Dutch Me Deadly (16 page)

I accessed birth announcements, obituaries, and entries in Bangor’s
social calendar. I found a birth announcement for Gary Allen Bouchard III a few months after the wedding and an obituary for Gary Bouchard Senior two years later. Gee. He’d only been forty-five years old. Died in a hunting accident. I clicked on a link to find that Gary Senior had been fatally wounded when his gun
accidentally discharged while he was deer hunting with Gary Ju
nior.

I stared at the words until the letters ran into each other. Holy crap. Was this my smoking gun? Literally?

I scanned the rest of the article, learning that Gary Junior would
be taking over the family car dealership, insuring that loyal customers would suffer no disruption in sales or service. Armed with his two-year business degree, twenty-one-year-old Gary professed
readiness to step into his father’s shoes, although his mother would
remain the titular head of the business. Accessing a second
link, I found another obituary—that of Gary’s mother, who died in a car accident eight months later. “A defect in the braking system
of her Chrysler Saratoga,” a subsequent article reported, explaining how Mrs. Bouchard had careened down Newbury Street hill and crashed headlong into a tree. I didn’t know if Gary’s dealership had been responsible for maintaining her brakes, but I did know that with both his parents dead, Gary was free to run the whole show without interference from anyone. Barely in his twenties, he becomes one of the wealthiest men in the city, which probably did a lot to make up for a few of his earlier disappointments.

Coincidence, or deliberate plan?

I expanded my search to include Sheila Bouchard and in a few clicks discovered entries in the social calendar announcing her induction onto the boards of the Maine State Historical Society, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and the Junior League of Bangor. She even established her own social club, the Minerva Society, where local women came together on a weekly basis to discuss literature and the arts. I found pictures of an ever-evolving Sheila with the conductor of the Bangor Symphony orchestra at a Christmas extravaganza, and with St. Xavier’s Sister Hippolytus at the parish’s annual Coffee Party. I studied the photo of the nun, remembering this was the teacher none of the girls had liked. Sister Hippo. I wondered if she was still alive. She’d be pretty old now, but when nuns retired to the Mother House, they oftentimes seemed to live forever. Kinda like Osmond.

Sheila graced the pages of the
Bangor Daily News
throughout the decades, and almost exclusively on the front page—at the opening of the State Fair, at the ribbon cutting for a new wing of the medical center, at the Bowdoin College graduation ceremony when Gary III received his degree, at the county courthouse where she gazed sourly at a jubilant Paula Peavey.

Courthouse?

I scanned the accompanying article. Oh, my God. Paula had won a discrimination suit against Sheila and the Minerva Society. Paula’s application for membership had been rejected on the basis that since she hadn’t graduated in the top tenth of her class, she wasn’t actually smart enough to discuss
Lolita
or
Green Eggs and Ham
. Paula had called foul, and the judgment had been decided in her favor, along with a significant cash payment for damages. A week later, another article announced the dissolution of the Minerva Society, which “in its two years of existence, had become the premier ladies group in Bangor, surpassing even the Junior League in popularity among the well-heeled.”

I leaned back in my chair, thinking. Had Sheila eventually forgiven Paula for the lawsuit, or had she bided her time until she could even the score? Paula had definitely knocked her down a few pegs. Sheila wouldn’t have liked that. But how far would Sheila have gone to get even? Could she have been bitter and angry enough to commit murder? The idea seemed pretty far-fetched, and yet one thing I’d learned in my travel experience was that, what seemed far-fetched to me might seem perfectly normal to a homicidal maniac.

I stared out the lobby window in a daze. Was this the kind of information that would be useful to the police? Or would they tell me to come back when I’d found a direct link between my suspects and their victims? I’d already found a link between Paula and Sheila, but I needed something concrete to connect Pete to Gary. Something that I could point to and say, “See this? I think Pete is dead because he threatened to reveal this about Gary.” But what could Pete possibly know?

I heard a loud rapping on the window. Jackie grimaced at me with every muscle in her face before mouthing something I couldn’t
hear.

