"Nana tinks she sawh Mistah Nunzeoh outside the Swish Expwess, but she wathn't real surh 'cause he had on twowzers."

"Ah, yes, Nunzio. The gentleman who tried to pick up Ms. Angowski in the hotel lounge on the night Mr. Simon died. She called yesterday to inform us she'd discovered his name."

"Maybe he kilt them both. Why did you let him goh?"

"Because there is no Mr. Nunzio, Emily. He's vanished. He was never registered at your hotel or any other hotel in the city. It's not a question of letting him go. We haven't found him yet to question him. If you say your grandmother saw him this morning, that means he's still in the area, and I'll recommend we broaden our search. But other circumstances have come to light that suggest Nunzio may be nothing more than a love-starved Italian."

"Wat?"

"I'll share that with you before you leave. Meantime, do you know of anyone other than Nunzio who might have reason to harm Ms. Angowski?"

I shook my head. Her encounter with Dick Stolee earlier in the day didn't seem significant enough to mention. And the Teigs and Rassmusons had been miffed at her for displacing the Stolees at the dinner table, but I'm sure that wouldn't have incited them to murder her. Shirley Angowski had been a kindhearted, cheerful, guileless woman who didn't deserve to end her holiday by falling off a cliff. I felt tears sting my eyes. I'd only known her for a couple of days, but I'd grown attached to her in an odd sort of way. "I'll mith hur," I slobbered as my emotions let loose. I'd probably never be able to buy another bottle of Revlon nail polish without envisioning poor Shirley Angowski at the bottom of the mountain. I might never be able to wear polish again.

Inspector Miceli knelt in front of me and dried my tears with a crisply starched and folded handkerchief. "Poor, Emily. This has been terribly traumatic for you. It's never easy discovering a dead body, and in the space of two days, you've discovered two. I do hope you've reached your limit."

I nodded, which prompted him to lift my hand to his mouth and place a soft, lingering kiss in the center of my palm. If this was the Swiss way of dealing with trauma, I liked their methodology. Electric warmth radiated through my body. I stopped breathing. The little hairs on my arm stood at attention all the way to my elbow. My heart pounded in my chest, in my throat, in my ears. He studied my face intently as he traced the curve of my jaw with a slow, seductive knuckle, then he stood up and leaned against the desk that was behind him.

"For the record," he said in a husky voice, "that didn't happen."

I grinned numbly and gulped a mouthful of air. My tooth didn't hurt quite so much anymore. Maybe the lack of oxygen helped.

"On a more serious note," he continued, "we'll be sending a team of climbers down the mountain within the hour to recover Ms. Angowski's body, which leaves us with the question of her camera bag. You say she was carrying it earlier in the day, but from what I can determine, it's not on the ledge with her. She might have left it on the ground when she climbed onto the sill, and after she fell, someone could have picked it up, either to steal or to deliver to lost and found. Or the perpetrator might have thrown it over the cliff after pushing her so as not to draw attention to it. There's a deeper ravine below the ledge. If the bag is there, it might be our best clue as to whether Ms. Angowski fell accidentally or was murdered.