Funny? At one time, maybe, but suddenly it wasn't so funny anymore.

"Watch your step, please. Step down into the boat." A blonde-haired deckhand greeted us as we crossed the plank onto the cruise boat. On a sunny day, I imagined people would be jockeying for seats on the exposed upper deck, but given the spitting rain and heavy mist today, everyone was filing down to the enclosed lower deck, where they could stay warm. Iowans might not be given credit for having the brashness of New Yorkers or the sophistication of Californians, but they sure know enough to get in out of the rain.

Dick Stolee was ahead of me with his camcorder glued to his eye. "Cruise boat on Lake Lucerne." He panned the length of the boat. "Life preservers strung along the upper deck. Long-handled fishnet lashed under the rail." He panned left. "Fog on Lake Lucerne." He continued turning in a circle, sucking in his breath when he zoomed in on my face. "Crazy woman who tried to kill me last night."

"I did not!" I protested. "I was only trying to help!"

"Stay away from me," he shouted back. "And that goes for your grandmother, too!" He lowered his camcorder so he could glare at me with both eyes. That's when I saw his nose.

EHHH! It didn't look like a zucchini. It looked like a malignant lump growing in the middle of his face. If the antigun lobby ever saw what I'd done to Dick's nose, they'd probably start a drive to ban room freshener instead of assault rifles. But I was looking at Dick a little differently this morning anyway. Yesterday, he'd been just another tour member. Today, he was a tour member who'd had a plausible reason to want to make Andy suffer. And he'd had words with Shirley on Mount Pilatus. Good God. Could either he or Grace be responsible for Shirley's death? Could they be the kind of people who took offense at the smallest slight? If Dick could knock Shirley off for a little tiff, I shuddered to think how he planned to deal with the person who may have permanently disfigured his nose.

"Hey, Stolee," Lars Bakke called out from behind me. "What happened to your nose? You forget to open a door or something?"

I shrank down into the crowd, trying to make myself invisible.

"Did you see how bloodshot his eyes are?" Solvay Bakke whispered to her husband. "I bet he's been tippling in his room at night. I've always suspected he had a drinking problem."

I didn't want to point out that Dick's red eyes might suggest some kind of ocular sensitivity to Alpine Meadows room freshener. He'd probably be okay with other room fresheners, especially ones that weren't sprayed directly into his eyes.

The real shame here was that if Dick had been trying to kill Grace, everyone would be congratulating me this morning for clobbering him in the hall last night. Instead, the hotel manager had confiscated my room spray, and Dick seemed about to slap a restraining order on me. Could anything else possibly go wrong?