“What?” I mouthed back.

Rolling her eyes in disgust, she charged through the front door and into the lobby. “I said—What are you doing in here? Gheertrude isn’t waiting for you. But I know which way she’s headed, so if we leave now, we might be able to catch up.”

I typed a flurry of words, my eyes riveted on the monitor. “Gimme a minute. I need to find out what Pete Finnegan did for a living.”

She hovered over me, her foot tapping out an impatient rhythm on the floor. “Are you coming?”

“Just … just … I’m almost there.”

“Are you supposed to be using this computer?”

“The front desk clerk gave me the access code. Free of charge.”

“Get out of here.” She stilled her foot and settled into the chair beside me. “What is it?”

I gave her the code.

“
Ooh
. Google access.” She paused. “I can’t just Google the word Peewee. What’s the guy’s real name?”

I continued clicking on links. “Check the guest roster in your tour packet.”

She rummaged through her designer bag. Shuffling. Sorting. Swearing. “Let’s see. Here it is. ‘Peewee’ Crowley. Phoenix, Arizona. This can’t be right. Are they telling us his real name
is
Peewee?”

“Try the Francis Xavier yearbook. Maybe they’ve archived copies online.” I combined Pete’s name with various businesses in Bangor and got no hits. Guess he wasn’t a local merchant.

“Okay, his real name is Norman Crowley,” said Jackie, fingers f
lying and screen changing as fast as the beams in a laser light show
.

I tried banking, the bar association, the medical field. Nothing.

“Ta-da!” She veed her arms over her head. “Norman Crowley was drafted right out of high school. Here’s a picture of him and some of his buddies packing up and heading off to boot camp. ‘Local Boys Put College on Hold to Serve Country First,’ is the title of the newspaper article. Man, he really was a squirt back then.”

I sat straight up in my chair. The draft? That’s right! Up until the early seventies, all men had been inducted into the military, even my dad. Was it possible that Pete and Gary had served together? Maybe even been in the same platoon or regiment?

I Googled the United States Military.

“I know people change,” Jackie quipped, “but this kid in the picture looks
nothing
like the guy who’s on the tour with us.”

“You don’t look anything like your high school graduation picture either,” I reminded her. I stared at the required fields I needed to fill in to access any information on Peter Finnegan’s military history. Damn. I didn’t know any of this stuff.

“At least I have the same nose,” Jackie argued. “And cheekbones. That’s more than I can say for Norman Crowley.”

Impasse. I’d have to forget the military for now. What next? Could Pete have been an undertaker? A teacher?

“Maybe Peewee underwent a growth spurt when he was in the service.” Jackie’s fingers danced over the keyboard, nails clicking. “I wonder if the newspaper shot a picture when he came home?”

I leaned back in my chair. Flummoxed.

“Aha! Private Norman Crowley … blah, blah, blah … discharged after two years … blah, blah, blah … There’s an article, but no picture. I guess we’ll just have to assume he grew, and had a nose job.”

I checked the time. “We better go. Let’s hope Gheertrude is walking slowly.”

“Did you see this photo of Pete Finnegan? It’s on the same page.”

“What photo?”

“The one where he’s posing with the carcass of a deer he shot on the first day of hunting season. ‘Local Man Shoots Twenty-Four Point Buck.’ Ick.”

Pete had been a deer hunter?

Bingo.

Sixteen

“So, does this blow
the hell o
ut of your senior class outing theory?”

“I don’t know what it does, but I’ll feel less anxious if I can convince Wally to pass the information along to the Amsterdam police, for whatever it’s worth.”

We were taking a breather on an ancient stone bridge that offered a panoramic view of the city with its towering church spires, witch-capped turrets, winding lanes, iconic gables, hidden alleyways, moss-covered walls, and ivy-clad dwellings. Beneath us, in a narrow canal flanked by houses that looked centuries old, fairytale swans glided in silence, their passage barely ruffling the water.

We hadn’t spied the rest of the group yet, but given that Jackie had developed a killer limp that was slowing us down to a crawl, I wasn’t surprised. In a footrace between seniors in flats and transsexuals in stilettos, seniors win hands down, especially if there’s food involved.

