Death in the Dolomites: A Rick Montoya Italian Mystery

by David P. Wagner

  The man saluted, but not too formally. “The building is that one, Inspector. And if you leave your car over there, I won’t give you a parking ticket.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Corporal. We won’t be long.”

  The space the policeman had indicated was behind a set of covered benches in the middle of what Rick guessed to be the main square of the town. A very tiny main square. Two people sat on one set of benches holding skis and poles, waiting for a ride or perhaps a bus. Rick looked up the street lined with hotels and could see that it ended about a hundred meters from where they stood. Space here was clearly at a premium; the town clung tightly to the side of the mountain, like it wasn’t supposed to be there. The narrow ribbon of pavement and its thin sidewalks were relatively flat, but everything else was on an incline. On both sides of the street, buildings had been squeezed into the mountain. Like some of the neighborhoods Rick had been to in Rio when he’d visited his parents, the buildings on the lower side of the street were entered on the upper floors. But instead of offering a view of Guanabara Bay, their windows looked out over snow-covered trees.

  Not many people were out walking, but the town was much smaller than Campiglio, so that would be expected. People came here to ski, and at this time of day they were on Folgarida’s trails or over the mountain on Campiglio’s. Judging by the number of cars squeezed along the length of the street, there were quite a few skiers, and that didn’t count cars parked in the underground garages of the hotels. On one side of the piazza, a tourist office shared its space with a real estate company, and on the other a row of low apartment buildings wedged themselves into the mountain. It was at one of these buildings that the policeman had pointed.

  They walked across the street and up some stairs to the entrance. It was chalet style, like everything else in the region, but older and shabbier than the buildings next to it. Luca scanned the eight names and pressed the button under one of them. Almost instantly the door buzzed open. He looked at Rick and lifted his eyebrows before pushing open the door.

  The apartment they were seeking was on the second floor—or first by Italian designation—so they had one flight of stairs to climb. The stairwell was lit, but dimly, as was the hallway, but Luca found the door number without trouble. He rapped lightly.

  “It’s open!” called a voice inside. This time it was Rick’s turn to raise his eyebrows before turning the knob and pushing open the door. They saw the back of a man who adjusted a scarf around his neck before pulling on a black leather coat. “I’m glad you’re here early,” he said before turning around to face Rick and Luca. His movements stopped. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Signor Peruzzi?”

  Rick got a strong whiff of aftershave lotion, which went with the man’s clean-shaven face and perfectly coiffed hair. After regaining some composure, he looked from one face to the other and settled back on Luca’s. “Uh, no. That’s my uncle. But who are you?”

  “Inspector Albani,” Luca said, showing his identification. “And Signor Montoya. Does Signor Peruzzi live here?”

  “Yes, he’s here. I thought you were the cleaning lady. I have an appointment so I was glad she came early, but—”

  “But we’re not the cleaning lady. Per favore, can you tell your uncle we’re here?”

  “Of course, of course. Is this about the murder in Campiglio? I heard that the police, I mean that you, found the body on Uncle Lamberto’s property, and—”

  “If you can just tell your uncle we’re here, you can get to your appointment.”

  “Yes. Yes, certainly. Thank you. I’ll do that.” He hurried down the hall and disappeared.

  Rick watched him dart into a room. “I wonder where he heard that?”

  “Stories can change while traveling between one person’s mouth and another person’s ear, Riccardo. It’s not surprising that this one didn’t make it over the mountain road intact.”

  “Inspector.” They looked down the hall to where the man stood. “Please come down here, my uncle will see you in his room. He doesn’t get around very well.” Rick and Luca walked down a hall that was bare except for some closed doors to reach the waiting man. “Zio, this is Inspector Albani and…I’m sorry I didn’t—”

  “Montoya.” Rick looked into the room, which was on the back of the building. Despite open curtains and shutters, thick branches just outside the window allowed little light to enter. Much of the space in the room was taken by a large bed covered by a heavy quilt. Next to the bed a white-haired Lamberto Peruzzi sat in a high-backed reclining chair set about a third of the way to horizontal. A book, open pages down, sat within reach on a table next to him, and next to it a glass of mineral water. Light came from a gooseneck floor lamp.

