Dutch Me Deadly (13 page)

“’Bout time we got an easy one,” said George.

“His head,” Helen scribbled with authority.

I proceeded through the room at the front of the building and entered a vestibule that housed a staircase as steep as a cliff, with treads no wider than my hand.
Uff-da
. These must be the notorious Dutch stairs that Wally had warned us about. I wondered if Ricky and Mindy had made it to the top, hampered, as they were, by their excessive weight and possible balance problems. But they must have managed somehow, because they were nowhere in sight.

The first floor was a rabbit warren of rooms off a long hallway. I followed the prescribed route through private offices and supply rooms, learning that Otto Frank operated a second business while he was in hiding—one that distributed pectin used for making jam. I browsed the exhibits, taking note of identity cards, accounting books, and Anne’s favorite movie magazine,
Cinema & Theater
, then climbed a circular staircase to the next floor, where the memorabilia on display told tales of both extraordinary heroism and unimaginable horror.

The Mainers must have breezed through this level, because I didn’t see a one of them until I entered a narrow hallway that funneled traffic to the rear of the building. At the far end of this passageway, where a hinged bookcase swung away from the wall to reveal the once secret entrance to the annex, Mike and Peewee stood toe to toe, locked in an intense exchange.

Hmm. I wondered what that was about. But before I could get close enough to hear what they were saying, Mike saw me coming, broke off his discussion with Peewee, and tossed me a furtive wave before disappearing into a doorway beneath an awkwardly placed map on the wall. Peewee followed close behind, doubling over at his waist to clear the space without bumping his head.

I quickened my steps. Nuts. Where were Jackie and Beth Ann when I needed them?

The door to the secret annex was wedged open and held in place by a steel brace that blocked access to an ascending stairway. Patrons were apparently expected to reach the next story by climbing what looked like a bookshelf, but only after touring the Frank’s apartment and passing through a door on the opposite side of the barrier. I peered up the nearly vertical staircase to the opening cut in the floor above and felt the bottoms of my feet tingle in alarm.
Holy crap!
My guys couldn’t climb these things. I wasn’t sure
I
could climb them!

I pulled out my cellphone, hoping they were still on the ground floor, dithering over the questionnaires. I checked the screen.

No service.

Shoot!
I looked back down the hallway to find a crowd of tourists streaming toward me. Swimming against the tide would take too long. I had to go forward. If I didn’t stop to look at anything, I could probably reach the ground floor in a few minutes.

Mike suddenly appeared on the other side of the barrier, aiming to head up the stairs.

“That was quick,” I said nonchalantly.

He gave me a palms-up. “Not much to linger over.”

I hurried through a short hallway to arrive in the Frank’s family room—a modest space with pinkish wallpaper and woodwork painted institutionalized green. I blew past several people into an even narrower room, where the photos of long-dead movie stars graced the walls, then hurried into a connecting room that housed a sink and toilet. Following the tour route out the bathroom door, I stepped into the hallway to find myself back at the entrance to the annex, on the opposite side of the barrier, at the foot of the staircase I really didn’t want to climb.

I inhaled a deep breath to bolster my courage. It was a good thing Paula Peavey wasn’t here. Given her struggles with vertigo, there was no way she—

The thought went unfinished as a body came crashing down the stairs and fell in a mangled heap at my feet.

Thirteen

Our visit ended up
lasting a lot longer than two hours.

“Question number one hundred-eighteen,” said Helen, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. She blinked away tears as she stared bleary-eyed at the questionnaire. “‘What is the subject’s favorite television program?’”

George’s head fell onto his chest, startling him awake. “Make something up,” he grumbled.

We were gathered in the museum cafeteria, battling spotty cellphone service while seated at tables with sweeping views of bicyclists, pedestrians, and canal traffic. The police were still questioning patrons about the tragic mishap that had forced the museum to close its doors for the remainder of the day. Interviewees were being held in the administrative offices in another part of the complex and were being released one at a time in a very orderly process. I complimented the police on their efficiency and thoroughness. But the downside was, it was taking forever.

