Swiss Remains

Forty-eight hours ago, Duane Tungstien was snapping pictures of some scumbag husband meeting his girlfriend in a sleazy hotel outside Chicago. Now, he is trapped in a ski chalet 100 miles from Zurich in the middle of a freak March storm with a motley crew of guests and a trunk with ghoulish carvings and no heat — a nightmare that has no beginning and no end. Who knew he would be longing for the endless sex scandals like a drug instead of being trapped with a cast of characters from Clue.

“Let’s start at the beginning, Mrs. Clark. What makes you think your husband is having an affair?” Duane stated matter-of-factly while opening his laptop.

Mrs. Clark was a stunning woman of about 35 with a smoking body from yoga and pilates, shimmering brown hair, and a perfect mouth below liquid chestnut eyes. Dang, if this guy was cheating on her, they should shoot him.

“Well, Duane — May I call you Duane?” Seated across from her at a dive diner, she looked completely out of place — a princess in a sea of frogs.

“Sure. That works Mrs. Clark.”

“Please, why so formal? Call me Michelle.” Touching Duane’s arm, he felt electric and amped up. Maybe it was Michelle having all the fun, and not Mr. Clark.

“So Mrs… Michelle, why do you think he’s messing around on you?”

Leaning in to get closer, he could smell her — a combination of delicious perfume and a clean body, like she had just run a race and scrubbed up with Dove soap.

“Were you in the Marines? You look like one of those posters to join the service.”

Duane felt like this was going to a place he’d regret.

“No. I wasn’t, Michelle. Time is money, so please, tell me about your husband and his habits. What does he do? Where does he go?”

“He spends a lot of time overseas -usually in Germany and Switzerland. He owns a software company that drug companies use. I guess they are expanding. He never tells me anything. Everything is a big secret and there are always cocktail parties and dinners and a constant stream of late-night calls and texts.” Michelle had what looked like tears in her eyes, but it could just be the dirty atmosphere in this hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

“I’ve seen this before. Husband gets bored — feels neglected — gets a little attention and feels virile again and then can’t control his testosterone and then bam — here we are. The question is, what do you want to do?”

“I want him caught in the act and humiliated for the world to see. I’m tired of being stranded here with no way out.” Reaching next to her, she pulled out a manila folder and slid it across the table to Duane.

“There are copies of emails and texts I found on his phone and a few inappropriate pictures of several women.”

Flipping through the documents and photos, Duane looked up. “I have to ask. Why not just confront him and save yourself some money?”

“No. I want him to be discovered completely by surprise.” Sitting back in her seat, Michelle continued. “Now, what’s it going to cost?”

Duane crammed his six-foot frame into a plane seat that smelled like beer farts for the eight-hour trip to Zurich. Michelle Clark went cheap on the travel budget, so here he was on a no-frills flight with nothing but peanuts and soda for the trip. A minor sacrifice was worth it to get the $10,000 retainer neatly deposited into his investment account. Normally, he would never jump on a jet and travel to a country he only heard about in school to track down a cheating husband and bring him back to suffer the wrath of his wife and her lawyer, but Michelle was smoking hot and ten grand made it easier.

He reached under his toddler-sized seat and pulled a thick black folder filled with printed emails, photos, and notes from his meetings with Michelle Clark.

“That looks important.” Looking up, Duane was staring up at one of the flight attendants that was sweeping through the cabin picking up remnants of peanut bags.

“Just work.” Smiling broadly, he noticed her cheeks got a little flushed. Even at 40 and 35,000 feet, he can still flirt with the best of them.

“Oh, what do you do?”

“Private detective…um…,” searching her blouse for a name tag, she quickly pointed to it. “Lisa. So do you hunt for criminals for the FBI or CIA?”

“Uh, no. Nothing like that. I search for husbands that are pounding their intern or sometimes wives that decide the personal trainer is more satisfying than their husband. That’s the people I look for. That’s why I’m headed to Switzerland. To see if I can find a loser so his wife can put his package in a vice.”

“Oh, I see.” Lisa disengaged from the conversation with a horrified look and continued down the aisle, picking up newspapers, magazines, and other trash.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are preparing our descent into Zurich. Please makes sure your tray tables are in the upright and locked position and seats are all the way up. We will make our way through the cabin to pick up any remaining cans or papers. Thank you for flying with us. Welcome to Zurich.”

Duane stuffed the portfolio back under his seat and prepared to be dumped in Switzerland to find the infamous toad of a man, Jack Clark.

