Death in the Dolomites: A Rick Montoya Italian Mystery

by David P. Wagner

  “Nor do I, Signore. And he did not appear to be upset, preoccupied, worried about anything?”

  “He was as he always was. All business. That’s the way Americans are.”

  Luca tapped his pen on the pad and studied what he had written, which was very little. “That meeting was Thursday afternoon. You didn’t see him on Friday?”

  “No, I was working here all day.”

  “And on Saturday?”

  “I didn’t see him after our meeting on Thursday. I thought I made that clear.”

  “You were also working here on Saturday?” He was making small squares in the top corners of the paper, then carefully filling them in with crosses. Melograno watched.

  “Yes, I came in early and worked in my office the whole day, except for a break for lunch. My assistant was here working, if you are looking for an alibi. He will tell you.” He glanced at the young man working in the cubicle.

  The policeman looked up from his notes and acknowledged the other man. “His name?”

  “Alberto Zoff.” He watched as Luca wrote down the name.

  “What time did you leave the office?”

  “About five o’clock. I stopped for a coffee at the bar a few doors up, like I always do at the end of the workday. Then I went home.”

  “Do you live far?”

  “My apartment is on the top floor of this building. I own it. The whole building, I mean.”

  “Very convenient. You can walk everywhere. That is something delightful that I have noticed about your town. Do you even have a car?”

  “I do, Inspector, I have a Mercedes SUV. I need it to show real estate that is outside the city center. Unfortunately it is in the shop. A problem with the electrical system.”

  “That’s surprising, the German cars are usually quite reliable. Not that I would know…my office always issues me a Fiat.” Luca closed his notebook and put it and his pen in his coat pocket. “Tell me something, Signor Melograno. Do you ski?”

  From the look on Melograno’s face, he might have been asked if he knew how to read. “I was born and raised in Campiglio, Inspector. Here we all ski.”

  Once outside, Luca adjusted his hat in the glass of the store at street level, barely noticing what was displayed inside. He was thinking that Melograno had not mentioned the stabbing of the previous night. Then again, neither had he.

  ***

  After sticking their skis and poles into the snow at the edge of the porch, Rick and Flavio clomped across the wooden planks toward the door. A few people sat outside, taking in the view with drinks in their gloved hands. Though the sun was low in the horizon, and mostly behind clouds, the porch was bright compared with the interior of the bar. It took the two men a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim ambiance. There was a lone person at the bar, a tall man with a ski cap pulled around his ears. He was drinking a beer and checking his cell phone for messages. Apparently this spot on the mountain had a signal.

  “How about a hot VOV, Rick?” They both peeled off their ski gloves and placed them on the bar.

  “I haven’t had VOV in years. Great idea.”

  The order was given to the bar man, who pulled a white, ceramic bottle off the shelf and poured a thick, equally white liquid into two small glasses. He stepped to the espresso machine and gave each of the glasses a long shot of steam until the liqueur was covered with a light froth. The drinks were placed on saucers and set in front of the two men. They carefully picked up the hot glasses, clinked them together, and took sips.

  “Much better than eggnog,” said Rick. “And my grandfather makes a great eggnog.”

  “It’s the strong zabaglione flavor that does it, and strangely enough, I don’t like it in gelato. It’s a flavor that needs to be served hot.”

  Rick was about to continue the discussion of liqueurs and gelato when he heard a voice on his right. It was the man who had been at the other end of the bar.

  “Aren’t you…?”

  Rick glanced up and saw who it was. “Daniele, I didn’t recognize you with the ski cap. Yes, it’s me, Rick Montoya. This is my friend Flavio Caldaro.”

  Lotti extended his hand. “Daniele Lotti, piacere.” He turned back to Rick. “And I wasn’t sure I recognized you either. Ski gear does that.”

  “Out for an afternoon ski by yourself?” asked Rick, immediately regretting the way it was said.

  Lotti didn’t seem to notice. “I was going to ski with Cat, but she’s tied up with the vice consul.”

  “I imagine they have a lot to deal with.”

