Winter Passing

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  Brant stretched in front of the window. His shoulders felt tight though it was still morning. Sleep came hard for him these days. He looked toward Hohensalzburg, resting confidently above the city in a mass of gray clouds. The fortress had spent seven hundred years staring from the mountain. It reminded him that some things endured long past today. Such success gave him a slight hope for his own work.

  “Herr Collins?” a voice crackled from the small speaker on his desk.

  Brant turned in his leather chair toward his desk. “Yes, Frau Haider.”

  “You have a call from a woman named Darby Evans. And she speaks only English.”

  “What company does she work for?”

  “No company—she says it’s a personal matter.”

  “A personal matter?” Brant was stumped. He didn’t know anyone by that name.

  “She said it concerns a woman named Celia Müller.” Brant paused. “I’ll take the call.” Frowning, he waited a second before picking up the line. “This is Brant Collins. What’s this about?”

  “My name is Darby Evans.”

  “I know that already.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m calling because I received the letter you sent my grandmother, Celia Müller—”

  “Celia Müller died over sixty years ago. I don’t know what you want, but like I wrote to whoever that was—”

  “What are you talking about? She didn’t die sixty years ago!”

  “Listen, I’m not playing games.”

  “Perhaps you could listen for a moment, Mr. Collins, without interrupting me.”

  “All right,” Brant said, clearing his throat.

  “Thank you. First of all, my grandmother never received the letter you wrote. I picked up the mail and never showed her because she was very ill at the time. But I have some things we need to discuss, and since I’m here in Salzburg—”

  “You’re in Salzburg?” Brant stood and turned again toward the window.

  “May I finish, or are you going to interrupt every time I open my mouth?”

  Brant didn’t respond.

  “I’d like to discuss this with you. In person.”

  His eyes felt drawn again to Hohensalzburg. The fortress had watched the comings and goings for hundreds of generations—protecting, eyeing, always knowing. Brant remembered that the woman who claimed to be Celia Müller was trying to locate information on the Lange family inheritance. Gunther had told Brant little about it, but he knew the inheritance was worth millions—if someone found and claimed it. If he met with Darby Evans, perhaps he could find out what the two women wanted.

  It was better to have an enemy below your gaze than out of view.

  “When would you like to meet?”

  Darby pushed back from the small desk in her hotel room. Their appointment set and her notes in order, she was ready to face Brant Collins.

  A gurgle rumbled through her stomach. At least one part of her was on schedule. Darby’s eyes were bloodshot and finally she was tired, but at nine o’clock in the morning. The day had just begun, and she was ready for food and a long night’s rest.

  After a quick shower that helped wake her up, Darby hooked the electrical converter and blow dryer to the bathroom outlet in the slight fear she’d fry the hotel fuses or blow herself up. She sighed with relief when the dryer hummed alive. As she dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with the black scarf and boots Maureen had sent her, she remembered the note from her sister: You’ll look like a beautiful European in these. Remember, no tennis shoes or sweat suits—that’s a dead giveaway you’re an American tourist. Dress nicely. Maureen and John had spent three weeks in France and Switzerland on their honeymoon. Her younger sister was the trendsetter of every new fashion so Darby listened to Maureen’s advice, except for the faded jeans she couldn’t live without. With hair semi-dry and makeup mostly on, she grabbed her purse and headed downstairs before breakfast was over.

  She followed her nose to a cozy sitting room with a dining area at one end. It looked tidy in soft burgundy and white with perfect table settings, as if she were the only person who’d come to eat, ever. The food was just like home—pancakes and bacon, muffins, and whole-grain breads.

  A woman entered wearing a neat Austrian dirndl. “Guten Morgen. Wie geht’s?”

  “Uh.”

  The woman waited.

  “English?”

  “Ah yes.” She smiled. “I say good morning. How are you?”

  “Oh. I am very good, and good morning to you.”

  She nodded. “Vould you like coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee would be very nice. Thank you, or danke.”

  The woman nodded graciously and left the room. Darby picked up one of several different-sized plates from her table. She was probably doing everything wrong but was too hungry to care. The woman returned to set a cup of coffee on the small table, arrange some food on the buffet, then left once again.

  Darby sat in the quiet of the white-plastered room and took a couple of bites of the whole-grain pancake. Then a thought struck her—my curling iron. Had she left it plugged in? She often did at home and would call her neighbor to check. In fact, the woman had her own key to Darby’s apartment, it happened so often. The hotel brochure said the building was over five hundred years old, and it would be just her luck to burn the entire thing down.

  Darby left her food, hoping it wouldn’t disappear into perfect cleanliness before she returned, and hurried up the stairs. She put her hand on the door to unlock it. Instead, it pushed open.

  Hadn’t she locked her door? Yes, she was sure of it. She peered inside, but no one was there. She was tired—perhaps she hadn’t locked it. Or perhaps the maid? Darby spotted her suitcase on the bed and knew something was wrong. She clearly remembered returning it to the wood cupboard.

