Colleen closed her eyes for a minute; the ground seemed to be spinning beneath her feet, and she was afraid that she was going to pass out.
MacHowell! She remembered his face when they had parted, his words. Despite that, she had at least partially suspected him—and now he was dead.
Which left only one more suspect. Rudy Holfer. And she had been ready to run trustingly after his son.
“Colleen, are you all right?”
Bret’s arms were around her, holding her, warm and strong and supportive. She nodded. Bret. He was always there for her. And maybe she was wrong. Maybe she had been afraid to really love, to hold on with her whole heart. If she could just break past the wall, perhaps she could trust herself to believe the words he might say if she gave him the chance to say them.
“We’ve got to go,” he told her softly.
She nodded. Somewhere there might be time to work on their own lives. But not now. MacHowell was dead. She couldn’t believe it; she couldn’t accept it. It seemed like empty words.
* * *
It was late when they reached the outskirts of Salzburg, sometime after midnight. Colleen had been cramped in the back seat of the VW, brooding and wallowing in a certain amount of guilt. She just had a sense about Holfer, no matter how guilty he looked, and that had seemed to leave MacHowell as the villain. By the same token, General James MacHowell had been a nice man. She kept remembering his face and his words.
And now he, too, was dead. So much for her sixth sense. Holfer had to be pulling the strings.
“We’re here.”
Carly tapped her shoulder. She hadn’t even realized the car had stopped. Colleen straightened, stiff and weary. Carly helped her out of the car; Bret was already on his way up the steps to the Ch;afateau Moreau.
Colleen massaged her neck and stared up at the place; it looked like a miniature fairy-tale castle. The grounds were very green, but the air was cold and crisp. Wide stone steps led to the lobby, and through the plate-glass windows Colleen could see one of the lounges. There was a huge fire burning in a corner; skis were racked along a wall, and couples in sweaters and parkas were drinking steaming concoctions at the warm wooden tables ranged around the fire. Colleen could even hear their laughter.
“A ski lodge?” she murmured to Carly.
“We’re looking for a ski lift, remember?”
“Of course,” she murmured. She turned around and narrowed her eyes. Moonlight played on the mountains that flanked the ch;afateau. They were beautiful. It was summer, but they were capped with glistening snow.
Bret came back down the stairs with a uniformed bellboy behind him. “Emil will see to the luggage,” he told Colleen and Carly. “Sandy, Ben and Dwyer are here already. They’re waiting for us in a little room off the lounge.”
Colleen said hello to Emil, then followed Bret as he led the way back up the steps. They turned left before reaching the reception desk, and Colleen discovered that the lounge was down a hallway lined with banners and medieval arms. They passed through the laughing crowd by the fire and into a smaller room off to the side. There was a fireplace there, too, Colleen noticed gratefully. Sandy, Ben and a man who had to be Bill Dwyer were already sitting in front of it at a round wooden table, sipping steaming drinks.
Sandy saw them first. “Oh, you’re here!” She leaped to her feet and ran straight into Bret’s arms. “I’m so glad to see you, so very, very glad.”
Ben smiled a little weakly at Colleen and Carly. Bill Dwyer stepped forward and introduced himself quietly. “I’m sorry that we have to meet under such strained circumstances,” he told them. He was a little shorter than Bret, with a medium build, pleasant hazel eyes and light-brown hair. The all-around American, Colleen found herself thinking. He had the perfect voice and manner for his position; he was grave without being morose and appeared both assured and comfortable with his responsibilities. “I took care of things the best I could from here,” he went on. “I managed to locate a distant cousin in Yorkshire and arranged to have the body sent back for interment in the family vault.”
Carly said something appropriate. Colleen suddenly felt like crying. She wasn’t so sure that General MacHowell would have wanted to be shipped back to a family vault. He had made his home in Morocco for so long.
“Shall we sit?” Bill Dwyer asked. He gazed at Colleen thoughtfully. “Have you eaten? You look as if you could do with a warm drink. These things are marvelous. Ch;afateau specials. Coffee with blackberry schnapps and cream. Shall I order for you?”