  Lotti nodded. Rick noticed that the man didn’t look as gawky or as skinny as when he’d seen him at the apartment. It must be the bulkiness of the ski coat, or the fact that his red hair was now covered. Red hair somehow added to gawkiness. His face looked raw, perhaps from the icy wind of the trails. Or the sun, though there hadn’t been much sun that afternoon.

  “You’re from Milan, I assume,” Flavio said.

  “And from your accent, I trust you live around here.”

  “Correct. Trento. But I grew up right here in Campiglio.”

  “But you’re not a policeman.”

  “Flavio has a wine business, Daniele, and as you know I’m not a policeman either. I hope you don’t mind me calling you Daniele.”

  Lotti responded with a shrug. He took a sip from his beer glass. “Have you found the murderer yet? Even though you’re not a policeman?”

  “It was only last night that the body was found.”

  “Has your policeman friend found out where he was actually killed?”

  Rick thought for a moment about whether he should answer and decided that word would be around the town by now. “A field north of town that overlooks the golf course.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Rick gave Lotti a surprised frown. “Why do you say that?”

  The man sneered and took another swig of beer. “He’s dead now, so he won’t mind me saying. Cam liked to brag about his exploits with women, and I remember him telling me that he took a girl up to a field north of town that first summer he was here. I’ll bet that was the place. How ironic.”

  “Did he mention the name of the girl?”

  “If he did I don’t remember. I think he said she was a ski instructor.”

  Rick and Flavio exchanged glances, but Lotti kept his eyes on his beer and didn’t notice.

  “Do you have any thoughts on who could have done it?”

  The man’s head snapped up and his eyes bore in on Rick’s face. “How would I know? I just came up here for a few days of skiing. Now a friend is dead and his sister can’t even give me the time of day. I might as well drive to Milan and go back to work at the office.”

  “You must know some other people in Campiglio,” Flavio said. Rick could tell from his voice that his friend was not warming to the man from Milan.

  “A few,” was the curt answer.

  “How long have you owned your apartment?”

  “Apartments,” corrected Lotti, “I own two. I’ve had them a couple of years. It seemed like a good investment, as well as having a place to stay when I wanted to ski. Yesterday I ran into the guy who sold it to me, and he said it’s increased in value by at least ten percent.” For the first time a slight smile crossed the man’s face.

  Flavio glanced at Rick, then asked, “Somebody local sold it to you, or someone from Milan?”

  “A guy in my office recommended a real estate office here. You’re not also in real estate, are you?”

  “No,” answered Flavio, “just wine.”

  “Well, the skiing has been good,” said Rick. “I trust you’ve done a lot since you got here Friday. If I remember right it was late Friday afternoon when you drove up from Milan.”

  The suspicious look returned to Lotti face. “All it’s done is snow since I arrived,
and all I’ve done is ski.” He glanced out the one small window behind the bar. “It looks like it’s starting again. I think I’ll be heading down. Ciao.” He drained the last of his beer and walked to the door, his ski boots scuffing the floor.

  “Charming fellow,” Flavio said as he picked up his glass and looked at it. “My VOV’s getting cold.”

  “We could have him heat it up again.”

  “Not worth it.” Flavio opened his mouth and tossed down the liqueur with a quick jerk of his hand. “Rick, he bought his apartments from Umberto.”

  “Melograno? Aren’t there any other real estate offices in Campiglio?”

  “A few, but Umberto is the best known, and he sells a lot of apartments. I’d bet on it.”

  ***

  Luca looked at the sky and touched the front brim of his hat, noting how well it kept the snow from his face. One of his better purchases, no doubt about it. Would his wife’s opinion of the hat be the same as Riccardo’s? Didn’t matter; he loved it. And he’d bring her back something from the chocolate shop next to the mayor’s store so she’d know he’d been thinking of her. He stopped and looked in the window at the rows of chocolate stacked elegantly. Handmade inside, of course, in various flavors and shapes, light and dark. It all looked good. There must have been some kind of hidden exhaust fan, since the aroma of chocolate brushed his nostrils. He sighed and walked a few steps to the entrance to the mayor’s shop. A bell over the door rang when he entered.