  The squeak of wheels made her pivot toward the hallway. A maid came from another room.

  “Excuse me.”

  The woman looked up.

  “Have you or anyone else been in my room?”

  “Nein. Kein Englisch.”

  “You don’t speak English? No English?”

  “Nein.”

  Darby motioned to her room. “My door was open.” She pointed to the door and opened and closed it. “Was someone in here? A person?” She tried to think of any German words or something from her high school French classes that might help. “A woman or man?”

  “Ah. You Mann.”

  “My man? Oh, Mann means husband, right?”

  “Ja. Mann. Husband.” The woman grinned and nodded. “Ja, you husband.”

  Darby stared at the woman. “But I don’t have a husband.”

  The woman continued to grin. “You husband,” she said and made a movement like she opened the door for someone, obviously Darby’s husband.

  “No. I don’t have a husband. Me, no Mann.”

  The maid’s smile disappeared.

  “We need the manager. Your boss. Manager.” Darby pointed toward the stairs until the short woman hurried away. She touched her purse, to reassure herself that the packet of original documents was present, then stepped toward her room. A shiver raced down her back. Perhaps the man was still there.

  Brant checked his watch. He’d kept his eyes down the approaching street for over twenty minutes now. Every time a woman walking alone approached, he expected it to be her. He could see her hotel down the street. Brant had chosen this cafe in the Old City as the meeting place. She couldn’t get lost with only a block to walk. So why hadn’t she arrived?

  A woman stepped quickly along the narrow sidewalk toward the cafe. Brant stood up, but she didn’t hesitate as she continued past. That was it. He wouldn’t play these games. The woman had called him. His work at the office was piling higher every minute he sat here. Brant paid his bill, t
hen decided he’d drop by her hotel to see if there had been a mistake or if, perhaps, there was no Darby Evans.

  Brant pushed the lobby door open and headed to the front desk.

  “Darby Evans’s room, bitte.”

  The woman looked at him with a strange expression. “Are you the man who was here? Are you her husband?”

  “No, I’m not her husband.”

  The woman stared over his shoulder. “Please wait here a moment.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nein, nein. Just wait here, please.” The woman hurried around the desk and through the entry to the sitting room where Brant could see a group of people and one police officer standing together. The desk clerk approached and spoke to a dignified, older man from the group. Brant wondered what would call a police officer to the five-star hotel. A short, older woman was speaking to the officer in rapid German, but Brant was just out of range to understand exactly what was said. Another woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, stood with her arms crossed. Probably a maid caught snooping or stealing a patron’s jewelry. Then the younger woman spoke to the officer, and Brant caught a few words in English. He took a curious step forward. The young woman had long, dark hair and appeared, from his profile view of her, to be unhappy about something. She wore jeans and a shirt that was a bit rumpled in the back.

  Brant saw the desk clerk and the older man look his way. The man spoke to the policeman and the three of them walked toward him, leaving the young woman and maid behind.

  “Is there a problem?” Brant said as they approached.

  “You asked to see Fräulein Evans?”

  “Yes. That must be her.”

  The young woman, obviously Darby Evans, came up behind them.

  “It seems she’s had some trouble today.”

  “Could you please speak English? Is this the man?” Darby asked the officer.

  “I’m Brant Collins. You know, the guy you had an appointment with this morning.”

  She looked surprised. “I didn’t forget. Someone broke into my room.”

  “That is not exactly certain,” the man in the suit said quickly. Brant knew he must be the manager of the hotel.

  “I think it’s pretty certain. After I came down to breakfast, I returned to my room for a moment and found my door open. This woman said a man asked her to open the door—he’d lost his key. At least, that’s what I think. He told her he was my husband, or he acted like my husband. I’m still unsure what she said about that either.”

  The hotel manager motioned for the maid and pointed to Brant. “Is this the man who was in the room?” he asked in German.

  “What?” Brant said.

  “Nein, nein.”

  “Okay. You may go back to your work,” the manager said to the maid.

  “Danke, danke.”

  “Yes, danke,” Brant said and glared at Darby. “I get stood up for a business appointment and suddenly am a suspect in some woman’s break-in.”

  “I apologize but must check all options,” the manager said. “This does not happen at Salzburg Cozy Hotel.”

  “Well, it did,” Darby said. “And where is that woman going? You aren’t going to do anything?”

  “Fräulein.” The policeman spoke in slow, broken English. “Nothing missing from your room. We keep contact with you and hotel and see what happen.”

  Within a minute, the hotel manager said a quick apology and hurried to the front desk, where concerned patrons watched and questioned the desk clerk. The officer also left after giving Darby Evans a business card, an apology for her difficulties, and a promise to find out what had happened. She stared at the card after he left. A long strand of hair fell across her cheek. Darby pushed it behind her ear and looked up at Brant just as he wondered why he was still there.

  “This wasn’t exactly the meeting I had in mind,” Darby said. “I’m sorry for making you wait.”

