"Oh, you mean, can you buy it over the counter or do you have to special order from someplace? I suppose if we can figure out who had easy access to it, we might nab our killer before he nails victim number three." I made a pointer of my finger and aimed it at Nana. "How about we fire up your laptop and do some surfing."

She yanked her computer out of her suitcase and set it on the desk. She sat down, flipped open the lid, powered up, then poised her fingers on the keyboard and began typing. I'd taken several computer courses in college, but my expertise in the field consisted of writing and retrieving E-mail and cursing really loud when AOL disconnected me. Nana had never attended college or taken a computer course, but she could hack her way into the files of any government agency with a few clicks of her mouse. Go figure.

After some humming and buzzing, the screen filled with text. Nana scanned the information and read aloud. "Dimethyl sulfate. Also known as sulfuric acid dimethyl ester. It's a highly toxic, colorless, odorless, oily liquid. Exposure can cause sore throat, runny nose, swellin' around the mouth and lips, tearin', pink eye, cyanosis, and death. After exposure, there may be a period of up to ten hours before symptoms manifest themselves. Dimethyl sulfate is used in the manufacture of dyes, drugs, perfumes, and pesticides."

"Dyes, drugs, perfumes, and pesticides?" I repeated. "Dick Rassmuson spent all those years running that pesticide business. Jane Hanson has access to all those drugs in the pharmacy. The Teigs were professional dry cleaners and dyers. And those are just the people at my table in the dining room! Dick Stolee used to work for that company that supplied chemicals to the perfume industry. If dimethyl sulfate is present in pesticides, every former grain farmer on the tour could have had easy access to it. Lars Bakke. George Farkas."

"I don't suppose they all had a hand in killin' Andy."

"The police seem to think one of them did." The question was, which one?

"Anything else you want me to check while I'm online?" Nana asked.

I looked at our room. I looked at the computer screen. I looked at Nana's nimble little fingers. A dormant synapse suddenly fired in the numbed gray matter of my brain. Duh? Why hadn't I thought of it before? If Nana could hack her way into a government agency, a Swiss hotel should be child's play. "Bring up the Grand Palais Hotel." I smiled. "There's more than one way to skin a cat."

Dinner that night consisted of roasted potatoes, peas, and a slab of meat that looked like chicken but had the consistency of squid. The places formerly occupied by Andy and Shirley Angowski were conspicuously vacant. The rest of us kept sneaking furtive looks at the empty chairs, and at each other.

"It's just like that story, Ten Little Indians," said Helen Teig. "Every time we eat dinner, someone else is missing. Someone else has been murdered. I wonder who'll be next? It happens in threes, you know."