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feet.
    Marco handed her off to me. “Take her away and get her some fresh air. I will stay here and try to help. And will you make certain someone has told the police?”
    That last order was unnecessary because, as he said it, three policemen in summer shirts with emblems on their sleeves appeared at the far end of the alley. I walked Lettie down the street listening to her halting description of the photographer’s bloody remains. I looked for familiar faces. Anyone I recognized from the ship. It seemed to me, if I found myself in a police interview later, they might want to know who else was in the vicinity.
    Luc Girard, the archaeologist, was at the bottom of the steep slope, walking toward us, and Sophie Antonakos was a few yards ahead of us, going down. She slipped on a cobble and a brush flipped out of her open purse as she twisted to right herself. Girard picked it up for her, but Sophie, stooping at the same time, cracked heads with him. He smiled sheepishly, handed her the brush, and rubbed his forehead as he passed us.
    Where our street opened out onto a plaza fronting the harbor, Brittany Benson sat on a block of stone, surrounded by several packages. Sophie ran up to her, twittering, “Oh, no! I ran into Dr. Girard. I really ran into him! I was so embarrassed.”
    Ollie rounded the corner of the next street over—logically the one that would intersect the alley we’d just left but who could tell in this rabbit warren—and headed toward the water. I called out to him. He turned, waved, and then ran toward us.
    “What’s wrong with Lettie?” he asked, gathering her into his arms.
    As I explained, Ollie held Lettie at arms’ length, studied her face, pulled her close, and kissed the top of her head. I noticed Ollie was toting another mesh bag of sponges, as large as the one Lettie had. Snuggled together with both bags, they looked more like a foursome. Ollie suggested we’d better head back to the ship right away.
    We had to pass the other end of the alley as we climbed back over the hill and as we did so I paused, standing on tiptoes to see over the heads of what was now a crowd. A police officer stood, feet wide apart, barring rubber-neckers from the alley. I heard Marco’s voice, somewhat damped by the alley walls, shouting, “Stay back!”

 
    Chapter Seven
     
    Back on the ship, I knocked on Kathryn Gaskill’s door but got no response. Thinking she might not be dressed or might not feel like opening the door, I retraced my steps three doors down, slipped into my own room, and dialed her number. No answer. Maybe she’s talking with the investigators, I thought. I didn’t even consider the possibility that there was good news. That they’d found George. Somehow the hallway around their door had taken on a sort of pall, which, it seemed, would neutralize laughter and suck it into the walls. Maybe she’s getting a bit of fresh air , I thought. I walked back to my room and checked the floor inside my door for a note slipped under. It occurred to me that I didn’t know Kathryn well enough to know if she was the note-leaving sort or not.
    I renewed my lipstick, brushed my hair, and scanned the deck plans in my brochure to locate the library. Luc Girard’s lecture was to be held there at five o’clock and it was already four-fifty. The library, according to the brochure, was on the starboard side of the Ares deck, one deck up, so I took the stairs. The library’s entrance was by way of an exterior door off the promenade. Through a round porthole window in the varnished teak door, I saw no lights inside, but there was a note taped to the brass porthole fittings: La conférence de Dr Girard sera tenue à 18h00, pas 17h00 .
    And below this: “Dr. Girard’s lecture will be at 6:00 p.m., not 5:00.”
    I ran into Ollie and Lettie on my way back to the stairs and they suggested a drink in the lounge on the Poseidon Deck. Up two more levels. It was a large, well-upholstered room with U-shaped sofas and