The engines revved and sputtered. Diesel fumes wafted through the air. Nana slid onto the seat beside me, with Bernice in tow.

"Have you seen Grace Stolee's hair this mornin'?" she asked under her breath. "Three booths back on the other side of the boat. Go ahead and take a peek."

I snuck an inconspicuous look over my shoulder. EHH! Her hair looked worse than d.i.c.k's nose. Her normally stylish coif resembled a field of windblown ragweed. "I didn't do it," I said in defense of myself. "I didn't get anywhere near Grace with my aerosol can."

"I know, dear. It's because of her curlin' iron. d.i.c.k tried to fend off that bat with it, but since bats are a protected species, there's laws against thwackin' 'em with hairstylin' equipment. d.i.c.k's lucky he didn't end up in jail. He got off with a warnin', but they still confiscated the curlin' iron 'cause he'd tried to use it in the commission of a crime. If you ask me, the real crime is Grace's hair. Lookit her. That's the worst case a bedhead I ever did see."

"You're our escort," Bernice piped up. "I think the responsibility falls on you to get Grace's curling iron back for her."

"I'll get right on it," I said without missing a beat. I'd had such good luck with luggage, I could hardly wait to see my results with small appliances. I regarded Bernice offhandedly, trying to recall a visual memory of her that was flirting with my subconscious. What was it? Unh.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" asked Bernice.

I shook myself out of my reverie. "Sorry." Had I gone over the top with my suspicions about Bernice? She was one of Nana's closest friends. Nana was a great judge of character who had better intuition than to hang out with a cold-blooded murderer, didn't she? Of course, she did. So why did I still have a niggling doubt in my mind?

I saw the lines being cast off from the pier, heard more chugging and sputtering from the engine, then we were angling out of our berth and heading into open water. "Lake Lucerne is the fourth largest lake in Svitzerland," our guide said over the microphone. "It is tventy-four miles long, and at its broadest point, is two miles vide."

I peered out at the fog, thinking this would be a good time for it to lift. Nana and Bernice excused themselves to buy coffee at the snack bar, and Wally excused himself to make the rounds. "Chitchat is part of the job," he said. "A good tour guide is attentive to every member of the group. Besides, if you ignore someone, they'll probably give you a lousy evaluation."

"Evaluation? Guides get evaluated?"

"Yeah. At the end of the tour I'll hand out a sheet that all the guests are supposed to fill out. It asks questions like: Was I courteous? Was I informative?"

"Are escorts evaluated, too?" It would be just my luck. I could imagine what Bernice would write about me when I dumped her cuckoos back in her lap, or the Stolees after the incident last night. If the evaluations were too bad, maybe the bank wouldn't even reimburse me for the trip. Then what would I do? How would I pay back all those credit card bills that would be landing in my mailbox?

"I don't know if bank escorts are subjected to the evaluation process, but I can find out for you."

I nodded my thanks and as we nosed farther away from the sh.o.r.eline, felt myself slip into a semivegetative state. I'd wondered what else could go wrong, but hadn't expected the answer to come so quickly. It looked like I was going to have to redeem myself, and fast, but the problem was, how?

"Out the vindow to your right is the snowcapped, seven-thousand-foot mountain named Mount Pilatus," the guide announced.

Heads turned to the right. Cameras clicked. Film whirred. It didn't seem to matter that we couldn't actually see see the mountain. People obviously wanted to capture the the mountain. People obviously wanted to capture the moment moment rather than the mountain. I could hardly wait for the picture exchange. rather than the mountain. I could hardly wait for the picture exchange.

"Some kilometers in the distance to your left is Mount Rigi," the guide continued.

Heads to the left. Cameras clicking. Film whirring. I rolled my eyes. I wondered who was going to be the first person to realize we could only see twenty feet in front of us.

"If you had been here last last veek, you might have been able to see Mount Rigi," joked the guide. "Last veek there vas no fog." veek, you might have been able to see Mount Rigi," joked the guide. "Last veek there vas no fog."