I guess it was no easy task determining what had caused Pete Finnegan to plunge to his death.

“How much longer have we gotta sit here?” Bernice griped as Gary Bouchard sauntered into the room.

“We almost got everyone back,” said Nana, recording Gary’s arrival with a hash mark on her napkin. She tallied the count. “Only three to go.”

Being on the ground floor when the mishap occurred had proven to be fortuitous for my group. No interrogation for them. But the reunion people had fared less well. The police wanted to interview all patrons who’d been touring the third floor rooms when Pete took his header down the stairs. And, wouldn’t you know? Every single Mainer had apparently been crowded into the apartment when Pete fell. Little wonder the interrogation was taking so long. I couldn’t imagine how underwhelmed the police must be with the feedback.

I rubbed my hands together, trying to warm my icy fingertips. I’d finally stopped shaking after downing six pots of hot tea, but I still felt brittle and a little wobbly. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Pete, frantically windmilling his arms as he plummeted toward me. All I could hear was the bone-jarring
thunk
as he landed at my feet. I found solace in only one detail: Had I been standing a hairsbreadth closer, I’d be lying in the morgue with him.

I shuddered at the thought.

Grace flipped through the remaining pages of her questionnaire. “We’re making progress, everyone,” she announced proudly. “Only eight pages left.”

A collective groan.

“Look at the woman across the street!” Margi leaped from her chair and pressed her nose to the window glass, her voice trembling with anguish. “She’s talking on a cellphone. She’s probably even able to text.”

“Where?” cried Osmond and Alice, racing to the window to join her.

“You want I should fetch you another pot a tea, dear?” Nana spoke softly, as if a louder tone might cause me to shatter. “Your great-gramma Maccoull used to say there wasn’t no misery in this world what couldn’t be made better by a hot cup a tea.”

I squeezed her hand and smiled. “I’m good, Nana.” Which wasn’t exactly true, because if Pete died the way I suspected he died, I’d never be able to live with myself again. “But, I do think I’m about to float away, so if you’ll excuse me.” I pushed away from the table.

“Going back to the television question,” Helen fussed, “what do you think they want to know? Dick’s favorite show of all-time, or his pick in the new fall lineup?”

Since the museum had been cleared of all patrons except us, I didn’t have to wait in line to use the ladies’ room. In fact, I had the room all to myself … until Jackie charged through the door, fisting her hands on her hips when she saw me.

“Why is it that every time
you
find a dead body,
I
end up getting grilled by the police?” she asked in a tight voice.

“Finally!” I sloughed water from my hands as I spun around to face her. “I’ve been going nuts not knowing what’s going on. Why is it taking so long? What did they ask you? What did you tell them? Did you actually see anything?”

She made a beeline toward the closest mirror and plopped her metallic bag on the countertop. “You don’t mind if I multi-task while I answer, do you? My lip gloss is in desperate need of freshening up.”

“Your lips are fine, Jack. Talk to me!”

“What did I see?” she repeated as she removed a lip brush from her cosmetic bag. “A sink and wall spigot. World War II vintage. Not in the best of shape. An alcove where a stove used to sit. A closed off fireplace. Beamed ceiling. A menu for an anniversary dinner. An adjoining room I never got to see because of Pete Finnegan’s swan dive down the staircase.”

“Were you near him when it happened?”

“Everyone was near him, Emily. We were packed in like sardines. I bumped into, stepped on, or smacked elbows with every person in the stupid room. But that’s what makes eavesdropping such a specialized skill. You can’t stand in one place. You have to keep moving around.”

“And?”

“And my boots have scuff marks all over them because of it.” She pivoted her foot, toe out, to show me. “You don’t happen to have a suede cleaner bar on you, do you?”

“Jack!”

“What! I was on the other side of the room when all the commotion started, along with a whole host of other people, who, by the way, were blowing off the rules and taking photos.”

