Miceli scribbled something furiously onto his pad.

"What are you writing?"

"I'm reminding myself to invite you to dinner while you're here. I happen to be enchanted by women from your Midwest. I find your accents quite charming."

Men usually asked me out because they said I was friendly, or had a great smile, or a good personality. My brother told me that was a guy's way of saying he liked my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and was hoping I'd take my blouse off. No one had ever asked me out because he liked the way I p.r.o.nounced my vowels. I didn't know whether to be flattered or disappointed. "You're not married, are you?"

"Widowed."

"Gay?"

"Straight."

I thought about my ex-husband. "Do you dress in ladies' lingerie?"

"That would be my cousin, Jean-Claude. But you've no cause to worry. He's adopted."

"I'm in room thirty-three-ten."

He smiled one of those bedroom smiles that caused every organ below my neck to tingle. My Golden Swiss holiday was definitely looking up.

"If you would be so kind, Miss Andrew, I have only a few more questions."

In response to his queries, I told him about Andy's red, watery eyes the day before, the mix-up in our room a.s.signments, and his minor asthma attack at dinner.

"His asthma undoubtedly worsened as the night progressed," Miceli commented. "We found his inhaler on the floor beside him."

I told him about Andy's request for Shirley Angowski's E-mail address and the disturbing noises I'd heard in his room during the wee hours of the morning.

"What time did you hear the noises?"

"My watch was drying out, so I don't know what time it was."

"You must have touched the diverter on the shower. Can you describe the noises for me?"

"They were like World Wrestling Alliance noises. Thumps. Grunts. Groans. Maybe a flying dropkick."

"Could you tell if he was alone?"

"It sounded more like a tag team."

"So he might have been entertaining a paramour and they woke you with their spirited...lovemaking." He paused. "Given Mr. Simon's s.e.xual appet.i.tes, would you be surprised if he'd arranged a.s.signations with two different women on the same night?"

"Not at all. But if Shirley Angowski was a.s.signation number two, who was a.s.signation number one?"

"Something to ponder, Ms. Andrew. Perhaps he was having a secret liaison with someone else on your tour."

This last thought stuck with me as I located Nana in the dining room. Had Andy been boffing women other than aspiring actresses? Women with husbands, and grandchildren, and varicose veins? I sat down opposite Nana and eyed her speculatively.

"Is Andy Simon the kind of man you'd want to have an affair with, Nana?"

"He's dead, dear. I never have s.e.x with dead men, though after your grampa started havin' those erectile dysfunction problems, I had a pretty good idea what it would be like."

I shook my head in bewilderment. "Why would any self-respecting female want to have an affair with that self-centered, self-important, undersized gnome?"

Nana shielded her mouth and spoke in a stage whisper. "He wasn't so undersized, down there, down there, if you catch my drift." if you catch my drift."

My heart stopped beating. How could she know that? Oh, no! Not my own grandmother! "You didn't! You couldn't! I can't listen to this."

"Margi Swanson accidentally walked in on him when he was doin' his business into a cup at the clinic--Margi works part-time for Andy's doctor--and she told me at the Legion a Mary meetin' that his hoho reminded her of a big old eel she'd seen washed up on a beach on the coast a Maine. Can you hear me with your hands over your ears like that, Emily?"

Fortunately, I'd left enough s.p.a.ce between my fingers to catch the important words. "Yuck," I said, thankful that Iowa is landlocked.

"Margi said he was pretty proud of that hoho a his. Called it his 'Pile Driver.'" She slipped into a moment of nostalgia. "We called your grampa's 'Mr. Handsome.' It had lots a personality. Before the prostate problem, he could even make it do tricks."

I'd named my husband's, too. "Rover." But after he'd started stepping out on me, the only trick it could perform with any regularity was the one where it rolled over and played dead.

"I don't mean to rush you, dear, but you better grab some breakfast before the food's all gone."

A diversion. I could use a diversion. Considering my tension level at the moment, food was a good choice, especially food at the breakfast buffet in a four-star hotel.

I started salivating as I squeezed around chairs enroute to the buffet table. I thought I'd start with hot b.u.t.tered toast and a sweet roll, then move on to scrambled eggs, pancakes with maple syrup, bacon, sausage, and smoked salmon if they had any. A twinge of conscience made me rethink my choices. Okay, maybe out of respect for the dead, I'd forgo the sausage. But only for one morning.

I grabbed a plate and lifted the cover of a huge silver serving tray. Empty. I lifted the cover of the next tray. Empty as well. I caught the eye of the waiter with the buns of steel. "Where are the bacon and eggs?"

"No no." He made a sweeping gesture toward the rest of the table.

"Are they all gone?"

"Gone? Yes, gone." And before I could ask another question, so was he.

I proceeded down the table. I pa.s.sed a bread basket that was empty save for a pair of tongs. A gla.s.s bowl that was half-full of Elmer's Glue. A bowl that was full of Elmer's Glue with raisins. A platter with one slice of cheese that was curling at the edges and two slices of luncheon meat with large chunks of lard embedded in them. A bowl with a single wedge of canned grapefruit floating in liquid. And three bowls that held the scant remains of what looked like dried cereal. I peered into each bowl and noted the choices. Cornflakes. Cornflakes. And cornflakes. We should have stayed in a five-star hotel. Their dried cereal selections probably included Cocoa Puffs.

