coordination. I don’t know if any of you should risk —”
“If
you’re
gonna do it, how hard can it be?” Bernice challenged.
Heads bobbing. Murmurs of assent.
“Who cares about the kayaking,” Dick Teig enthused. “We’re here…for this!” He waved a sheet of white paper high over his head. “Right, gang?”
Eight other hands shot into the air, each one waving a sheet of white paper.
I looked from Alice, to Osmond, to Lucille. Uh-oh. Please tell me they weren’t holding what I thought they were holding.
“I got extra maps on me,” Bernice said, reaching into her tote bag. “You wanna buy one? They’re sellin’ like hotcakes. Five bucks apiece.”
I stared at the stack of paper she yanked out of her tote. Treasure maps.
Oh, God. She’d sold them to the whole freaking bus!
“It’s all my fault,” Tilly anguished minutes later.
An armada of red and yellow kayaks was already splish-splashing upriver toward the first significant bend, but I was still hanging out by the bus, consoling Tilly. “Try not to dwell on it,” I urged. “I have a visor back in the cabin that you can borrow. It won’t match any of your skirts, but let’s face it. The other one’s a goner.”
“That’s kind of you, Emily. If only I could repair the damage I’ve done with the treasure map so easily.” She hung her head woefully. “In my excitement yesterday, I walked away from the photocopier with new copies of Marion’s map, handed her one for the scavenger hunt entry, and forgot to remove the original from the machine.”
“And wouldn’t you know,” Nana continued, “the next person into the copy center is Bernice, who finds the map in the photocopier and decides she can make a financial killin’ by sellin’ it off as a treasure map. She’s already took in over a hundred dollars.” Nana gave her teeth a loud suck. “I never woulda guessed it, but Bernice has a real gift for commercial sales.”
Tilly heaved a dejected sigh. “This is so unlike me. The errors in judgment. The forgetfulness. The signs are all there, ladies. Senile plaques. Neuro-fibrillary tangles. Subcortical dysfunction. My brain has neuropathologic disorder written all over it. If I were living among the Polar Eskimos, they’d stick me out on the ice as bear bait.”
“No one’s going to stick you anywhere,” I said, giving her arm a reassuring pat.
“Crossword puzzles,” Nana declared. “One a day is s’posed to keep your brain from turnin’ to mush. Kinda like takin’ a multivitamin.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Tilly’s brain,” I defended. “Stuff like this happens to everyone. It’s just that Bernice’s little entrepreneurial scheme has mucked things up for us.” I scrubbed my face with my palms and groaned. “Professor Smoker’s killer is supposed to be the only person other than the three of us who has a copy of the treasure map, right? But Nils and company have one. The Brits who were sitting behind me have one. I suspect every passenger on the bus has one. How are we supposed to single out the real killer if
everyone
has a copy of the map?”
A pause. Lip chewing. Cogitating.
“I have it!” Tilly’s eyes lit with sudden inspiration. “What if we —”
A torrent of violent splashing caused us to glance toward the river. Twenty feet from shore, Dick Teig and Dick Stolee were engaged in a major water skirmish, armed only with their paddles, their wives, and their waterproof disposable cameras.
“Get a picture of this, Helen!” KER-SPLAT! Dick Teig slammed his paddle onto the water, drenching Dick and Grace Stolee in a fountain of spray. “Bullseye!” he crowed, mugging for the camera.
“Start focusing, Grace!” ordered Dick Stolee as he paddled hard to starboard. “Ram-ming speed!” he yelled, aiming his prow at the Teigs’ kayak.
“What do you s’pose they’re doin’?” Nana asked curiously.
“Reenacting the War of 1812,” said Tilly.
“The whole war?” Nana shook her
“If
you’re
gonna do it, how hard can it be?” Bernice challenged.
Heads bobbing. Murmurs of assent.
“Who cares about the kayaking,” Dick Teig enthused. “We’re here…for this!” He waved a sheet of white paper high over his head. “Right, gang?”
Eight other hands shot into the air, each one waving a sheet of white paper.
I looked from Alice, to Osmond, to Lucille. Uh-oh. Please tell me they weren’t holding what I thought they were holding.
“I got extra maps on me,” Bernice said, reaching into her tote bag. “You wanna buy one? They’re sellin’ like hotcakes. Five bucks apiece.”
I stared at the stack of paper she yanked out of her tote. Treasure maps.
Oh, God. She’d sold them to the whole freaking bus!
“It’s all my fault,” Tilly anguished minutes later.
An armada of red and yellow kayaks was already splish-splashing upriver toward the first significant bend, but I was still hanging out by the bus, consoling Tilly. “Try not to dwell on it,” I urged. “I have a visor back in the cabin that you can borrow. It won’t match any of your skirts, but let’s face it. The other one’s a goner.”
“That’s kind of you, Emily. If only I could repair the damage I’ve done with the treasure map so easily.” She hung her head woefully. “In my excitement yesterday, I walked away from the photocopier with new copies of Marion’s map, handed her one for the scavenger hunt entry, and forgot to remove the original from the machine.”
“And wouldn’t you know,” Nana continued, “the next person into the copy center is Bernice, who finds the map in the photocopier and decides she can make a financial killin’ by sellin’ it off as a treasure map. She’s already took in over a hundred dollars.” Nana gave her teeth a loud suck. “I never woulda guessed it, but Bernice has a real gift for commercial sales.”
Tilly heaved a dejected sigh. “This is so unlike me. The errors in judgment. The forgetfulness. The signs are all there, ladies. Senile plaques. Neuro-fibrillary tangles. Subcortical dysfunction. My brain has neuropathologic disorder written all over it. If I were living among the Polar Eskimos, they’d stick me out on the ice as bear bait.”
“No one’s going to stick you anywhere,” I said, giving her arm a reassuring pat.
“Crossword puzzles,” Nana declared. “One a day is s’posed to keep your brain from turnin’ to mush. Kinda like takin’ a multivitamin.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Tilly’s brain,” I defended. “Stuff like this happens to everyone. It’s just that Bernice’s little entrepreneurial scheme has mucked things up for us.” I scrubbed my face with my palms and groaned. “Professor Smoker’s killer is supposed to be the only person other than the three of us who has a copy of the treasure map, right? But Nils and company have one. The Brits who were sitting behind me have one. I suspect every passenger on the bus has one. How are we supposed to single out the real killer if
everyone
has a copy of the map?”
A pause. Lip chewing. Cogitating.
“I have it!” Tilly’s eyes lit with sudden inspiration. “What if we —”
A torrent of violent splashing caused us to glance toward the river. Twenty feet from shore, Dick Teig and Dick Stolee were engaged in a major water skirmish, armed only with their paddles, their wives, and their waterproof disposable cameras.
“Get a picture of this, Helen!” KER-SPLAT! Dick Teig slammed his paddle onto the water, drenching Dick and Grace Stolee in a fountain of spray. “Bullseye!” he crowed, mugging for the camera.
“Start focusing, Grace!” ordered Dick Stolee as he paddled hard to starboard. “Ram-ming speed!” he yelled, aiming his prow at the Teigs’ kayak.
“What do you s’pose they’re doin’?” Nana asked curiously.
“Reenacting the War of 1812,” said Tilly.
“The whole war?” Nana shook her
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