Death in the Dolomites: A Rick Montoya Italian Mystery

by David P. Wagner

  “May I help you?”

  Luca pulled out his document. “Inspector Albani, Signor Montoya. We’d like to talk to Signor Muller. Is he here?”

  Rick expected her expression to become more serious, but she kept up the smile. “Yes, of course, I’ll tell him you’re here. If you’ll excuse me?” She hurried through a door behind the desk.

  Luca cast his eyes around the room. “Nice place. Too dear for my expense account, and I love where we’re staying. Can’t beat our food.”

  A man appeared from another part of the room, his features trying hard to mask his concern.

  “I’m guessing Zia Mitzi called ahead,” Rick whispered.

  Lauro Muller wore a suit, the first Rick had seen in Campiglio other than Luca’s. Unlike the policeman’s, Muller’s was measured to fit perfectly and looked like it just came from the dry cleaner. The tailoring had been done with such skill that the man’s girth was not immediately noticeable, but his height could not be disguised. Rick, who was more than six feet himself, found himself looking down at the man. What he looked at was a face whose shape matched Muller’s body, with a neatly trimmed goatee that blended into his neatly trimmed hair, both flecked with salt and pepper to add seriousness to his demeanor. Anyone meeting this hotel owner would immediately think—even without seeing the hotel itself—that his was a serious establishment. He introduced himself to the two visitors with firm handshakes and gestured toward the back of the room.

  “Gentlemen, please come back to my office so we can talk without interruption. Allow me to lead the way.”

  A door led into a cramped rectangular room with two metal desks, each with a computer. A young man, jacket-less but with a dress shirt and tie, sat at one, an earpiece and filament microphone clipped to his head. He was discussing reservations with someone at the other end of the line. Despite the computers, shelves lining the wall were filled with the thick notebooks that Italian businesses and bureaucrats had been using for decades. Rick wondered if Muller had a plan to put everything on discs during the off-season. They followed the man through another door into his office.

  “Please sit down. Can I get you something, perhaps? Coffee?”

  Luca held up a hand. “No thank you, Signor Muller, we don’t want to be any trouble.”

  They took their places on a leather sofa at least six inches lower than Muller’s high-backed desk chair. Now they were looking up at him.

  The office was small but well furnished. One wall was covered with photographs which Rick at first assumed were of Muller with important personages, perhaps famous people who had been guests at the hotel. A closer look revealed that while other people were found in the photos, most of the images included cars of various vintages and styles. So Muller was a car aficionado, and perhaps a collector. It was a hobby Rick had toyed with when he’d started working in New Mexico after college, but he’d never had enough money to become serious about it. One photo, a large one centered on the wall, caught his interest. It showed Muller wearing mechanic’s overalls, standing next to a small greenish vehicle, a wide grin splitting his round face.

  Rick pointed at the photo. “Is that Willys MB yours, Signor Muller?”

  The man’s mouth dropped open, forming an oval that matched the shape of his head. “Why, yes, yes it is. You…do you know about Jeeps, Signor Montoya?”

  “I had a friend back in America who had one like yours. It looks like about a 1943.”

  “1942, actually, it probably landed in Sicily, or Anzio.”

  Rick turned to Luca who had been silently following the exchange. “The United States made a decision not to ship back most of their Jeeps after the war, which ironically has meant that parts for collectors are now easier to find here in Europe than in America.”

  “So you won the war but lost your Jeeps.”

  “You could say that, Inspector,” Muller piped in. “But Signor Montoya, your friend in America, his is the Willys, not the Ford model?

  “Willys, for sure. He let me drive it a few times, an amazing engine.”

  “The go devil engine,” Muller said in English.

  “Bravo, Signor Muller.” Rick glanced at Luca’s frown. “But perhaps we should get to the business at hand.”

  Muller’s face became serious and he turned to Luca. “Of course. Inspector, how can I be of assistance? You are looking into this business of the American?” He rocked back in his chair. The desk hid the lower part of his body, but Rick guessed that his feet were suspended above the floor.

  “That’s correct,” answered Luca. “As well as the attack on Guido Pittini.”

  “You don’t think the two crimes are related, do you, Inspector?”

  Luca shrugged and pulled out pen and pad. “We understand you have been trying to purchase a piece of property on the north edge of town.”

  “Yes, I’d heard that the police had been up there looking around. Is that where the murder took place, Inspector?” The reply was a silent glare. “Of course, of course, Inspector. You are the one asking the questions.” He adjusted his tie, blue with small white polka dots. “Yes, I have been bidding on the property, and as I’m sure you know, Umberto Melograno has too. There may be others, but I suspect we are the only two serious potential buyers. It will be a perfect location for a new hotel. Access to the lifts, beautiful views—it has everything. It would be a shame to build anything else there.” The voice of the businessman had returned.

  “But you had not been in contact with the murdered man regarding financing?”

  “O dio, no, Inspector. I have my own funding sources.”

  Rick thought for a moment that the man would explain further, but he did not. “Signor Muller, when was the last time you visited the property?”

