Art, Rashid, and Adriana sat silent, their eyes turned towards the hallway. Sounds of Ralph opening the apartment's door and greeting the new guest reached them. A man's voice, a rustle of clothes, then Ralph reappeared, beaming broadly. "Lady, gentlemen. Our special guest... your new neighbor."

Art recognized the man. The bronzed face, framed by cropped hair on its sides and crowned by longer waves of blond at the top—Jake, Mrs. Knooch's nephew.

"Hello, everyone. I'm Jake." With a few athletic steps, he crossed the room and came to a halt at the table.

Rashid was the first to react. He got up and shook hands with the newcomer. "Rashid."

"Happy to meet you, Rashid."

Art had left his chair as well and offered Jake his hand. "I'm Art."

His grip was firm.

"I've seen you before." The man's white teeth advertised his dentist's skills and chemicals. "You're my Aunt's neighbor." The teeth disappeared, he pursed his lips and lowered his eyes, just to raise them again. "You'll have to tell me about her."

"I didn't really know—"Art began, but Jake's eyes were already elsewhere.

"Hey, and yet another lovely neighbor." He beamed at Adriana.

"Adriana." She shook hands with him, smiling.

"It's a pleasure."

Is she blushing?

The light was dim and yellowish, so it was hard to tell.

Jake turned to reach out for the glass of wine that Ralph had poured for him. "So let me give a toast... wait, where's the lady of the house?"

"Mom?" Ralph's voice was a foghorn hailing for a long-lost companion.

"Coming!" Agatha's reply was that of a mermaid giving in to the foghorn's alluring call. Seconds later, she appeared in the door, wiping her hands on a towel. "Jake! Welcome!"

They shook hands and Jake raised his glass again. "Now that we are complete, let me give a toast."

Everyone raised their glasses.

Jake's face became serious, and, one by one, he looked at each person around the table. His eyes were the blue of a mountain lake fed by a glacier's tears, but deeper.

A color bordering on the ultraviolet.

The man nodded at his rapt audience. "We all have had some hard times... a grievous loss. And, as you know... death leaves a heartache no one can heal; but love leaves a memory, no one can steal. So, let us not linger in the past. Let us look forward to what is to come, to new friendship, and to new love." He drank. And drank. When he finished, his glass was empty. "Here's to good neighborship!"

Agatha set down her glass and clapped her hands, and everyone joined her.

Neighborship? A ship of neighbors.

What a lovely image, a house-shaped ship braving the oceans of life. Its stairs all clean.

But one of the mates was missing.

Monica.

The name sobered Art's mood, chasing off the warm feeling of wine that had muddled his thoughts.

"And now..." Jake ogled the oven on the table, "I was afraid to have kept you waiting, but I think I've arrived just in time."

Just in time must have been wishful thinking or a local adage whose meaning was lost on Art. It took at least another hour until the table was fully loaded with a huge wicker basket of boiled potatoes, more pickles, fresh peppers, peperoncini, cut garlic, white mushrooms, bacon, an array of spices, and heaps of cheese slices.

The one time Art had had a raclette, the process of melting the cheese had been carried out off-table, somewhere in the kitchen.

The paraphernalia of cheese glob preparation looked intimidating.

"So, how does this work?" he asked, turning over his palm-sized mini-pan.

"It's easy." Ralph took his own mini-pan and held it up like the flattened cousin of the Holy Grail. What followed was a lecture on the art and lore of raclette.

After a while, Art got the basics.

Choose cheese: there are about eight different types to choose from, cheddar definitely not featuring among them. Load: place cheese slice in personal mini-pan. Garnish: top slice with whatever on the table takes your fancy—advanced users also place stuff below the cheese. Start: insert pan into oven. Wait: while melting proceeds, spend time eating pickles, peeling and cutting a potato, sipping wine, and talking. Harvest: once finished, retrieve pan and pour contents over peeled and cut potato waiting on your plate. Season: spice results with ground pepper, sweet or hot paprika, herbs, and/or nutmeg. Repeat: before digging in, don't forget to reload pan and insert it into oven.

Art enjoyed the slow pace of the procedure, the creative freedom it offered, the wine, and the talking. And the food was fine, too.

"And how do you like Tavetia, Art?" Jake waved an empty pan at him.