  The mayor was nowhere to be seen. An older couple was looking at a table full of wooden Pinocchios, some as tall as the grandchild they likely were shopping for. A salesgirl who was hovering over them looked up at the policeman with an “I’ll be with you in a moment” smile, so he shook the snow off his hat and began wandering around the shop. It was, he decided, exactly what one would expect to find in an alpine town anywhere. What better souvenir could you bring back from the Dolomites than something carved out of wood? The image that came to mind was the goatherd, locked in his wooden hut, carving away in front of the fire while the goats bleeted in the cellar below and the wind howled outside. Man and goat, waiting for spring when they would climb the mountain again to find succulent grass peeking from the melting snow. So while the winter held on, there was the old man, working away, turning a rough block of wood into a tiny work of art. Must have been some movie he’d seen as a kid. Luca was turning a tiny carved goat in his hand when he heard Grandi’s voice.

  “Inspector, I hope you have some news for me. There are already stories in the papers that will not be helpful to tourism in Campiglio.” The head seemed even balder than it had been in Melograno’s office. It could have been the lighting, or its pink contrasted just enough with all the natural wood around the shop.

  “We are just beginning to gather evidence, Signor Sindaco.”

  “And where is that evidence pointing?”

  They were still standing, and Luca glanced at the couple nearby, who were now looking at cuckoo clocks. Grandi got the message. “Ah, yes. Why don’t we sit over there?” He motioned to the table where they had talked previously, out of earshot of the others. When they were seated, Luca spoke in a lowered voice.

  “My sense is that the criminal is a local, or at least someone who knows the town well.” He was trying to give the mayor the impression that he was sharing confidential information, though everyone in town must have come to the same conclusion. It seemed to work. Grandi looked over at the other people and then leaned toward Luca.

  “Is that so?” His voice was also almost a whisper. “But who could it be? I know everyone in town, and I can’t for the life of me think who would have murdered the man.”

  “Had you known Signor Taylor?”

  “Me? Why, no. I don’t make a point of meeting every tourist that comes to Campiglio. Though some people here would say that I try.” From Grandi’s smile, Luca sensed this was an attempt at humor. He waited for the man to continue. “Inspector, you’ve talked to the people he saw before he was killed, I know that. What have you concluded?”

  The mayor knows exactly who I’ve interviewed since setting foot in his little town, Luca thought. He probably knows what I had for dinner last night. Is this the time to bring up the issue of his ex-wife? Why not?

  “How is your relationship with Gina Cortese, Signor Sindaco?”

  He must have been expecting the question. “I don’t see her very often now that our divorce is final. There were no children. It’s a small town, so we can’t avoid occasionally running into each other, but we’ve both moved on.”

  “I assume you know that she was seeing Signor Taylor?”

  Grandi gave a neutral shrug. His body language said that he didn’t care who she was seeing, but Luca was not totally convinced. “Inspector, you don’t think that Gina could be involved, do you?”

  “As I said, the investigation is just beginning. I must assume nothing and suspect everything.”

  “Of course. And I suppose I should tell you where I was at the time of the murder. Isn’t that what always happens in these investigations?”

  “Well, Signor Sindaco, I really—”

  “No, we must do it by the book.” He tapped his finger to his forehead and closed his eyes in thought. Somewhat theatrically, in Luca’s mind. “It’s difficult to remember every minute of Saturday, or any other day for that matter. I like to move around the town.”

  “Keep your finger on the public pulse, so to speak.”

  Grandi glanced up and nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes, indeed. I take my job as mayor very seriously. On Saturday I went by the tourism office, to get a reading of how business was doing. Then I stopped at the ski lift consortium, where they sell ski passes, and found that the numbers were very good. Lots of people getting the weekly pass, meaning they are here for the entire week, staying in hotels and eating in restaurants. And I also—”

  “Was that in the morning? Early?”