  He rubbed his beard in thought for several seconds. “It’s been a while. Last year in the fall. It hadn’t snowed yet, so it must have been around October. I went there with an architect.”

  Luca looked up from his pad. “An architect? Isn’t that somewhat premature?”

  “I am confident the sale will go through, Inspector. We have to be ready to start construction immediately when the spring thaw arrives.”

  “Had you met the American, Signor Taylor?”

  Muller tugged at his goatee, which didn’t have much to tug. “Last summer, or perhaps it was the summer before, he stayed in the hotel. I met him briefly. I try to greet all our guests at some point during their stay. He told me he was looking to rent something, which I understand he did.”

  “Was he alone?” It was Rick who asked the question.

  “I’m quite sure he was, but I can’t remember every one of our guests.”

  “One more thing. I trust you were in Campiglio on Saturday?”

  “Certainly, I’m almost always here during the season, except when I’m at another hotel I own in Pinzolo, a few kilometers down the valley. I check in with the manager there frequently.”

  “You were here on Saturday?”

  Muller’s questioning look turned to a weak smile. “Ah. I see what you’re getting at. I was here all that day, yes. I don’t remember my exact movements hour to hour, of course. I move around the hotel seeing to things. It’s the way a manager must be, always on the move. I doubt if my staff can be more exact than I on where I was at any given moment.”

  Luca flipped a few pages back in his notebook. “You have a Gaetano Spadacini working here at the hotel?”

  Muller did not seem surprised by the question. “Yes, he’s my electrician, and he does other maintenance work. In a hotel this size there is always something going wrong and it usually needs to be fixed immediately.”

  “He also works on your wife’s election campaign.”

  “That’s correct, Inspector. He is her liaison with the unions, since he’s active in the electricians’ confederation. The labor vote is important in this town.”
r />   “We’d like to speak with him. Is he here today?”

  “I believe so.” Muller picked up the phone on his desk and punched some buttons. “Gaetano, where are you?…I’m sending someone up to see you.” He hung up and leaned forward in the chair. “He’s working in room 304.”

  Luca got to his feet. “You didn’t ask me why we want to speak to the man.”

  “I think I know,” answered Muller as he slid off his chair. “And I’m sure Gaetano is not the man you are looking for.”

  “Your wife told us that you didn’t hear anything the night of the attack on Pittini. You were home? It happened at 11:35.”

  “Mitzi was asleep when I got home at a little after ten. I watched the news. I must have been asleep, too, by that time. To answer your question, no, I heard nothing.”

  Rick noticed an especially strong grip as he shook Muller’s hand. He was short, but strong. As their host walked his two visitors to the door of the office, Rick asked, “Signor Muller, do you drive your MB around Campiglio? I imagine it’s good in the snow.”

  Muller chuckled. “Certainly not. It stays inside under a cover in the winter. I only take it out once the weather is warm, and not too often then.”

  “So how do you get around?”

  “I remain loyal to the Jeep brand, Signor Montoya. I drive a Grand Cherokee.”

  ***

  Luca pressed the third-floor button and the elevator lurched slowly upward. “I trust, Riccardo, that extracting information about Signor Muller’s vehicles was done on purpose?”

  “Taylor’s body didn’t walk from the field to the gondola by itself.”

  “And the motive is that if Melograno’s financing source is eliminated, Muller could waltz in to make the purchase, without having a bidding war.”

  “It makes sense.”

  They left the elevator and walked down the narrow hallway to room 304. The door was open.

  Gaetano Spadacini sat between the two beds, studying a snarl of wires poking from a hole in the wall. The small table which held two reading lamps had been pushed to the opposite side of the room to make space for his chair. He pulled a pair of pliers from a leather satchel, elegant enough to hold a physician’s tools, and glanced at Rick and Luca.

  “They shouldn’t have put these tapparelle on a switch. The manual kind would have been just as easy for people to use, and they wouldn’t break as often.” He touched two wires together and the shutters over the window began to grind down, stopping only when the wires were separated. “I don’t know how many of these I’ve had to fix.” He swiveled in the chair, which had come from the small desk near the window, and faced his visitors.

  Spadacini’s starched shirt was embroidered with the logo of the hotel and matched his blue pants. He looked to be in good shape, but his most striking feature was his hair. Almost Tarzan-like in length, it was cut in a style which was virtually a caricature of the Italian romeo. He had looks to go with it, and a tan that sharpened his features even more. He either spent his days off on the slopes, Rick decided, or used a sunlamp. He was also, clearly, well aware of his good looks.

  Spadacini tapped the phone on his belt. “Signor Muller said you wanted to ask me some questions. I hope it won’t take long, there may be a client arriving soon to check into this room.”

  Luca leaned against the side board. “It shouldn’t take long. Where were you Monday night, at about eleven thirty?”

  “Monday? Let’s see… at my apartment. I try to stay in a few nights a week, to get my sleep and regain my strength. Monday was one of them.”

  “Can anyone confirm that? Your wife?”

