I sniff anyone out with all my potential suspects giving me the cold shoulder? If I sent them running in the opposite direction, how would I even get close enough to overhear a conversation or ask a question?
“Emily, will you stop walking so fast?”
I looked over my shoulder, a smile forming on my lips. Bingo.
Jackie and Beth Ann jogged toward me, legs pumping and handbags flopping. “You want to hear the latest?” Jackie asked, wheezing to catch her breath. “I just gave Dietger a piece of my mind for stranding us in the Red Light District last night, and you know what he had the nerve to say?” She nodded to Beth Ann. “Go ahead. Tell her.”
Beth Ann whipped her notebook out of her coat pocket. “He responded, and I quote—‘You want to go to bed with me?’”
I let out a snarky laugh. “I think that must be his standard line with all the girls.”
Beth Ann’s face fell. “How come he hasn’t tried it on me?”
“He will,” I assured her. “Give him a little time. So what was your comeback?”
Jackie swept her hand toward Beth Ann in a little ruffles and flourishes gesture. “‘Honey,’” Beth Ann recited, “‘you wouldn’t be able to keep up with me.’”
“Brilliant!” I nodded my approval. “Clever, succinct, with just the right amount of attitude.” I wish I’d thought of it first.
Beth Ann regarded her mentor with adoring eyes. “Every off-the-cuff remark from Jackie’s mouth is so brilliant, I’m encouraging her to collate them into a book. I’ve even thought of a title. Off-the-Cuff. Don’t you think publishers would lap it up? I could record everything she says, and we could edit it together. It could be like a witty compendium of everyday proverbs for Generation Xers.”
Jackie patted the top of Beth Ann’s head. “Not to toot my own horn, Emily, but my expert coaching has allowed Beth Ann to develop the confidence she needs to open up her mind to great new ideas. Her head is just exploding with them.”
It suddenly occurred to me that one of the great ideas exploding in Beth Ann’s head might be to co-publish a book riding Jackie’s coattails. If she had a hidden agenda to become a writer, this would certainly get her foot in the publishing door. She could skip all the preliminary hardships that newbie writers experience and be granted an instant “in.” But this was Jackie’s affair, not mine. In the meantime—
I sidled a glance left and right, and seeing that the coast was clear, motioned Jackie and Beth Ann closer. “I need your help.”
“Yes!” Jackie tossed her head back and executed a celebratory shimmy that caused all her oversized jewelry to jingle like Christmas bells. “What did I tell you?” she said to Beth Ann. “She always needs help. She just hates to admit it.” She patted her metallic bag. “Can I break out the wigs? I just happen to have stashed a couple in my bag.”