“Sweet revenge for all the years she spent being the butt of ‘dog-faced girl’ jokes.” Mike swept his arm toward the bus. “Shall we, ladies?”
As we trekked back to the bus, I realized how much I admired Laura LaPierre’s ability to treat her former antagonists with such good humor, because if a bunch of insensitive creeps had called me dog-faced for four years, I’d want to do something more diabolical than simply smile at them.
Like an avenging angel in a Lifetime channel movie of the week, I’d probably want to kill them.
Three
“You’re absolutely going to love Volendam,” Charlotte gushed as we passed a sign announcing its city limits. “This is the one place in Holland where you’ll sometimes see residents dressed in traditional Dutch costumes—men in baggy pantaloons and striped vests, and women in long skirts and white caps with wings. And naturally, they’re all tromping around in those god-awful clogs and making enough noise to wake the dead.”
To my right, the white-capped Markermeer stretched toward infinity, becoming a smudge of blue-gray haze where lake met sky. Powerboats, sailboats, and barges dotted the horizon, while closer to shore, a two-masted schooner scudded through the chop, the sun drenching its billowing sails with light so searingly white, it made my eyes smart.
“There are shops up and down the main street that cater to tourists wanting to have their pictures taken in traditional costume,” Charlotte continued, “so if that appeals to you, do it first thing, because we’re not going to be here very long.” She gave us one of her patented schoolmarm looks and said in an annoying singsong, “And you know what’ll happen if you’re not sitting in your seats when it’s time to leave.”
Low, irritated groans rumbled through the bus. I hoped this was an indication of spontaneous indigestion rather than impending mutiny.
Dietger nosed down a street so glutted with traffic, we were forced to slow to a crawl. Sidewalk cafes lined both sides of the street—festively appointed enclosures with overhead canopies, hanging plants, potted plants, and marquee-size letters advertising Heineken and Amstel beers. T-shirts filled the windows of souvenir shops. Outside tables displayed painted wooden shoes, miniature windmills, decorative tiles, and souvenir dolls. Dutch flags fluttered above doorways, and tasteful blue signs invited visitors to part with their Euros in eight different languages.
“Once we leave you at the car park, you’ll be on your own for two hours, so if you’re hungry, I suggest you try the smoked eel. It’s a Volendam specialty, although if you suffer from ulcers or acid reflux, you might want to pop a few antacid tablets before pigging out. For those of you who’d prefer to explore, stroll down the side alleys. They’ll lead you to a lovely maze of narrow streets and canals with little wooden houses and footbridges, but if you get lost, don’t expect anyone to go looking for you. We’re on far too tight a schedule.” She smiled sweetly. “Have a wonderful time, but wherever you go or whatever you do, remember this.” Her voice rose to a near screech. “Stay on the sidewalk!”
We pulled into a “Tour Busses Only” lot that flanked the dike at the far end of town. When Dietger killed the engine, I regarded Nana sternly. “I hope you’re going to tell me that you’re ready to ditch your cellphone in favor of smoked eel and antacid tablets.”
She cradled her phone possessively to her chest. “What’ll happen if I’m not?”
I knew of only one threat scary enough to have any effect on her.
Digging my own cellphone out of my shoulder bag, I clutched it in my fist and poised my forefinger over the keypad. “Then I’m calling Mom.”
She sucked in her breath so hard, I thought she’d swallow her uppers. “You wouldn’t.”
I smiled. “Try me.”
“This is blackmail.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or is it extortion? I always get them two mixed up.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s extortion. So what’s it to be? Drinking in the sights of Volendam”—I waved the phone at her—“or a long dose of Mom?”
She shoved her cellphone into her pocketbook and stood up. “Anyone feel like taggin’ along while I find one a them shops that takes souvenir photos of tourists dressed up like the little Dutch boy?”
“I’ll go,” said George, popping out of his seat.
“Me, too,” said Tilly. “My thumbs are locking up.”
Osmond boosted himself to his feet. “Show of hands: how many are in favor of having a group photo taken in dorky costumes?”
All hands went up.
“The yeas have it in a landslide.”
“I want to amend my vote.” Bernice stood up. “I don’t want to be in a group photo. I want to have my picture taken all by myself so I can add it to my portfolio”—she fluttered her stubby lashes—“just in case Hollywood comes to town wanting to film Twister 2.”
“Or Night of the Living Dead,” sniggered Dick Teig.
She whipped her head around to drill him with an evil look. “I heard that.” A thousand years ago, Bernice had worked as a magazine model, and “comeback” was never far from her mind.
The doors of the bus whooshed open, prompting my guys to gather up their jackets and cameras and scramble toward the rear exit.
“No exiting out the rear door!” shouted Charlotte. “You have to leave by the front. Get away from that door!” she yelled at the Dicks. “Honestly, you people are going to be the death of me!”
Sensing blood pressures rising and excitement waning, I made a quick decision. “Bite your tongues and do as she says,” I cautioned under my breath. “I’ll have a heart-to-heart with her when I can get her alone. Maybe I can convince her to lighten up.”
“I’m so excited to try on one of those white caps with the wings,” Margi enthused as we shuffled down the aisle single file. “Do you suppose it’ll look like the one the flying nun used to wear on that TV show? I wouldn’t mind flying around like she used to, but I have a few pounds on her, so I’d probably need a bigger hat.”
“I’ve located the nearest photo shop on my GPS,” Tilly called out. “When you step off the bus, take a right and head due northwest.”
Iowans are renowned for their remarkable senses of direction. Some people say it’s a learned skill, but I think we’re just born that way. My dad claims if Moses had been from Iowa, he’d have led the Jews through the desert in way under forty years, even with the inevitable delays for sandstorms and potty breaks.
They hit the ground running. “Be back by two!” I yelled after them. Nana gave me a quick thumbs-up before overtaking Bernice in a footrace to the main street. The reunion people splintered into smaller groups and loitered in the parking lot awhile before following Nana’s lead toward the street. Dietger escaped across the lot to join a couple of uniformed bus drivers whose heads were engulfed in cigarette smoke, but Charlotte seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
Noticing Mike and Mary Lou McManus in a small group still lingering by the bus, I hurried over to them. “Did anyone happen to see which way Charlotte went?”
“Didn’t see her leave,” said the guy Mike had pointed out as the class clown, “but I hope the hell she never comes back.” He was small and wiry, with a fringe of white hair circling his head at ear level, a mustache like a whisk broom, and a nametag that identified him as Chip Soucy. “Geez, what a pill. Reminds me of that nun you girls were always complaining about back in school. The one who got drunk on her own power when she was principal. What did you call her? Sister Hippo?”