I threw some food together and returned to the table with Nana. "What did you end up eating?" I asked her as I motioned the waiter for coffee.

"I had the plain glue. It wasn't bad actually. Tasted a little like Cream of Wheat without the wheat." She regarded my meal. "We'll have to come down earlier tomorrow, Emily. I don't see how you're gonna survive the mornin' on six cornflakes and a cup a coffee."

The waiter appeared at my shoulder, sloshed coffee into my cup, and rushed off again. I peeked into my cup. Correction. Six cornflakes and a half cup of coffee. I took a sip. A half cup of cold coffee. I refused to be upset, however. My antic.i.p.ated dinner date with Etienne Miceli made even cold coffee seem palatable.

"While you was with that nice policeman, Wally announced to the dinin' room that we're gonna have a group meetin' in the lobby after breakfast," Nana said. "He probably wants to tell us about Andy."

I wondered how the Windsor City group would react to the news of Andy's death. I was particularly curious to see if anyone would respond with more than casual sorrow. I was no detective, but if one of the ladies in the group burst into uncontrollable fits of weeping when she heard the news, she'd win my vote as the person most likely to be Andy's secret lover.

The lobby was buzzing with conversation when we arrived. Thinking I might be able to shed new light on the case within the next few minutes, I sat down on one of the velvet sofas, b.u.t.terflies in my stomach. Or maybe it was hunger pangs. Nana joined me after exchanging a few words with Bernice Zwerg.

"Poor Bernice says she didn't sleep a wink after two o'clock. She's still operatin' on Iowa time. You should see the bags under her eyes."

"I have concealer." I rummaged in my shoulder bag.

"Concealer won't cut it. She's gonna need a face-lift."

Wally hurried into the lobby, then stood for a moment with a stunned expression on his face. The room grew quiet. He looked very patriotic this morning, dressed in his khaki pants, navy blazer, and perfectly knotted red necktie. "You're all so prompt, I can hardly believe it. This doesn't usually happen until day four. Is everyone here?"

"Andy Simon's not here," yelled d.i.c.k Ra.s.smuson. "Maybe you oughta phone his room."

The expression on Wally's face became grim. "Mr. Simon is the reason I've called this meeting. I'm afraid I have some tragic news, people. Sometime last night Mr. Simon pa.s.sed away in his room. He's no longer with us."

A moment of shocked silence ensued before a terrible wailing sound filled the room. "Nooo!" cried d.i.c.k Ra.s.smuson. "Not Andy!"

My eyeb.a.l.l.s froze wide-open. d.i.c.k Ra.s.smuson and Andy? But d.i.c.k wasn't Andy's type. Not only wasn't he blond, he didn't have hair at all. And d.i.c.k didn't have an E-mail address. As far as I knew, he didn't even own a home computer.

"I bought him a frozen custard in the airport yesterday," d.i.c.k whined. "He never paid me back!"

Lucille elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up, but he continued to grumble. I breathed a sigh of relief. If anyone else had made that wailing sound, I'd accuse them of being the secret lover. But since d.i.c.k Ra.s.smuson was reputed to be Windsor City's biggest tightwad, I concluded he truly was more upset about the loss of his money than the loss of Andy. I erased the picture of d.i.c.k and Andy locked in a lovers' embrace. Whew. I wouldn't have wanted the job of explaining the term "bis.e.xual" to Lucille.

"Has anyone told Andy's wife yet?" Jane Hanson asked.

"I talked to Mr. Erickson, the Windsor City Bank president this morning, and since he's Mrs. Simon's brother, he said he thought it would be more appropriate if he broke the news in person."

"Is this going to affect our schedule?" Solvay Bakke called out. "We're supposed to meet the bus this morning at nine o'clock. It's eight-forty now. We're already running late."

All eyes in the room darted to their collective wrists. "I have eight-forty-two," said Bernice Zwerg. "I bet the bus has left without us."

Everyone in the lobby rose en ma.s.se and gathered up their belongings.

"People. People. The bus isn't going anywhere without us. Sit down. Please. Just for another minute."

d.i.c.k Stolee whipped out his stopwatch and clicked the crown with his thumb. d.i.c.k Stolee was blessed with the kind of all-American good looks that don't fade with age. He was athletically built, pink-cheeked and blue-eyed, with a mop of steel gray hair that never blew out of place. Could be he used a lot of hair spray, but for hold like that, I suspected spray starch. He was addicted to techno toys and gadgets and probably spent most of his monthly pension buying batteries to keep the things running.

His wife, Grace, sat primly beside him, her back straight as a steeple. She was d.i.c.k's height, trim but thick-waisted, wore her hair stylishly short and wavy, and had the best posture of anyone I'd ever known. I attributed that to the many years she'd spent teaching ballroom dancing at the Arthur Murray Dance Studio in Windsor City. She was a pretty woman, lithe, dignified, and could move as quickly and quietly as the wind. If she ever decided to compete in the Senior Olympics, she'd be a cinch to unseat Bernice in the dash.