Colleen gave him a grateful smile and sank down into a chair beside Ben. He looked so depressed that she gave his hand a squeeze. “What happened?” she asked as Carly sat down next to her.
Sandy was still hanging onto Bret’s shoulder, murmuring something in his ear.
Ben shook his head bleakly. “I don’t know. We wound up parted, but only for a minute. He wanted to see the view. Mr. Dwyer was with us. We thought we would be safe.”
“Yes, but—”
She broke off because a smiling waiter was coming in. Bill Dwyer spoke with him in fluent German, then explained in English that he had ordered food, too, because it had probably been hours since they had eaten. Conversation waned as the meal was set up at the table: cold salads with vegetables, steaming hot brown farmer’s bread and saut;aaeed veal. Their drinks had come, too, and Colleen discovered that she wanted the hot, spiked coffee more than the food. By the time everything was ready Sandy seemed much calmer. She was seated at Bret’s side, a mug in her hand, and when he pressured her gently, she started to talk about what had happened.
“I don’t know what to think. The scenery was beautiful, as you can imagine. The mountains were full of color. So many flowers… General MacHowell wanted to be out in the air; he said that he hadn’t felt so good in ages. We took the car up to a lookout point and…” She paused, shaking her head and breathing deeply, as if she were fighting tears. “Bill and I—” she shot the diplomat a shy glance “—were discussing the puzzle pieces. He knows this area, you see, so I was trying to tell him everything. We had wandered off a bit. Then, quite suddenly we realized that he was gone. We called. We looked everywhere….”
“He was at the bottom of the cliff,” Bill Dwyer said.
Bret stared pointedly at Ben. “Where were you?”
Ben started. “I was setting the emergency brake on the car! I’d never left it. You must ask Sandy or Mr. Dwyer. I had to move it after I had let them all out.”
“I was thinking…” Sandy began, forestalling any reply that Bret might have made. She swallowed nervously and looked up, and her voice seemed tight. “There wasn’t anyone else up there. No one but us. He seemed so very strange all day. Quiet, sad.”
Bill Dwyer cleared his throat. “What I believe Sandy is trying to say, Bret, is that she thinks the general might have done it on purpose.”
“Suicide!” Colleen said with a gasp.
Sandy looked at her with wide eyes and nodded slowly.
“I—I don’t believe it!” Colleen protested. “He was so eager to help us. He said that he hadn’t felt better in years.”
There was silence at the table; then Carly’s sigh could be heard plainly by them all. He placed his hand gently over hers where it lay on the table. “Colleen, who of us can really understand what went on in his heart and mind? He seemed to be a very fine man, but he had lived all those years with the guilt of having seen his men slaughtered before him.”
Sandy inhaled shakily. “Once he told me that—that I shouldn’t feel too bad for Rutger Miller. He said that Rutger was better out of it, where God could be the final judge and perhaps grant him the forgiveness he could not find on earth.”
Colleen lowered her head. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps she hadn’t really known the man at all. None of them could really have known him; they’d barely met him.
But something inside her was rebelling. He had been so willing to look for the answers with them, as if finding the truth—and Rutg
er’s murderer—might be a form of atonement.
“What do we do now?” Ben asked bleakly.
Colleen looked up, as curious as Ben to hear Bret’s answer.
He shrugged, leaned back and lit a cigarette and pushed his finished plate of food away. “We’re at the main center of the ski slopes. I guess we get a good night’s sleep and see if we can’t come up with something in the morning.”
“Ski slopes!” Sandy muttered. “There are ski slopes everywhere. N’Oubliez Pas and Earth Is the Mother! Where can that get us?” she demanded passionately.
Bret looked at Bill Dwyer. “You know the area, Bill. Have you got any ideas?”
Bill shook his head apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t. But we could make some discreet local inquiries. See if the words mean anything to anyone around here.”
Bret nodded, and Ben yawned. Colleen looked at him quickly. His dark, handsome features were sallow; there were deep, circular grooves beneath his eyes. “Ben,” she said softly, “you could go home, you know.”