“Both Gary and Pete were hunters,” I rattled on as I snapped a photo of a step-gabled house across the street. “What if Pete had been hunting the day Gary Senior suffered his mishap? What if he saw the whole thing?”

Jackie winced as she tested her weight on her right foot. “You don’t think the Bouchards would have noticed Pete Finnegan standing around, gawking at them?”

“Not if Pete had built a blind for himself. He could have been so well camouflaged, he might have been invisible to the human eye.”

“So you’re speculating that Pete saw something he wasn’t meant to see?”

I panned to the left and pressed my shutter, capturing a horse and open carriage as they clattered over the cobblestones. “Think about it, Jack. What if the accident didn’t happen exactly like Gary Junior said? What if Pete could implicate Gary in his father’s death?”

“Then Gary would have good reason to push Pete down a flight of stairs and hope for the worst. But if Pete saw something, why didn’t he speak up at the time of the accident? I mean, wouldn’t that be the normal thing to do? And if Gary
knew
that Pete knew, why did he wait over forty years to deal with him?”

“Okay, I still have a few holes in my theory, but I’m getting closer.”

Ting!

“Text message alert,” Jackie deadpanned. She nodded at my shoulder bag. “It’s yours.”

“How do you know?” I quickly dug out my phone.

“My ring tones are a lot more annoying.”

I felt a sudden rush of excitement. “It’s from Nana. My first!” I read the message on the screen. “‘Where r u?’ Aw, isn’t that cute?” I held the phone up so she could read the message for herself. “It’s like reading a little vanity license plate.”

“Really, Emily,” Jackie said in an undertone. “Please don’t tell me you’ve never seen texting shorthand. What planet have you been living on?”

“The same one you’ve been living on, only in the technologically challenged section. Do you want to send the reply?” I handed her the phone. “Go ahead, smartie. Wow me.”

She flexed her thumbs in the same way a gunslinger might flex his trigger finger. “If you insist.”

I spread my map out on the low wall of the bridge and traced several squiggly lines before stabbing an unremarkable speck. “Tell her we’re standing right here.”

Jackie looked over my shoulder. “Oh, yeah. That’s really helpful.”

With a theatrical sigh, she labored over my phone for the next two minutes before handing it back. “Would you do me a favor and buy yourself a phone with a dedicated keypad?”

“Sure. Right after I buy the Lear jet I’ve been eying. So what did you tell her?”

“Sightseeing. Will catch up.”

I eyed my screen as the alert chimed again. “Text message from Margi Swanson.” I punched the view key. “Bless her heart. She’s really been doing her research. Listen to this. ‘Paula Peavey sued Penobscot Auto Repair forty years ago. Claimed faulty brake repair work caused accident.’” I exchanged a look with Jackie. “Do you suppose Paula did anything with her life besides sue people?”

“Maybe she was a serial suer,” said Jackie. “Winning frivolous lawsuits can be a lucrative profession for people who prefer not to work for a living.”

Ting!

In the next few minutes I was bombarded with a flurry of messages that pointed to one conclusion: If you need to dig up information on the Internet, have an eighty-year-old do the searching for you.

From Alice: “Mike McManus attended U of Maine, served in military, married Mary Lou O’Leary, relocated to DC. Spent none of adult life in Bangor. Worked in insurance industry as safety inspector. Retired after thirty years of service.”

From Helen: “Chip Soucy sued by Paula Peavey after she slipped on wet floor in his grocery market. Damages bankrupted him. Lost store. Unresolved tax issues up the wazoo.”

From Bernice: “We’re in stupid lace store watching demonstration. BORING. No poop on Bobby Guerrette. What a waste of time.”

From Nana: “Ricky Hennessy opened Penobscot Auto Repair after high school. Went bankrupt after being sued by Paula Peavey ten years later. Spotty work record until landing job as gas station attendant and repairman at Pine Tree State Tires and Auto Repair. Lots of tax troubles.”