“Was Mike McManus on your side of the room? Tall, good-looking guy with a golf tan and Wolf Blitzer’s hair?”

“Mmmm …” She unscrewed the cap on her lip gloss. “Not that I recall. I was surrounded by a clique of plushy women who were rehashing their dislike of some nun named Sister Hippolytus when the wheels fell off.”

“So Mike could have been standing near the staircase when Pete fell?”

She leaned close to the mirror as she brushed a dab of gloss over her lips. “I don’t know who was standing nearest the staircase, but you might want to ask Beth Ann, because she was working that side of the room for me. I had this ingenious idea to divide the room into two hal—” She gasped suddenly, wheeling around to face me. “Oh, my God. Do you think this Mike McManus pushed Pete?”

“I don’t
know
.” I inhaled a breath and let it out, but it did nothing to lessen the taste of guilt lingering in my mouth. “I … I’m terrified
I
might have killed him.”

“WHAT?”

“I feel so horrible, Jack. Pete ranted at me earlier today that he could ruin all his classmates by blabbing some secrets no one realized he knew, and I made the mistake of telling Mike, and a few flights of stairs later, Pete ends up dead. See?” My voice rose to a breathless squeal. “I killed him!”

Jackie rolled her eyes. “Can I give you some friendly advice, Emily? Stop making everything about yourself. You were nowhere near Pete when he took his dive, so cool your jets. You didn’t do it.”

“I know I didn’t do it directly. What I did was worse. I drove someone else to do it!”

“The guy tripped and fell. Have you seen the stairs in this place? They’re enough to scare the climbers who scaled Everest. One misstep, and
splat
!”

I winced. “But what about—”

“When Pete dive-bombed at you, was he wearing the kind of look that screamed, ‘Holy shit! Someone just pushed me?’”

I regarded her blandly. “I don’t know how he looked. I mean, I didn’t see his face. It all happened too quickly.”

“My point exactly. These stairs are killers.” She recapped her lip gloss and brush and stuffed them back in her bag. “Look, Em, if it’ll make you feel any better, the police seem to be treating Pete’s death as an accident. These guys are very thorough interrogators, so trust me, if Mike McManus had entertained even a fleeting thought about shoving Pete down the stairs, they would know. Their interrogation techniques are brilliant. You wouldn’t believe what they were able to get out of me.”

“Like what?”

She gave her eyelashes a demure flutter. “Like, I had written a novel that can still be purchased on Amazon from select sellers.”

Oh, right. Who knew what sordid threats they’d had to make to get that out of her?

The restroom door swung open.

“Thank God,” Jackie gushed as Beth Ann crossed the threshold. “Could you
please
do me a colossal favor and convince Emily she didn’t kill Pete Finnegan?”

Beth Ann did a double-take. “Pardon me?”

“Go ahead.” She made a scooting motion with her hand. “Tell her what you saw just before Pete fell down the stairs.”

“Uh—he was hanging out by the stairs, waiting for the queue to Peter Van Pels’ room to shorten, and the next thing I knew, I heard a series of thumps, a scream, and
poof
. He wasn’t there anymore.”

My heart did a little stutter step. “Was he doing anything unusual while he was waiting? Talking to anyone? Looking at anything?”

“The last time I saw him, he was checking out the ceiling beams. Did you notice them, Jackie? The dark wood added so much warmth and character to the room. I wish they could have displayed some of the original furniture. My dad’s house was full of antique fixtures and furniture, so I have a real appreciation for period pieces.”

“So, Pete was … looking up when he probably should have been looking down?” I persisted.

Beth Ann nodded. “He seemed mesmerized by those beams. Kind of like a bricklayer would be mesmerized by the craftsmanship of a really intricate chimney.”

Was this what Pete’s mishap boiled down to? One inattentive step in the wrong direction? “Did the police find it likely that Pete’s accident might have been caused by nothing more than a misstep?”

She shrugged. “They didn’t comment one way or the other. They just took down my account and told me I could leave.”

