She pulled the paper out of the handwarming pouch of her Vikings sweatshirt. “Ricky Hennessy,” she said, after rechecking the name.
We catapulted forward as Dietger jumped the curb and jammed on the brakes, executing a tooth-rattling stop in front of a row of two-story mercantile shops.
Gasps. Grunts. Groans.
“Did we stop like that on purpose, or was our tires shot out?” asked Nana.
Wally made a robotic move into the center aisle, his stiff body language signaling that his temper was simmering on low burn. “The streets in the old town can’t accommodate coaches, so we need to travel the rest of the way on foot. Does everyone have their map?”
We waved them above our heads in response.
“I’ve starred the spot where we’re parked because it’s where Dietger will pick us up again in four hours”—his voice bristled with sarcasm—“if he’s able to navigate the road without putting the bus in a ditch someplace. And as I look out the window, I see that our local guide is waiting for us, so why don’t we step off the bus and join her?”
We gathered around our guide like drones around the queen bee. She was middle-aged, wore sturdy shoes, and kinda had a French/Dutch/German thing going on with her accent that forced us to have to listen really closely to what she was saying. Her name was Gheertrude.
“I welcome you to Flanders,” she said cheerily.
Stunned silence.
“Wait just a darned minute,” balked Bernice. “We’re supposed to be in Bruges.”
Gheertrude laughed. “You are in Bruges. But Bruges is in Flanders.”
“I thought Bruges was in Belgium,” said Helen.
“It is,” Gheertrude allowed.
“So we’re not in Flanders?” asked Grace.
“No, no. You’re still in Flanders.”
“You just said we’re in Belgium,” corrected Bernice.
“We are in Belgium. Bruges is the capital of the province of West Flanders in the Flemish region of Belgium.”
Thoughtful silence.
Margi raised her hand. “I’m sorry. Where are we?”
“Why don’t we straighten that out later?” suggested Wally. “Moving right along, we’re giving you a host of options today. Option one: you can remain with Gheertrude and me for the walking tour and canal ride, and we’ll escort you back here to the pickup point. Option two: you can take the walking tour as far as the market square, then part company with us to get a bite to eat, shop, or take a carriage ride. You’ll be on your own to find your way back. Option three: head into Old Town on your own, eat, shop, then meet up with us for the canal ride, which I’ve marked on your maps. Option four: none of the above. Just make sure you get back to the pickup point on time.”
My guys looked stricken. For people afflicted with lateness anxiety, being presented with options that could make them late was no option at all. Even if they could read a map better than the Rand McNally atlas guys, they needed to be reassured that someone in charge would guide them through the city streets and back to this spot before the bus took off. And there was really only one person in charge.
“We’ll take option one,” I told Wally, making an executive decision for the group.
“Me, too,” said Jackie.
“And me,” said Beth Ann, causing Wally’s eyes to brighten and a hint of a smile to soften his lips.
In the final tally, everyone took option one, though a few reunion people reserved the right to change their minds once they had a looksee at the central market. I wasn’t sure how the gang would be able to handle their individual investigations with the Mainers breathing down their necks, but I figured they were all pretty clever, so they’d find a way.
“Our first stop this morning is only a few steps away,” announced Gheertrude as she gestured toward a side street. “The Begijnhof, a serene cluster of white-washed houses, where, for six hundred years, girls and widows dedicated their lives to charitable work without taking religious vows, and Minnewater, also called ‘the Lake of Love’, a thirteenth-century, man-made reservoir, famous for its beautiful white swans and utter tranquility. Please to follow after me.”
The side street was called Wijngaardstraat, and was possibly as wide as a New York City alley, but a lot more high class. Tidy brick buildings lined both sides of the tidy brick pavement, their decorative doors inviting passersby into tea rooms, chocolate shops, and art galleries. As we strolled past an unassuming hotel hidden among the bricks, I glanced through the lobby window, noticing something that caused me to hesitate, then stop dead in my tracks.
“Psssst! Jack.”
She turned her head in my direction.
“I’m ducking in here for a minute. I’ll catch up.”
She gave me a thumbs-up before stutter-stepping over the pavers in her stiletto boots. I guess she hadn’t been daunted by the fact that the streets in Bruges were cobbled.
I entered the hotel and made a beeline for a table that sat in front of the lobby window. On the table sat two computers—powered up and sitting idle.
Yes! This was my chance.
I approached the front desk and smiled at the clerk, a handsome young man with a buff body and bedroom eyes. “Would it be possible for me to use one of your lobby computers?”
“Of course, madam. The computers are set up for the convenience of our guests.”
“I’m not a guest. I’m staying at another hotel. In Amsterdam.”
“Ahh. That presents something of a problem.”
“Could I pay you to use it for a short time?”
“We’re not set up to accept off-the-books fees, madam.”
“Even if it’s a matter of life or death?”
He lifted his brows. “You’re American?”
“Guilty.”
He motioned me closer. “Do you watch the Fox Network show American Idol?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I lied.
“Me, too! I watch it at my cousin’s. He has a satellite dish. I even follow it on Facebook.”
“Me, too!” I lied again.
Curving his mouth into a slow smile, he scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “The code to access the computer.”
“Really?”
He winked. “Let it be our secret.”
With the small front lobby all to myself, I typed in the access code and in a few keystrokes was staring at the Google homepage. Now, where to begin? I typed “Gary Bouchard,” hit the return key, and in less than a nanosecond pulled up more than four million bits of information on the Gary Bouchards of the world. Four million. You gotta be kidding me.
I decided to narrow my search. My fingers flew over the keyboard. “Gary Bouchard Bangor Maine.” I hit the return.
Twelve thousand hits.
Okay. Twelve thousand I could handle.
I spent the next fifteen minutes unearthing pieces of Gary Bouchard’s life on a website called, Who’s Who in Bangor. His car dealership was apparently the largest in southern Maine, with satellite dealerships as far north as Presque Isle, which practically sat on the Canadian border. He’d received several Businessman of the Year awards from local service organizations, was an officer in the Knights of Columbus, and sponsored a basketball camp every summer for underprivileged youth. Gee, that was nice of him. He was a longtime member of the Bangor city council, president of the fine arts commission, and served on the board of trustees for St. Francis Xavier High School. My eyes slowly glazed over. The guy sounded like a saint. An elitist saint, but a saint nonetheless. I obviously needed to dig deeper into his background to find the real dirt.
I accessed the local paper and plunged into the archives, hitting the mother lode under “weddings.” Gary’s name led me to a bridal photo of Sheila in her “peau de soie gown, sewn with seed pearls and aurora borealis crystals.” Wow. The article described every single detail of the wedding, from the bride’s and attendants’ gowns, to the altar flowers and mother-of-the-bride outfits. It listed out-of-town guests, the country club where the reception was held, and where the newlyweds would be traveling on their honeymoon.