From Osmond: “Mary Lou McManus (born O’Leary) earned nursing degree from Eastern Maine General Hospital. Moved to DC area after marrying Mike McManus. Worked at Walter Reed Hospital in surgical unit. Two children, Mike Junior and Laura.”

From Grace: “Mindy Hennessy’s wedding took up five columns in newspaper. Name appears eight times in birth announcement section. Worked part-time at Freese’s Department Store, J. J. Newberry’s Five and Dime Store, and Standard Shoes. Trouble with IRS.”

From Bernice: “No one wears lace. Why do I have to watch this? I notice YOU’RE not here.”

From George: “Laura LaPierre attended Colby College and did graduate work at Stanford. Remained in CA. Headed admissions office at Berkeley. Married decorated army vet. One daughter.”

From Margi again: “Paula Peavey lived in family home on Maple Street entire life. Can’t find work record. Showed dogs. Many awards. Constant trouble with IRS.”

From Tilly: “Pete Finnegan attended Bowdoin College. Worked for local IRS as tax examiner and later tax compliance officer. Never married. Avid hunter and woodworker. Photo of him and 24-point buck in paper.”

“Oh, my God, Jack. Look at this.”

She frowned as she read. “Tilly must have found the same picture I did, but I don’t get it. What’s so special about a twenty-four point buck? How many points are they supposed to have?”

“The buck isn’t the important part. Pete was the tax police. An IRS agent. A G-man! Do you know what that means?”

“Of course I know what it means. Federal retirement. The government offers much better benefits than Social Security.”

“No! It means he was in a position to make his classmates’ lives a living hell, and I suspect that’s exactly what he did.” I scrolled back through my messages. “A slew of them had a history of tax troubles—Chip Soucy, Ricky and Mindy, Paula Peavey. I bet if I were a better searcher, I’d probably discover that the Bouchards have been battling the IRS most of their married lives, too.”

Jackie’s eyes glazed over with horror. “My Tom was audited once. He said it was the most terrifying experience of his life. Even more terrifying than his first Brazilian wax.”

My brain was clicking at a thousand miles an hour. “Paula drove them into bankruptcy and Pete rode roughshod over whatever money they had left. What a duo. They must have been the two most hated people in Bangor.”

“Which makes you wonder why they ever came on this trip. They sign up to spend eight days with the enemy, and they think nothing’s going to happen? Duh?”

My thought process executed a sudden detour. Would anyone have had the opportunity to settle old scores with Pete and Paula if the reunion had been held in Bangor? Would the hometown setting have been too safe to create any kind of chaos? Was the reunion held abroad for the sole purpose of inserting Pete and Paula into unfamiliar surroundings so they’d be more vulnerable? Oh, my God. Were Pete and Paula’s deaths premeditated? Could the reunion be nothing more than a convenient ruse to commit murder?

“Whose idea was it to have a class reunion in Holland anyway?” asked Jackie.

I felt a wrenching in my gut as I supplied the answer.

“Mary Lou McManus.”

_____

“You been able to figure out who done it yet, dear?”

After a fifteen-minute hike over meandering canals, through parks with umbrellaed tables, around whimsical sculptures, and past stone houses rippling with ivy, we arrived at the Market Square, to find Nana and the gang exactly where her latest text message said they’d be—in front of an official-looking building with a soaring octagonal tower.

“I’m coming up with a new suspect every five minutes,” I confessed. “I’m making myself crazy.”

“You want we should hold off sendin’ you any more messages?”

“No! Keep them coming. They’re helping me piece together a narrative of the Mainers’ lives. I just don’t know how many pieces are involved.”

Market Square reminded me of some of the grand squares of Italy. The center was filled with canopied booths as plentiful as carnival tents, where vendors hawked flowers and food, clothing and jewelry. Flagpoles ringed the far side, their heraldic banners floating overhead like United Nations flags. Horse-drawn carriages clattered by in the street, chased by bicycles pedaled by men in three-piece suits, and women in skirts and high heels. A row of guild houses flanked the opposite side of the square, their brick facades boasting vibrant shades of red and brown, their stepped gables as picturesque as the cafes that spilled onto the sidewalks beneath them. I doubted many Americans had ever heard of Bruges, but it was their loss, because walking through Bruges was like strolling through the pages of a storybook, where all the ugly ducklings had turned into swans, and every house was a fairytale castle.