Laughter. Giggling. Sounds of mirth. I was delighted the group was so happy to be taking a scenic cruise on a lake where they could see nothing. Who knew? Maybe I'd reach a point in my life where I could be happy about paying big bucks to see nothing, too. But I figured I had a long wait.

When the guide began to talk about the four cantons surrounding the lake, I put my brain into neutral and nested into a comfy corner of my booth, relieved at how much better my tooth felt. The Motrin really worked. I'd have to do something nice to repay Jane for her kindness. Hmm. Maybe a fashion consultation.

After a while, the sound of the guide's voice blended into the sound of the engine in a hypnotic serenade that started to put me to sleep. But I was cooking inside my raincoat and from what I could see, the fog was growing worse. Boy, we were really getting socked in.

I squinted out the window, then on a whim, rubbed my hand across the gla.s.s, making a surprising clear spot. My imagined fog wasn't fog at all. It was condensation. There were so many people on the lower deck, and the ventilation was so poor, we were fogging up all the windows. Lovely. Now we couldn't see inside or or out. out.

The stuffiness was so oppressive, I felt as if I was starting to smother. I needed fresh air. With the door to the companionway directly ahead of me, I slipped out of my booth and escaped to the upper deck.

Okay, so it was a little drizzly. A little misty. The air felt good on my face, and it was really quiet in the fog. Even the engine seemed m.u.f.fled. And I was all alone up here. Almost. George Farkas was sitting on a bench that faced the prow. I guess he couldn't handle the stuffiness either.

"How are you doing today, George?" I called out as I headed in his direction.

He looked over his shoulder and gave me a finger wave. "I've been better," he said. "This cussed dampness is making my stump ache something fierce. Thought I'd come up here out of the crowd and unstrap my prosthesis for a spell. Didn't want to do it downstairs. Makes some people uncomfortable when you take your leg off in front of them." He'd set his prosthesis on the deck in front of him and was ma.s.saging his stump with both hands.

"Do you have anything you can take for the pain?" I asked.

"Pills are for sissies. Besides, this isn't so much a pain as it is a nuisance."

I guess I wouldn't tell him how many milligrams of painkiller I was taking for a simple toothache. "Well, I'm going to wander the deck for a while, George, but if there's anything I can do for you, you let me know."

"I sure will. That's nice of you to offer, Emily. Thanks."

I walked over to the starboard rail feeling much better about myself as an escort. Maybe I wasn't a total washout. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

Without the condensation hampering my view, I could see the vague contours of the sh.o.r.eline and some private piers jutting into the water. I could only imagine how lovely the scenery would be on a day with blue sky and the sun reflecting off the water. I decided I'd have to visit Switzerland again one day. In the summer.

Somewhere in the fog I heard the m.u.f.fled sound of another engine, and I turned to see a smaller cruise boat emerging from the mist on a parallel course to ours, heading in the opposite direction. Hard to believe there were two two boats conducting scenic cruises on the lake today. I wondered what the volume of traffic was like on days when you could actually see something. Must be like rush hour in Chicago. boats conducting scenic cruises on the lake today. I wondered what the volume of traffic was like on days when you could actually see something. Must be like rush hour in Chicago.

I waved at the other boat, but since no one was standing outside, no one waved back. Someone might have waved from belowdecks, but their windows were as fogged up with condensation as ours, so I didn't see them either. The two boats blew their horns at each other in what I figured was a gesture of greeting, then the other boat disappeared into the mist once again.

Well, that was exciting. I turned back to the rail, and after a few seconds, felt the deck tilt beneath my feet as we quartered into the other boat's wake.

BOOM. The first wave hit our prow. BOOM. We dipped into a trough and smacked into the second wave. BOOM. The deck pitched left and right. I clung to the rail for balance and hoped that everyone had remembered to take their Dramamine.

"s.h.i.t!".

I spun around. George Farkas had hopped one-legged to the rail and was flailing his arms wildly toward the water. "My leg," he screamed. "It slid overboard!"

