Suzanne made good time. She’d left Paul Cutler’s office yesterday and immediately flew to New York, where she caught the Concorde leaving at 6:30 for Paris. Arriving a little after 10P .M. local time, an Air France shuttle to Munich placed her on the ground by 1A .M. She’d managed a little sleep at an airport hotel and then sped south in a rented Audi, following autobahn E533 straight to Oberammergau, then west on a snaking highway to the alpine lake called Förggensee, east of Füssen. The village of Kehlheim was a tumbled collection of frescoed houses capped by ornate, gabled roofs that nestled close to the lake’s east shore. A steepled church dominated the town center, a ramblingmarktplatz surrounding. Forested slopes cradled the far shores. A few white-winged sailboats flitted across the blue-gray water like butterflies in a breeze. She parked south of the church. Vendors filled the cobbled square, set up for what appeared to be a Saturday morning market.