Landing in Zurich, he grabbed the first train to Andermatt in the Urseren Valley where he could check in to his base of operations at the Garenmatt Chalet. Three hours later, Duane entered a postcard-perfect town covered in new downy late winter snow. Once he settled into his room, he opened his laptop and spread the documents from Michelle on the desk in the room. Pictures and papers were mixed together, as that’s how Duane worked. Chaos into reason. Accessing a few websites and credit card info that Michelle had provided, it took no time at all to find what Jack Clark had been up to. Closing his laptop and cleaning up the material on the desk, he grabbed his coat and headed downstairs to ask the concierge how to find the Hotel Dumond. As luck would have it, the hotel was only five blocks away, so Duane buttoned up his coat, threw on a slouchy beany hat, and hoofed it to the Dumond. Once he stepped into the lobby, he spotted Jack immediately having a very intimate conversation with a blonde woman in her late 20s. Discreetly palming his cell phone, he snapped a series of pictures as he passed by them on the way to the toilet. Once inside, he viewed the pictures and sent them via email to Michelle as proof of Jack’s playboy life in Europe. Easiest $10,000 he ever made. Heading back to the chalet, he contemplated his next move in Switzerland. Time to kill, time to have some fun. So he headed to the bar and ordered a top-shelf Scotch. Seated at a table nearby was an eclectic mix of patrons — a couple of young female college students, a frat boy with a backward cap wearing a UMASS sweatshirt, and a handsome elderly couple. He’s a private detective, so his eyes and ears are always open and he eavesdropped on the conversation.

“Well, they built this chalet in the late 1930s. Although Switzerland remained neutral during the war, supposedly there are secret archives hidden away here still undiscovered,” noted the older man.

“Let’s try to find some stuff. Maybe we can sell it on eBay. We’re out of money, anyway. We could really use some right now.”

Duane interjected. “Sorry, couldn’t help overhearing. I’m a private detective. Kind of built into my DNA. Did you say that there are secret archives hidden here?”

Smiling broadly, the older man held out his hand. “Charles Kilner, this is my wife, Margaret. We’re here on a sabbatical from university. What brings you here, sir?”

Duane grasped his hand warmly and smiled and shook Margaret’s hand as well. “Duane Tungstien. Work.”

“Sean.” The frat boy stuck out his hand. “Holly and Jenna.” Both girls smiled and waved. Duane wished he were twenty years younger.

“Since the ski lifts are closed for today because of some unforeseen repairs and this freak storm, we thought it might be fun to explore a bit.” Kilner reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a faded and folded map.

It instantly intrigued Duane. “What is that and where did you get it?”

“Working as a curator at the British Museum has some perks. It’s a pre-war map of the chalet.” Moving glasses and bottles aside, he spread the map out for all to see. “This appears to be an old wine cellar,” pointing a bony finger at a small, unmarked area off to the right with a mischievous grin. “Who’s in?”

“Let’s open it” Duane reached for the intricate latch on the front of the trunk in the shape of a gargoyle.

“Why do you get to open it? I mean, we found it. Not you.” The college kid had a point. The two college girls with him nodded their approval. “Besides,” pointing to the elderly couple in the corner, “they knew about the history of this place and showed everyone where to find it. Maybe they should open it.”

Duane, Sean, and the two girls looked over the trunk to the corner of the room where Mr. and Mrs. Kilner sat serenely, watching the events unfold. Straightening his polka-dot tie and dark tweed jacket that you would expect a professor to wear, he whispered, “Let the private detective open it. I’m sure with his keen skills, he can tell us exactly what to do in this situation. Isn’t that right, Mr. Tungstien?” The sarcasm was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

“Listen, I came to this secluded ski lodge at the end of nowhere to do a job. I did it. Now I’m in a game of hide and seek with all of you. I’m not Indiana Jones and I don’t care what’s in the trunk, so will somebody just do it and get it over with?”

Kilner maneuvered his slight frame around to the front of the trunk, brought a small penknife from his front pocket, and jimmied the lock on the 500-year-old trunk. The entire motley crew crowded around. After twenty minutes of sweaty grunting and pushing, Kilner opened the lock and released a musty, dead smell that knocked them all backward. The first thing they noticed was a ratty burlap bag, disintegrated pieces of rope around the top and bottom, and what appeared to be a tattered, 3-inch square piece of material. Reaching into the trunk and pulling back the rough material, Kilner gasped as a chalk-white skull with one broken tooth fell forward.

Duane bent down to get a closer look and picked up the tiny piece of material. Turning it over and holding his cell phone light over it in order to reveal what they could not originally see, a Nazi insignia was superimposed over the letter A. Gently placing it back in the trunk, he turned to Kilner.

“Well, now…This just got interesting.”