"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 masse and gathered up their belongings.

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

Dick Stolee whipped out his stopwatch and clicked the crown with his thumb. Dick 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 Dick'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 in the seventies," said Wally. "Last week. Today's weather is an unfortunate blip. It'll warm up tomorrow. You'll see."

Dick Stolee clicked his stopwatch, and yelled out, "Time." Everyone stood up.

"Sit DOWN," Wally snapped. He wrenched his necktie loose and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "I have one more item to discuss with you. It'll only take another minute."

Dick Stolee hit the reset button.