  “No, that would be mid-morning. Earlier, I was here working.” He gestured at the block of wood, its eventual shape still anyone’s guess. “Early morning, before the shop opens, is the time I get some of my best carving done.”

  “What time do you open?”

  “Ten. During the season we are open every day, and my salespeople arrive a few minutes before ten. Unless there’s some reason to be here, that’s when I make my rounds about the town. My staff is very dependable. So I was out most of the day.”

  “Lunch?”

  Grandi pondered the question, as if he had been asked something more profound. “Let’s see. Saturday I just had a panino and a glass of wine at the bar across the piazza. No time for a regular lunch. Then more calls around town.” He had been looking at the wooden ceiling as he tried to recall his movements, but now gazed directly at the policeman. “You know, of course, that I am running for re-election.”

  “Which explains your busy schedule.”

  “Well, Inspector, during the ski season I’m always on the move, especially on weekends, but if you are thinking that I may be doing more of it because of the election, well, guilty as charged.” He held up his hands defensively. Another try at humor.

  “So you didn’t come back here at all on Saturday?”

  “I returned at about six and stayed until we closed at seven thirty. No, that’s not true. I worked here by myself until a little after eight thirty. I had dinner by myself at home. I live a few blocks away.”

  “When you make your rounds, if that’s the word, how to you get around town?”

  “Mostly on foot, of course. But if there’s someone I need to see who is more distant, or if I have to go up to the ski lifts north of town, I use the city vehicle.”

  “That’s a nice perk.”

  “Yes it is. A Land Rover. My predecessor picked it out; I might have gone with something else. Something Italian. But I’ve never been stuck, even in the heaviest
snow.”

  “I trust you ski?”

  Grandi gave the policeman a puzzled look. “Of course, Inspector. Everyone here skis. I don’t get out to enjoy the trails as much as I’d like, what with my responsibilities to the town.”

  “And you do get some good snowfalls in Campiglio.”

  “Yes, Inspector, for business, thank God that we do. Such as last night when that horrible attack took place.”

  “I was going to ask you about that, Signor Sindaco.”

  Grandi looked at the policeman’s face and squinted his eyes. “Surely you don’t think it is connected to the American’s murder.”

  “Two violent crimes within days in a town this size. What would you think?”

  Grandi clearly did not want to think anything of the sort. “Pure coincidence. Guido had a reputation with the ladies. My guess is that his attack had something to do with those activities.”

  “He works on your campaign.”

  “That’s correct. But what…certainly you couldn’t think that his attack could be politically motivated.”

  “Politics can become heated.”

  “Inspector, Campiglio is a civilized place.”

  Luca did not point out that crimes often happen in the most civilized of places. Even murder. “A zealous supporter in the opposing campaign?”

  Grandi waved the suggestion away with a flick of his hand, but then used it to rub his head in thought. Luca waited, not wanting to interrupt what was going through the man’s mind. “Last week Guido got into a shouting match with someone who works for the other candidate. It got ugly but certainly not violent.”

  “Who was that?”

  “It was an isolated event,” Grandi said, putting a weak smile on his face and holding up his hands. “I should not have even mentioned it. It makes me appear to be engaging in dirty politics.”

  “But Signor Grandi, I really must—”

  “No, no. I’ve said enough. Perhaps you should talk to my opponent.”

  Chapter Eight

  Gnocchi verdi alla gorgonzola was the pasta course at the hotel that evening, a dish firmly based in the north of Italy with touches from various regions. The spinach that made the potato dumplings green was a Tuscan staple, but the gorgonzola cheese was arguably as Milanese as the Duomo. There was even a stop on the Milan metro named Gorgonzola. And the slight bacon taste in the gnocchi could have come from the eastern Po Valley, where not all pork went into the production of prosciutto. But the origins of the various ingredients were not important to the three men savoring the gnocchi. The dish’s various features had joined perfectly together in the kitchen before arriving at their table, and that was enough for them. Luca sat back in his chair and picked up his glass. The straw yellow liquid swirled softly inside it.