I rushed to his side and looked down into the lake. There was George's leg, bobbing just below the surface like a little nuclear submarine. "At least it's floating. We'll have to turn the boat around and pick it up."

"There's no time!" He ripped off his jacket. "I have to jump in after it!"

"WHAT?".

"That shoe is steel-toed. It's gonna drag my leg down like a sinker."

"Are you CRAZY? I bet you can't even swim!" What was wrong wrong with these guys? Did they all have death wishes? with these guys? Did they all have death wishes?

"Don't try to stop me, Emily. That leg is irreplaceable. It's made from the same material as the shields on the s.p.a.ce shuttle. It's bulletproof. It's termite resistant. It can withstand heat up to 180 degrees Fahrenheit."

But the important question was, "Is it waterproof?"

"It cost twenty thousand dollars. Medicare doesn't cover it! I've gotta save it!" He thump-hopped to the nearest bench to remove his other steel-toed shoe. I shot a look into the water. He was right. His leg was starting to sink. Nuts.

I scanned the upper deck. Not a harpoon in sight. Probably not too many whale sightings on Lake Lucerne. Portable tables. A fire extinguisher. Trash cans. Ashtrays. Life preservers. I pondered the doughnut-shaped preservers strung along the rail. These were great for saving people, but they might not work so well on an artificial limb, especially if the limb wasn't attached to anything.

I peeked down into the water again. I caught a glint of metal in the tail of my eye and redirected my gaze to the rail, where I found a pole. An aluminum pole. It was as long as the device used by pool cleaners and secured by straps to the outside panels of the rail. At one end hung a mesh fishnet that was as deep as a giant's sock. Fishnet? Fishnet? Eureka! Eureka!

I leaned over the rail and wrestled with the straps.

"Outta the way, Emily," George yelled as he threw his shoe aside.

I released the pole, zeroed in on the leg, and plunged the net into the water. George thump-hopped to the rail beside me.

"What are you doing? You're gonna hurt it!"

I maneuvered the pole to the left. To the right. "My grampa used to take me fishing with him up in Minnesota when I was little. Gull Lake. I wasn't thrilled about sticking the bait on the hook, but I loved using the fishnet." Bracing myself against the rail, I scooped the leg out of the water. "I got pretty good at it, too."

"You did it! You did it!"

And best of all, I'd stayed dry.

"I'm gonna give you a really good evaluation, Emily. All fives. All outstandings."

"How do you know you'll be asked to evaluate me?"

"Because I'm the one who's supposed to pa.s.s out the forms."

Using the hand-over-hand method, I raised the net higher and higher out of the water.

"Careful," coached George. "Oh c.r.a.p!"

"What?"

"There's a hole in the bottom of the net. Look. The toe of my shoe is poking through. I think the whole thing's ripping!"

"There should be a net on the other side of the boat."

THUMP-HOP. THUMP-HOP. THUMP-HOP. "I found it."

"Bring it here. We'll double net." I hand-over-handed faster. And faster.

"I can't work the straps loose! Hold on. Maybe if I lean over--"

With a final grunt of exertion, I swung the net over the rail, muscling the leg onto the deck like a Pacific tuna. "Forget it, George! We snagged it!"

I heard a loud plunking sound nearby. I looked cross-deck. "George?"

No George. Where'd he go?

Unh-oh.

I ran to the rail and looked down. George's little bald head was submerged beneath the surface. Arms flailing. Body thrashing. With a burst of strength he rocketed himself upward to yell, "I can't swim!" then disappeared beneath the waters of Lake Lucerne.

Of course he couldn't swim.

As I hurdled the rail, I heard footsteps behind me and a man shout, "Don't jump! Maybe vee can talk about it!"

SPLAAAAT!.

Chapter 10.

S quish. Squish. Squish. quish. Squish. Squish.

George was transported by ambulance to a local hospital after his near drowning. "For observation," the medics said. The tour bus had dropped everyone else off downtown to shop, but I had walked back to the hotel and could feel my socks squishing inside my shoes as I approached the front desk. "I'd like the key to room 2248, please."