  “Please sit down, gentlemen. I regret I cannot greet you properly, on my feet. Please also excuse the lack of comfortable seating.” He waved a thin hand at two simple wooden chairs and looked at his nephew. “You can be on your way, Massimo. Be careful driving over the mountain.”

  “But Zio, if you—” The old man silently raised his hand, which apparently was enough. “Very well, Zio, I’ll see you this evening.” He nodded at Rick and Luca and left the room.

  “We won’t take much of your time, Signor Peruzzi.”

  The man settled back into the chair, legs propped on a leather ottoman and covered with a thick wool blanket. His gaunt neck stuck out from a gray turtleneck sweater which may have fit him once but now looked at least a size too large. He had not shaved, or been shaved, in a few days, and perhaps realizing this, he rubbed the stubble with his hand.

  “My time is yours, Inspector. As you might surmise, I don’t get many visitors, so I may be that rare person who actually enjoys being interrogated by the police.”

  “We’re not here for an interrogation, Signor Peruzzi, we just have a few questions.”

  “Call it whatever you’d like, but don’t feel rushed. I am at your disposal.”

  “You live here alone?”

  “No, Massimo is here with me. My sister, his mother, used to come in to see to my needs every day, but when she died three years ago, he moved in.”

  “A very devoted nephew.”

  The old man stared at Rick, a sad smile on his face. “Yes, perhaps you could say that. The fact is, Signor Montoya, my nephew is waiting for me to die. Massimo is already very comfortably set, since he owns a very successful grocery store here in Folgarida, made successful by his late father and my sister. They worked tirelessly to make it what it is, but Massimo has found it easier to hire a manager. Fortunately he hired a very good one. When I die he will inherit an even larger sum.” His eyes moved from Luca to Rick and back. “You will excuse my frankness, gentlemen. I have no reason, at my age, to speak otherwise.”

  “Your estate can go to someone else.”

  “I have no other family, Inspector. And I owe it to my sister to pass it to her son. She was a lovely woman. She and my brother-in-law would be disappointed that their only child has little interest in anything except…” The voice trailed off. “But he’s still young, perhaps someday he’ll settle down. I doubt if I will live long enough to witness it, but it could happen.”

  “He will inherit the property in Campiglio.”

  “Yes, Inspector, or the money from its sale. Which is why you are here, I am sure, to ask about that land. You must forgive me for boring you with my family problems. Please don’t think ill of Massimo. He is not a bad person.”

  “Is the sale imminent?” asked Rick.

  Peruzzi thought before answering. “The two bidders—I assume you know who they are—would certainly like the sale to happen soon, no question about that. And so would my nephew.” He rubbed the back of one hand, like it had a rash. “I must confess that I am in no hurry. What money I have made over the years has been in these transactions, buying and selling land. Much of the buying was done many years ago, before the
town changed, before the skiers mounted their invasion of the Dolomites. Some people say I was smart, others that I was lucky. The truth is somewhere in between, but one thing is certain, I loved all of it. I don’t mean the money, though I can’t complain about that part, I’m talking about taking a risk and seeing it bear fruit. There is nothing like it. Nothing. Yes, there were some bad bets, some losses. They only made the successes that much sweeter.” He had been hunched forward as he talked, and now he settled back into the chair and took a long breath. “You see, gentlemen, this is the last transaction, the final sale. I know it has to end, like my life will have to end. But I want to savor it a little longer.”

  The three men sat in silence until Luca spoke. “When did you last have contact with the two potential buyers?”

  “Let me see. With Muller, it’s been at least a week. He called to ask when I was going to make a decision. He was pleasant about it, as he always is. Soon, I told him.” He made a sound which was somewhere between a cough and a laugh, and followed it with a sip from the glass. “Melograno came here five days ago.”

  Luca’s head jerked up from his notebook. “Friday? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely, Inspector. As I told you, I don’t get many visitors.”

  “What time was it?”

  “In the morning, I don’t remember exactly. Ten, eleven.”

  “How did the meeting go?”

  A twisted smile came over Peruzzi’s face. “Well, I’ve dealt with Umberto many times, from when he first got into real estate until now. His style of doing business is not one I share, but he would probably tell you that times have changed. Perhaps he’s right. But you asked how our little meeting went. He was more insistent than ever, and the fact that he came here to my home, rather than calling, surprised me somewhat. But he got the same answer as Muller.”