  “I’m divorced, Inspector.” He glanced at Rick and back at Luca. “I assume you’re the inspector. Italian police I’ve met don’t wear boots like his.”

  Rick chuckled. “You’re correct, Signor Spadacini. And you know why we’re asking?”

  “Of course. Pittini. He went too far and got someone very annoyed. I can understand that. But it wasn’t me.”

  “The argument you had with him?” said Luca. “It was apparently quite heated.”

  Spadacini shrugged and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Ask anyone who was there and they’ll tell you that he was getting in my face first, and I reacted. But just with words. It happens. Guido can be a stronzo at times. Ask anyone that too.”

  “What was the argument about?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, Inspector. Something he said about Zia Mitzi, I think.”

  “What’s your usual work schedule, Signor Spadacini?”

  “During the season I’m here six days a week, but I’m always on call. Like today. It’s my day off , but this damn shutter motor brought me in. I won’t get out of here until lunch time.”

  “You must do well on overtime pay,” said Rick.

  “But when can I spend it?”

  “On those nights when you’re not regaining your strength.”

  Spadacini’s mouth formed something between a grin and a leer, showing that in addition to everything else, he had perfect teeth.

  Chapter Ten

  Rick looked up as they walked back to the station from the hotel. The sky had clouded over, bringing lower temperatures and a chill wind. It could mean less than ideal skiing conditions in the afternoon when he was meeting Cat, but Flavio had told him that the weather could change quickly—for better or worse.

  “So, Inspector, what did you think of Spadacini?”

  “Gaetano the heart-stealer? He appears to be an ideal employee for Muller, Riccardo. Clearly a competent electrician, and a loyal soldier in his wife’s electoral campaign. I expect he’s good at winning over female voters as well as members of the electricians’ union.”

  “In that regard, he may service more than just the electrical system in the hotel.”

  Luca shook his head and frowned, but it was a weak frown.

  They turned the corner onto the main street, and Rick had taken a few steps along the sidewalk before realizing that Luca was not next to him. He turned to see him peering into the window of a store.

  “Look at this, Riccardo.” Luca motioned to Rick with a hand gesture that in the States would indicate “good-bye,” but in Italy meant “come here.”

  Elegantly arrayed on satin inside the glass were handmade knives, fine cutlery, and other kitchen instruments not found in the average kitchen. The ornate bone handles on the knives, many carved in the form of wild animals, almost discouraged being covered by someone’s hand. These items would be purchased for ostentation, Rick decided, even a shiny gadget like the truffle slicer. Come to think of it, especially the truffle slicer. Cheese knives, including the ubiquitous parmigiano reggiano blades, lay against dark wood cutting boards in all shapes and sizes.

  Luca tapped on the glass. “Who would come to this town and buy that?” He was pointing at a chain mail glove, next to which lay a knife with a short blade and ebony handle. Between them on a laminated wood board was an oyster shell. “If they didn’t have the shell there, I wouldn’t have known what that was for. So you live in Milan, come up to Campiglio to ski, and decide to pick up equipment to open oysters?”

  “You never know when you’ll need to shuck an oyster, Luca. It pays to be prepared.”

  “I suppose so.”

  A few minutes later they reached the station, where the car was waiting for them in front. Rick got in the passenger side and put his Borsalino in the backseat. Luca didn’t take the hint, keeping the deer stalker on his head. They drove out of town to the north, the road climbing steeply before flattening out and passing a large parking lot where trails came down from the two sides of the valley. A covered foot bridge connected the trails for those skiers who wanted to change mountains. Through the glass Rick could see people moving in both directions, their skis over their shoulders, clomping toward the lifts. They drove under the bridg
e and climbed past the full parking lot, beyond which the valley opened into a treeless expanse that in the summer, Flavio had told him, was a nine-hole golf course. Cross-country skiers followed thin trails through the valley, moving like stiff puppets on connected strings. It was a form of skiing that had never interested Rick. Too much like work.

  The road reached the top of the hill and entered the forest, broken initially by some apartment buildings on the left and an occasional glimpse of the open valley through the trees on the right. As they passed one break in the trees, Luca took his right hand off the steering wheel and pointed. “That’s where the hat and the blood were found. Back in there.”

  Rick turned his neck to look before they passed the opening. “I can see why Melograno and Muller want that property. Perfect location for either a hotel or an apartment.” A location to die for, he could not help thinking.

  The forest had begrudgingly given way to the road. Large trees stood menacingly on both sides, their branches touching in solidarity as if ready to reclaim the thin strip that civilization had sliced through them. Despite the heavy cover, the forest floor was deep with snow, blown there by the wind. Rick guessed that even in summer this would not be inviting terrain for alpinisti—it would be much more practical, and pleasant, to hike the high, snow-less ski trails.

  The road bent sharply for a bridge over a small stream, its icy water flowing back toward Campiglio. Gradually the forest began to thin out, a house or two appeared, then a ski trail flowed down from the hills on the left side of the road. After a few bends they descended into Folgarida, a tiny town on the north side of the mountain. Luca spotted a policeman, rolled down his window, and after identifying himself, asked directions.