* * *

"Mark Twain called Lucerne's Lion Monument, 'the saddest and most poignant piece of rock in the world.'" Wally directed our attention to the mammoth dying lion that was carved in deep relief in the sandstone cliff before us. "The lion is twenty-seven feet long and is protecting a French fleur-de-lis. The monument was dedicated in 1821 and honors the Swiss Guards who died in Paris in 1792 trying to protect the life of Marie Antoinette."

The lion's massive paw hung over a shallow reflecting pool at the base of the cliff. I dug a penny out of my change purse and tossed it into the water.

"Did you make a wish?" asked Nana.

"Yup."

"What'd you wish for?"

I visored my hand over my eyes to shield the rain from my face. "Sun."

"Okay, people!" Wally called out. "This is your Kodak moment. Short people in front. Tall people in back. No umbrellas and no hoods."

"Did you notice it's raining?" Dick Rassmuson griped.

"You'll only get wet for a few seconds," said Wally.

"The photo's not gonna come out in the rain," Dick persisted.

Wally sighed. "We can digitally remove the rain."

I slatted my eyes and looked skyward. Too bad they couldn't digitally remove the fog.

The Rhode Islanders all clustered on one side and the Iowans on the other, as if the Great Wall of China stood between them. I stood between Nana and Lucille Rassmuson in the front row of the Iowa side, waiting for the photographer to snap his photo. "So who do you think killed Andy?" Lucille whispered to me.

I pivoted my head around so fast, I heard my spine creak. "What?" How did she find out? No one was supposed to know.

"The police'll probably accuse one of us," Dick Rassmuson said from behind me. "When a fella dies, they always point the finger at his friends."

"Sometimes they blame the butler," offered Jane Hanson, who was sandwiched between Dick Rassmuson and Grace Stolee. "The butler does it in a lot of English mystery novels. Unfortunately, our store doesn't carry English mysteries anymore, but we still have a good selection of romance and male adventure novels."

"Andy didn't have a butler," came George Farkas's voice from somewhere to my right. "He had a housekeeper."

"And he sure as hell didn't have no friends," said Dick Teig. "He ran too hot and cold to have friends. He'd be all palsy-walsy with you one minute, and ignore you the next."

"All that theater business of his was the blame," Bernice said with authority. She'd obviously freshened the batteries in her hearing aid. "Community theater is just like Hollywood. You get real close to folks for a few weeks of rehearsal, then the production ends, and everyone goes his separate way. He didn't bond with anyone. All his friendships had to be disposable. Use 'em and lose 'em. Isn't that right, Helen?"

All eyes riveted on Helen Teig, who remained motionless for a beat before turning her head slowly to regard us. Helen had apparently remained in the rain too long because her right eyebrow had disappeared, leaving her with a grease pencil arch over only one eye. Not a good look for her.