  Brant didn’t like this either. He’d been prepared to find out what this woman wanted and who she really was. The woman in front of him was nothing like he had expected. Her soft brown eyes with the dark circles beneath them appeared tired from deep within. She bit the side of her thumbnail, then seemed to realize it and dropped her hands to her side. The woman took a breath and attempted a brave look, but she appeared near tears—God forbid that. How could he be shrewd and hard against her?

  Brant had to look away from her eyes. “Why don’t you call my office tomorrow and we’ll reschedule?”

  “Sure.”

  “Fine.” He began to walk away, then turned back. Her gaze hadn’t moved. Was she wondering what to do? Or was this all a ploy to get information from him? Brant hated that he was so suspicious, but lately it seemed he had to watch every strange occurrence. And Darby Evans was one of them. But the maid did say she had seen someone in the woman’s room. “So what are you going to do now?”

  She shook her head slightly. “I’m not sure.”

  “Perhaps you should go lie down or something.” He knew as soon as he spoke that his words sounded uncaring, even condescending—more so than he had intended.

  “Thanks. That should make everything better.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing. This has nothing to do with you. I apologize for missing our appointment. I’ll call your secretary tomorrow. I don’t need or expect anything else, is that what you want me to say?”

  “I just asked.”

  “Don’t you understand, Mr. Collins? Someone broke into my room whether you, the police, or that manager believe so or not. And what a charming pleasure it’s been meeting you. Everyone in this horrible country treats me like an idiot or a criminal. I know I closed my door. I’d know if I had a husband or boyfriend. I don’t have one friend or acquaintance for six thousand miles—and I know it’s that far because I checked my map last night! I keep asking myself what I’m doing here.”

  “That’s what I’m wondering.”

  Darby stared at him, anger burning in her eyes. The rims turned red as tears gathered.

  “Oh no. Don’t you dare cry.”

  She turned away. “Will you just leave? Forget I contacted you. I’ll find out what I’m looking for on my own.” He heard a sniffle.

  “You better not cry. I can’t have a discussion with you if—”

  “I am not crying.” He caught the strain in her voice. She was crying, though fighting hard not to. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

  “Listen. Just stop that. Why don’t we go get something to eat and talk? I’ll quit being a jerk, you can quit crying, and this will all work out fine.”

  “No thanks.”

  Just then the hotel manager stepped forward. “Fräulein Evans?”

  Darby quickly wiped away her tears. The man glanced at Brant with an accusing expression.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “I want to apologize. Our hotel has never experienced something like this before, and I promise you are safe here. I sincerely hope the person who entered your room did so mistakenly. We have many guests this week, so we are checking to see if we can find any additional information. We gave strict instructions to our housekeeping staff so this incident will not occur again. I sincerely hope you will continue your stay with us?”

  Darby seemed to consider for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I will for now. Thank you, Herr . . .” She looked on his bronze nameplate. “Herr Braucher.”

  “Danke,” the man said, relief spreading across his face. The onlookers were dispersing, and the manager was obviously happy to have his hotel back to working order.

  Darby still looked uncertain as to what to do. On impulse, Brant took her arm and said, “Come on, let’s get you out of here for a while. We’ll get coffee or . . . or something.”

  Nearly before
he realized it, they were walking out of the building.

  Chapter Ten

  Why had she agreed to come with Brant Collins? A stranger had entered her room and what had she done? Left the hotel with another stranger to go for coffee.

  They walked without speaking, though Darby’s thoughts wandered loudly through her mind. Had someone intentionally entered her room, or could it have been an accident like the hotel manager indicated? Nothing was missing. Her suitcase was open, but nothing had been moved. Darby had run straight for her camera case in the wardrobe, but not even a roll of film had been taken. Then she thought of the spare copies in the suitcase pocket—but they were there. The originals hadn’t left her side. Perhaps the man believed her room was his, then realized his mistake when he opened Darby’s suitcase and left.

  Yet despite her attempts to calm her thoughts with logic, she felt as unsettled as when she first felt the door open at her touch. The only person in Austria who knew she was here was Brant, and he had been at his office. Or had he? The maid had not recognized him. Was she now walking into a dangerous situation by leaving the hotel with him, or was this an opportunity to find some information for her grandmother’s quest? As long as they stayed among other people, Darby would continue with him. If he led her away, she’d run and cry one of the few German words she knew: Hilfe! meaning “help.”

  “Your first time in Salzburg?”

  Darby jumped at the sound of his voice. He was making small talk, she knew. And something in his voice betrayed that perhaps he was regretting his decision to invite her out of the hotel.

  “Yes.”

  “So how much are you paying to stay there?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, let me guess, about eighteen hundred Austrian schillings, or did you use euros?”

  “I figured it out to be about one hundred and fifty United States dollars.”

  “Yeah, that’s close to what I said. Figures.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Inexperienced travelers can be so gullible.”

  “I’m not gullible.” She didn’t mention the inexperienced part, but her unmistakable blush told all. “I paid exactly what it says in my travel brochure—they didn’t raise the prices for me.”