Wally continued. "The authorities may need to interview some of you about Mr. Simon, so please be cooperative."

"What did he die of?" Helen Teig inquired.

Wally shrugged. "We won't know for a few days. They have to perform an autopsy. But chances are, it was probably from natural causes. Mr. Simon's death shouldn't affect our schedule, so you needn't worry that your holiday is going to be interrupted. Triangle Tours promised you nine days of breathless sights, and it's nine days of breathless sights you'll get."

"Your brochure also promised us temperatures in the seventies," groused Lars Bakke. "I been out this morning already. It's forty-five degrees, tops."

I turned my head in the direction of the huge picture windows that supposedly afforded a panoramic view of Lake Lucerne. Well, would you look at that. While I'd been scarfing down my six cornflakes, the sun had come up. Kinda. You couldn't actually see it for all the fog and drizzle, but it was definitely lighter out there.

"The temperature was was in the seventies," said Wally. "Last week. Today's weather is an unfortunate blip. It'll warm up tomorrow. You'll see." in the seventies," said Wally. "Last week. Today's weather is an unfortunate blip. It'll warm up tomorrow. You'll see."

d.i.c.k Stolee clicked his stopwatch, and yelled out, "Time." Everyone stood up.

"Sit DOWN," Wally snapped. He wrenched his necktie loose and unb.u.t.toned the top b.u.t.ton of his shirt. "I have one more item to discuss with you. It'll only take another minute."

d.i.c.k Stolee hit the reset b.u.t.ton.

"With Mr. Simon having departed the world, you don't have a bank-appointed escort anymore. When I spoke to Mr. Erickson this morning, he suggested that someone from your group might want to volunteer to take over Mr. Simon's duties."

"What kind of duties?" George Farkas ventured. George had lost a leg in World War II, but he'd been fitted with a prosthesis that seemed to work better than the original. He ran marathons in Windsor City, skied in Aspen, mountain climbed in Yosemite, and at Christmas, he'd unstrap the thing and let the grandkids crack nuts with it. It was pretty much an all-utility limb.

"The duties are pretty light," said Wally. "You'd have to keep track of the medical forms everyone filled out for the trip. Dispense any over-the-counter medications people might need if they get sick. Help people make phone calls back home if they can't figure out the phone system. Give a.s.sistance to anyone in the Windsor City group who's having a problem. Things like that."

I'd worked with the public before, so I knew what a can of worms this job could turn out to be for the misguided soul who volunteered. Phone calls at all hours of the night. Complaints about the food, the service, the weather. Whining about the locals not speaking English. Griping about not being able to figure out the conversion rate from Swiss francs to American dollars. The volunteer would be chugging antianxiety drugs by the fistful within twenty-four hours of accepting the position.

"Mr. Erickson authorized me to tell you that the volunteer will be reimbursed all expenses for the trip once he or she is back in Windsor City."

"I'll do it!" I stood up. "I volunteer!" Okay, so I was misguided, but I was practical. I'd lost my job. I needed the money. I had bills to pay.

"Emily's a good choice," agreed d.i.c.k Teig. "Chances are, she won't kick off before the end of the trip. All in favor say, 'Aye.'" A chorus of "Ayes" echoed through the room. "The ayes have it. Emily is our new escort."

"Time!" shouted d.i.c.k Stolee.

The entire room stood up and hurried in an orderly clump toward the side door, where the bus was scheduled to be waiting.

"Don't forget to leave your keys in the box at the front desk!" Wally reminded everyone.

I was too shocked by my impulsiveness to move immediately, but Nana elbowed George Farkas out of the way and set off in a footrace to get to the door first. From somewhere in the middle of the crowd, I could hear her yelling that she'd save me a seat on the bus.

Wally found me in my stupor and shook my hand. "Welcome aboard."

"Sure," I said. I'm not usually one to second-guess my own decisions, but I was having a weird feeling about this one. Did I know what I was doing? Could I handle the responsibility of thirty old people? Had anything in my lifetime prepared me for such a mammoth undertaking?

I'd played the Pied Piper of Hamlin in a grammar school play once. It was kind of the same thing, wasn't it?

"And by the way," Wally confided, "I hate to tell you this, but the police are going to cordon off the whole area around Andy's room on the third floor. You and your grandmother are going to have to pack up your things and change rooms."

Chapter 4.

"Change rooms? But we just finished unpacking!"

"The hotel says they'll have another room available for you around noon."

"My grandmother is happy where she is."

"We should be back from our tour of the city around twelve-thirty. That'll give you a half hour to get situated in your new digs before we head out to the Lion Monument for group pictures at one."

"No can do. She doesn't want to move. This room speaks to her."

Wally pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were warding off a migraine. "They don't pay me enough to do this job. All right, Miss Andrew, I'm not above bribery. What do I have to do to get you out of that room?"