The clerk looked at me with the same horror Vera Miles had shown in Psycho Psycho when the chair spun around to reveal the decayed remains of Norman Bates's mother. In my head, I could hear the frenetic sound of Bernard Hermann's screeching violins. But unlike Vera Miles, the desk clerk didn't scream. She merely slanted one of her perfectly penciled eyebrows into a disapproving arch and stared. when the chair spun around to reveal the decayed remains of Norman Bates's mother. In my head, I could hear the frenetic sound of Bernard Hermann's screeching violins. But unlike Vera Miles, the desk clerk didn't scream. She merely slanted one of her perfectly penciled eyebrows into a disapproving arch and stared.

Water trickled from the hem of my slacks and puddled onto the floor. Water beaded the ends of my hair and dripped into my eyes. I swiped at my face with my hand. "I took a dip in the lake."

"At this time of year?"

"Very bracing. You should try it. Have you found my suitcase yet?"

"Ah. The guest with the missing suitcase. Ms. Andrew, isn't it? Unfortunately, we're still unable to locate it. But you did give us until five o'clock to produce it, and right now it's only two. We still have three hours."

I knew I'd be sorry I'd given them that five o'clock deadline. "No suitcase." No surprise. "How long before you list it as stolen and report the theft to the police?"

"It's not stolen, Madame. There is no crime in Switzerland."

Of course there wasn't. That's why people were dropping like flies around here. "Do you at least have a key for me?"

She turned around and plucked a key from one of the cubbyholes behind her. "We were told you needed to be moved off the second floor, so we took the liberty of moving your belongings to room number 5111. I hope you don't mind."

Room 5111. If I was any farther away from the second floor, I'd be in another country.

"And please accept our regrets about this ongoing dilemma with your luggage. The staff feels so bad about your plight, we took up a collection for you." She handed me a white envelope.

They were spoiling everything. How could I be angry with them if they decided to be nice to me? I peeked inside the envelope.

"It's not much," the clerk apologized. "But it's out of our own pockets."

I poked my finger at the lone banknote and collection of coins inside. "This is very kind of you. I don't know what to say." I tried to decipher the numbers on the coins.

"It's twenty-two Swiss francs. In American dollars that would be thirteen dollars and fifty-four cents." She graced me with a genuinely sympathetic look. "Perhaps you could use it to help defray the cost of surgery on your nose."

I fingered the bridge of my nose to find it swollen like a walnut. Great. I could hardly wait to see what color it was. But $13.54 might almost be enough to buy my nephew a new Swatch cow watch to replace the one I ruined when I rescued George. And I swore, that would be my last last purchase of a timepiece in Switzerland. I wasn't going to strap on another wrist.w.a.tch until I reached the landlocked bliss of Iowa once again. I could be dense at times, but I knew when to throw in the towel. purchase of a timepiece in Switzerland. I wasn't going to strap on another wrist.w.a.tch until I reached the landlocked bliss of Iowa once again. I could be dense at times, but I knew when to throw in the towel.

Room 5111 was in another wing of the hotel, down a labyrinth of long corridors and angled into a maze of shorter ones. I opened the door, ready to switch on the overhead, but there was no need. The drapes were pulled back from a bank of French doors, allowing daylight to fill the room. I stood with my mouth hanging open for a full minute.

Nana's suitcase lay on a luggage rack at the foot of a canopy bed that was as big as a football field. Bernice's cuckoos and everyone else's sacks formed a tidy mound in the far corner of the room, on a carpet that was thick as attic insulation. The boudoir chairs were covered in peach taffeta and arranged in conversational groupings around the room. The fireplace was carved from marble with a gargantuan rococo mirror hanging over the mantel. There were two armoires, an antique desk, a crystal chandelier, and beyond the French doors, I could see the intricate wrought iron railing of the balcony. If the fog lifted, I might even be able to see across the street.