The conversation had revolved around the wines of California, and its sudden new focus took Art by surprise. "Er... It's lovely. Everything's tidy, everyone's organized, and the trams are on time." General Tavetian preconceptions also included that the country was one of the safest in the world, but Art wasn't convinced of that.

"Argh, don't give us the stereotypes." Jake shook his head, the violent motion leaving the locks gelled to the top of his head unaffected. "Tell us the cruel truth."

Adriana, sitting at Jake's right side, laughed, a high-pitched sound telling a tale of too much wine.

"Well, to be honest..." Art hesitated, in part for effect but mainly because he wasn't sure how the assembled Tavetians would take criticism. He looked at Rashid for help, hoping for the resourceful taxi driver to provide some guidance.

But the man sat back and grinned at him. "You're on thin ice now, alone. And you know it."

The alcohol in Art's blood did not care and made him proceed. "Well... there's one thing that sucks."

Jake put set his pan, sat straight, and placed his hands on his hips. "Tell us."

Everyone's eyes were on Art.

"Don't be shy," Ralph added. He was sitting at Jake's left side and had to lean away from him to avoid an elbow. "We won't kill you."

About that...

Ralph's inebriated grin looked almost non-menacing. Agatha Meier cleared her throat.

Art took a breath. "It's... the weather that sucks."

An appliance in the kitchen gave a short beep.

"Ha!" Jake's face regained a faint smile. "You haven't been here for long, have you? You've just been unlucky, the weather's been bad lately. But it can be wonderful. Especially in the mountains."

"Yeah, it's so beautiful up there," Adriana added, her eyes on Jake.

"They have a point, you see." Rashid reached for his fork and used it to draw a horizontal line in the space above the table. "This is the usual fog we get here in the city. Everything below this line is gray and dreary." Then he painted an upside-down V with its tip above the fog line. "The mountains, though, are higher. They reach above the fog. I've been there, on days like these. It's like a different world."

"I've been up there today," Jake said. "That's why I was late for this dinner. It was spectacular. There was sunshine and lots of snow."

"Have you been skiing?" Agatha asked.

"Er... no, you see, I have a project, in Oberippenberg. My wife and I bought an old hotel last year. It's... being renovated now."

His wife? And he's moving into a single's apartment?

Art couldn't resist the prospect to find peership with the man. "You're married?"

"Er..." For a moment, Jake's smile made room for a thin line of lips pressed together. "I'm getting unmarried one of these days... That's why this apartment here comes in so handy."

Welcome to the club.

Art was tempted to offer words of consolation, something along the lines of another day, another love. But the boyish grin had re-established its hold on the man's face. It made it clear—in secret man-lingo not to be shared with the female half of the population—that no further comments were required.

"And your hotel... when will it open?" Adriana's question steered the conversation to safer waters. The discussion resumed with Jake's touristy project. The hotel was in need of substantial renovation work, and that work was proceeding slowly. Jake spent most weekends there while toiling in the city during weekdays as a computer salesman.

Alcohol and molten cheese had established their firm yet benevolent reign on Art's mind. He felt happily relaxed while listening to talk about the merits of alpine tourism, and the fascination of skiing, snowboarding, sleighing, ice skating, and snowshoeing. None of these activities were familiar to him.

Dessert was ice cream, hot raspberries, and whipped cream. Not the lightest of dishes, but 'light' was not an attribute of traditional Tavetian cuisine. And the blend of fragrant berries, half-molten vanilla ice, and rich cream was utterly delicious.

Later, they shared the cookies that Adriana had brought. And coffee, for those who dared. Art had asked for Rooibos tea, which had evoked a slightly drunk snicker from Adriana and a frown from Agatha. The Meiers' kitchen was oriented towards traditional fare, and he had got peppermint instead.

Jake lifted his glass again. "I'm so privileged to live under a roof with such fine people."

Art chewed on a deliciously crumbly, tender, vanilla-scented, moon-shaped kipfel.

"Listen, folks," Jake continued, "why don't we all go up to Oberippenberg to have a look at my Bijou and to spend some time in the snow and sun."

The Bijou was the man's hotel.

"What about Sunday, the day after tomorrow?"

Later, as Art shook hands with Jake and studied the man's wide smile, the thoughts fell into place.

A salesman, freshly divorced.

An expensive hotel renovation.

An aunt whose late husband may have made a fortune in Latin America.

A murder.

But the man had an alibi, they said.