He quickly sat up very straight. “No, no! I will see this to the end with you. I wish to be here. Please don’t send me back.”
“No one is going to send you back, son,” Carly assured him. “But I think we should send you to bed for the night. And I think I’ll go up myself. I do have an idea for tomorrow, though.”
They all looked at him. He smiled at their hopeful faces. “I think we should go skiing. Ask the people using the slopes if they know anything about a ‘not forgotten’ run. What do you say?”
Bret chuckled. “Carly, I’d say it’s the best damned idea I’ve heard in years. We’ll meet about ten?”
“Ten, in the breakfast room upstairs. Ben, go to bed.”
Ben rose and obediently followed Carly out. Colleen realized then that, no matter how badly she felt about James MacHowell, she could barely keep her eyes open. “I think I’m about ready for bed, too,” she said, looking across the table at Bret.
“I don’t think I can sleep. Not yet,” Sandy said.
“It is getting very late,” Bill Dwyer murmured apologetically, as if he should offer to stay up, but just didn’t think he could do so.
“Don’t worry, Sandy,” Bret told her, and his voice had a husky quality that seemed to rake along Colleen’s spine. “We won’t all desert you. I’ll stay down here for a while. These coffee things are good.” He gazed over at Colleen and smiled politely. “But you go up, Colleen. You look like you need the rest.”
Jealousy, Colleen decided, was really an ugly emotion. She should have been so grieved over the general that she was able to think of nothing else. And she was grieved. She hadn’t been able to help respecting his honesty and involvement, although he knew full well that one of his strange brotherhood had been brutally murdered.
But she was jealous, too. Lovely Sandy, gentle Sandy, clinging Sandy, feminine Sandy, wanted Bret.
And she was apparently getting him.
Colleen stood and managed a smile. “Well, I think I will go to bed. Good night, Sandy. Bret. Mr. Dwyer.”
“Bill,” Dwyer corrected her with a crooked smile, standing, too. “And I’ll walk you up to your room and make sure you’re locked in safe and sound.”
“How nice,” Colleen said sweetly. She couldn’t help but send Bret a quick glance to make sure he was aware that someone was concerned with her safety since he was determined to expend his protective efforts in another direction.
Bret didn’t even glance at her as he mumbled, “Good night.”
She felt like yelling at him, but she managed not to by warning herself that she was overtired and feeling bitchy.
Bill Dwyer whistled softly as he escorted her to the elevator. Colleen gazed at him curiously. “This is really nice of you, you know,” she told him. “I’m sure your duties don’t require you to go to such extremes to assist reporters.”
He laughed pleasantly. “Actually, my duties tend to be rather boring. U.S. relations with Austria are comfortable. I get a few lost tourists, a kid on dope now and then and that’s it. I’m awfully sorry about that nice old man, MacHowell, but other than that, it’s rather exciting to be involved with you all.”
The elevator arrived. While they took it to the second floor, where their rooms were, Bill entertained her with a story about the chalet. “The builder wanted it to be the next best thing to a real castle, and you’ll note that most of it is very atmospheric. But then he turned around and planned to turn the breakfast room into a disco at night, and, well, wait until you see it! Contemporary tacky is the best description I can give.”
Colleen was still smiling when she let herself into the room she was to share with Bret. She locked the door since Bret had his own key.
“See you at ten,” Dwyer called to her.
“At ten,” Colleen agreed.
She listened to his footsteps as they moved down the hall. Then she sighed as she looked around the room. It was pleasant, but nothing terribly special. Clean, neat, pleasant.
She was exhausted, but suddenly not sleepy. The puzzle pieces were spinning through her head, and she kept seeing James MacHowell’s face.
She also kept remembering that Bret was downstairs with Sandy, giving her his shoulder to lean on.
“What’s the matter with Bill Dwyer’s shoulder?” she muttered out loud.
She went ahead and took a long hot shower, then donned one of her more feminine nightgowns, trying to assure herself that she wasn’t competing with Sandy.