“See?” Jackie gave my shoulder an “I told you so” poke. “No one pushed him. He fell.”

Beth Ann’s cheeks flushed with exuberance. “This whole experience has been so exciting. I’ve never been questioned by the authorities before.” She flashed Jackie a breathless smile. “Have you ever thought of writing a police procedural novel?”

My pulse slowed to a more natural rhythm. Calm leavened my guilt. Reason replaced paranoia.
Why
did I do this to myself ? Why did I always leap to conclusions, rush to judgment, see everyone as a suspect? I needed to get a grip. But more than that, I needed to stop thinking that I, Emily Andrew Miceli, knew more than the police.

I propped my hip against the edge of the vanity, feeling my adrenalin high start to fade. “So I guess neither one of you got to see Peter Van Pels room,” I said in a less frenzied voice.

“The queue was ridiculous,” said Beth Ann. “And the people who were waiting to jump in line were all clustered around me, which was great for eavesdropping, but bad for touring.”

“I hope you heard more than I did.” Jackie primped in the mirror. “I was surrounded by duds.”

Beth Ann referred to her notebook, which suddenly seemed affixed to her hand like a tattoo. “Ricky Hennessy was complaining to Chip Soucy about his bad knees and the prospect of total knee replacements in the near future. Mindy was staring at the floor, looking bored. Gary and Sheila Bouchard were standing close to the wall, saying nothing, but looking very uncomfortable. Laura LaPierre and Mary Lou McManus had their heads together, talking, but they were speaking so softly, I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Sorry.”

Jackie cocked her head like the Victrola dog peering into the phonograph speaker. “How do you know everyone’s name already?”

“Uhh—nametags?” Beth Ann regarded her wide-eyed. “Everyone’s wearing one. Haven’t you noticed?”

Jackie twitched her freshly glossed lips. “Good point. Anything else?”

“Mike McManus and Peewee were latecomers, so they were only
there a couple of minutes, but I did overhear Mike ask Peewee if he’d been in school the day a few members of the football team let the air out of someone named Mr. Albert’s tires.”

“Wait a sec.” I held up my hand to slow her down. If she was saying what I think she was saying, then—“All the people you’ve just mentioned were a stone’s throw away from you, right?”

“Right.”

“And you were a stone’s throw away from Pete Finnegan?”

“Yeah.”

“So
everyone
was within a stone’s throw of Pete?”

Beth Ann looked a little cowed. “Ye
aaa
h.” She dragged the word out as if it were caught in a slide flute.

My heart raced. My mouth went dry. I pressed my palms to my forehead and squeezed my eyelids shut. “They were all there,” I choked. “Mike. Peewee. Ricky. Watching him like hawks. How could the police think it was an accident?”

Beth Ann raised her eyebrows. “Do you suppose they never got the memo that Pete is the third person we’ve lost in two days? What if they don’t have police scanners over here? What if the officers who interrogated us didn’t know about Paula and Charlotte?”

I glanced from one to the other. “Neither of you mentioned Paula to the police?”

Jackie shot me
the look
. “Duh? You made us promise not to say a word to anyone. What do we look like? Stool pigeons?” But her expression registered slow enlightenment as she put two and two together. “OH, MY GOD! Pete didn’t fall. Someone pushed him!”

“Hel-l
ooo
?” I cried.

“Hello to you, too, dear,” said Nana, peeking over her shoulder as she scooted into the room. She pressed her back against the wall just inside the door and stood motionless for a moment, like a cat burglar waiting for the coast to clear. She offered us a placid smile as we stared across the room at her. “You girls go on with what you was talkin’ about. Just pretend like I’m not here.”

What in the world?
“Let me guess,” I said impassively. “You’re trying to avoid someone.”

“Dang.” She pumped her fist. “What gave it away?”

“Who are you hiding from?”

Her eyes flickered with guilt. “Grace and Helen. I can’t take no more of them questions, so I’m goin’ rogue.”