Ting!

I retrieved a message from Osmond, who was leaning against a bicycle rack about six feet away, his eyes glued to his phone. “Maid of Honor at Mary Lou’s wedding was Laura LaPierre. After the wedding, little contact between them. Checked old phone logs. No record of long-distance calls between DC and CA until about a year ago.”

A year ago? Had Mary Lou and Laura planned the reunion together?

But wait a minute, Osmond had checked old phone logs? Logs from four or five decades ago? I tossed him a curious look. How in the world had he done that?

“Would you excuse me for a minute, Nana?”

I held my phone in front of Osmond’s face. “Good work on Mary Lou McManus,” I complimented him. “But how were you able to check old phone logs? Who are you? The CIA?”

“Your grandmother showed me a website where I could access all sorts of archived classified files. Phone records. Buying habits. Financial records. Medical records. Did you know the government keeps records on all that stuff ?”

I guess I did now. I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “When you say Nana ‘showed’ you, do you mean she gave you the web address, or she helped you hack into the site?”

“Oh, she helped me hack into the site, all right. I wouldn’t have known how to do it otherwise. But it was pretty easy once she showed me, so maybe I can do it on my own next time.”

Oh, God
. “No! No more hacking. Ever. Here’s the thing: It’s against the law! Do you want to become the world’s oldest person to serve time in the Big House?”

He mulled that over. “Would I get my name printed in the
Guinness Book of World Records?
I’ve always wanted to see my name in print for something other than an obituary.”

“This is serious, Osmond. You can search legitimate sites on the Web without having to resort to the cloak-and-dagger stuff. Okay?”

He sighed. “Does that mean you don’t want to hear about the e-mails Mary Lou and Laura have been sending to each other?”

I froze in place. “E-mails?”

“Yeah. E-mail accounts are really easy to break into. Mary Lou and Laura reconnected on Facebook right after Laura’s husband passed away, and they began to correspond by e-mail—the usual chitchat about kids and grandkids and a lot of talk about plans for the reunion. They did a lot of reminiscing, too. Mostly about how mean Paula Peavey had been in high school and wondering if she’d dare show up at the reunion.”

But Paula
had
shown up and, from what I’d seen, had been acting as mean as the teenager she’d once been. Had I missed an angry exchange between the three women? In the Red Light District? After the group had split up? Is that why Mike hadn’t been able to find Mary Lou and Laura that night? Had the two women run into Paula on the way back to the hotel and dealt with her once and for all?

No. I didn’t want to point the finger at Mary Lou and Laura. I liked them too much.

“Excuse me, Emily.” Alice flashed her phone in front of me. “I know I’m supposed to be researching Mike McManus, but I ran across this and thought you might want to see it anyway.” She pressed a button that activated a murky, reddish-yellow image of a sidewalk.

“What am I looking at?” I squinted at the screen.

“Video from our hotel’s surveillance camera on the night Paula Peavey died.”

I stared at her, wide-eyed, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You accessed a surveillance camera? A private surveillance camera that’s probably protected by all kinds of Dutch laws?”

“Oh, sure. It’s a high-tech system, but the software program was really easy to hack into. Your grandmother—”

I slapped my hands over my ears. “I’m not listening. Just play the video. Then erase it!”

I continued looking at the same image on the screen. Sidewalk. Sidewalk. Heavyset man and woman coming into the frame. Walking quickly. Looking over their shoulders as if afraid they were being followed. Pausing. Looking both ways.

I studied the screen more closely. Who was that? The Hennessys? Mindy thrust her arm in the direction from which they’d come. Ricky getting in her face, his body language implying that he was yelling. What was she pointing at? Why was he yelling? Who did they think was following them?