Bret still wasn’t back. She crawled into the double bed with its fresh sheets and feather comforter and tried to sleep. She couldn’t. Her eyes wouldn’t close. She just kept staring at the little wooden clock on the bedstead.
And staring…and staring. She watched the minute hand wind around and around. Her heart and mind became a miserable tumult. She wanted to tear him to ribbons, yet she knew full well that their divorce would be final in a matter of weeks.
Her eyes were still on the clock when the door opened. It was almost five o’clock. She closed her eyes before he could see that they were open.
She heard him shed his clothing, go into the bathroom, shower and brush his teeth.
Tears hovered like hot needles behind her eyes. Was he trying to wash away Sandy’s scent before coming to bed?
A moment later she heard the bed creak beside her and felt his hand touch her shoulder. His palm was warm, slightly calloused, his fingers long. She knew his touch so well.
With all her energy she steeled herself against it.
“Colleen?”
“Bret, leave me alone. I’m sleeping.”
“You’re not. I want to talk to you. I want to explain—”
“Damn it, Bret. There’s nothing to understand. You’re a free agent, free to do whatever you want. You don’t owe me an explanation, and I don’t want one. In less than a month our marriage will be all over. We’ll go our own ways. We’ll live our separate lives, Bret. I’m exhausted. Please leave me alone!”
He did. He rolled onto his back, but she knew that he was awake, staring up at the ceiling.
She pressed her face against her pillow, praying for sleep to come, more miserable than she had ever imagined it was possible for her to be. Sleep seemed to elude her as they lay together, stiff and rigid and more distant than they had ever been.
CHAPTER 12
She finally fell asleep, and when she awoke, she couldn’t figure out why she had done so. It was growing light beyond the drapes, yet it was quiet, and beneath the feather comforter it was warm and comfortable.
She turned. Bret was still sleeping, his back turned toward her, only the top of his head visible above the comforter.
She tried to close her eyes and go back to sleep, but she couldn’t. At last she rose, quietly showered, then dressed. She brushed her hair and dabbed on makeup, shaking her head at the face that returned her stare from the mirror. She had smudges beneath her eyes, and she looked pale. Certainly not a picture of energy or frag
ile beauty.
Brooding over her appearance wasn’t going to help her any, she decided. Coffee might improve her mental state.
Bret was still sleeping when she quietly let herself out of the bedroom. It was barely eight-fifteen. She could go up to the breakfast room, order coffee and try to sort through all the things in her mind before she was forced to see anyone else.
The breakfast room was on the third floor; as Bill had warned, it was a horror of naked neon lights and black veneer tables. As she stood in line waiting to be seated, she realized that Emil, their bellhop of the previous night, was acting as host. He smiled when he saw her.
“Guten Tag.” He grinned, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It is ugly, is it not? By the harsh light of day?”
She laughed. “I’m afraid I have to agree.”
He grimaced good-naturedly. “It is not so bad outside. Would you like to sit on the terrace? You can see the real castle from there.”
“Lovely,” Colleen said, thanking him. She followed him between the tables to an open glass doorway that led to the terrace. In contrast to the inside, the outside was beautiful and gracious. The tables were covered with white cloths. Flowers filled the balcony trellises. And on one of the distant snowcapped mountains there was, indeed, a real castle.
“Is it a real castle?” she asked Emil as he served her coffee.
“Ja.”
“Is it open to the public?”
“Nein. It belongs to an old man, if our local gossip is good. An old German man. No one ever sees him, though. There are high gates and many dogs. He is an eccentric. A recluse. But the castle—our schloss—makes a beautiful view, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, it does,” Colleen agreed.
“I must go back to the door. Would you like your waitress yet?”
“I think I’ll wait a bit to eat, if that’s all right. I don’t suppose I can tie up the table…?”
“Nein, nein! Sit as long as you like,” Emil told her, then left.
For a while Colleen just sipped her coffee and stared up at the schloss. It really was beautiful, high and yet embraced by the mountains. Clouds surrounded it, and even in summer it sat on a crystal blanket of snow.
Double Entendre Page 20