  “We think that the murder took place on your plot of land.”

  The old man stared at Luca and nodded his head slowly. “That saddens me. I hope it is just coincidence, given its secluded location, off the main road. I know it’s been used for unsavory activities over the years, but never murder. Very sad.”

  Rick shifted in the wooden chair. “Does your nephew have any preference as to who should buy the land?”

  Peruzzi’s eyes bore into Rick, and then softened. “The decision is mine, Signor Montoya, not my nephew’s.”

  “Have you made that decision?”

  The man did not reply, but the silence, combined with the tired look on his face, were answer enough.

  Rick felt a nudge. “Riccardo, we should be on our way back to Campiglio, and let our host get back to his reading.”

  “I am in no rush to see you leave, Inspector, but I’m sure the investigation calls.”

  “What are you reading?” Rick said. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  The man glanced down at the book. “Not at all. I often read the classics, but I must confess that I have a taste for novels of the American West.” He held up the book, a paperback. The cover showed a sheriff’s star, a smoking bullet hole cut through one of its points. “I thought you might be familiar with it, Signor Montoya.” He inclined his head and looked at Rick’s cowboy boots.

  Rick laughed. “It’s not an author I know, Signor Peruzzi. Though as you have noticed, I did spend many years in the American Southwest.”

  “You did? What part?” It was the most energy the man had shown since they’d entered his room.

  “New Mexico.”

  “Where Pat Garrett shot Billy the Kid?”

  “That was to the east of where I lived, but yes, sir, the same state.”

  Peruzzi settled back in the chair and slowly closed his eyes. “I can just picture the tumbleweed and sagebrush.”

  ***

  They separated outside the Campiglio police station. Luca went in to see if anything had come from the lab, and to make contact with his office. Rick started the walk to the hotel to check his email. They would meet at lunch after separately mulling over the case, but from the mostly silent drive back over the mountain Rick sensed that Luca was as stumped as he was. There were some suspects, a few motives, and a lot of alibis, but no obvious trail that could lead them to the murderer. He knew from conversations with Uncle Piero that this was the critical point in an investigation. They needed to catch a break now, or the trail could go cold, perhaps permanently. He took a deep breath and started up the hill. The trail may be going cold, but the temperature today was not. He looked at the sky, watched a few wispy clouds floating between one mountain and the next, and knew it would be a good afternoon to be skiing after all. There were worse ways to spend a few hours than out in the snow with a beautiful woman. If only he had some progress to report to Cat.

  The main street he was on continued to the gondola station, but Rick stepped onto the smaller one, without sidewalks, which took him up to the hotel. His boots sloshed through snow that was beginning to melt despite the shade from tall fir trees on either side of the pavement. The road bent to the right, but opening on the left was a narrow pathway, barely wide enough for a car. A few fresh footprints ran up its center, as well as others that had been filled with the snow of the past few days. At the end of the road, about thirty meters distant, he could see a metal gate in a stone wall. While he could not read the writing that was written on the arch over the gate, there was no question in his mind what was beyond it. This was the town cemetery.

  Rick had been fascinated by cemeteries since childhood when he’d been taken to visit family graves, a tradition shared by both the Montoya and the Fontana sides of his family. Many of his favorite family stories he’d heard for the first time while standing quietly in front of a grave marker. They were often stories that had made him laugh, like learning about an uncle in New Mexico who had been treed by a bear for three days, or his Italian great-grandmother who never, even on her deathbed, revealed her recipe for mushroom soup. Each story was like shining a flashlight into a corner of the family attic. Now he found it hard to pass a cemetery without going in to see if it might reveal something, even if he had to imagine it for himself.

  The metal gate creaked as it opened as Rick stepped carefully inside the walls. Gravestones of different sizes poked out of the snow, closer together than they would be in the States, but then space was at a premium here. Standing guard behind the graveyard loomed the town church. The regular lines of its rectangular side wall were broken by a pointed bell tower at one end and the curved stones of the apse at the other. Rick walked the narrow paths that separated the graves, their snow tamped down by recent visitors. Flowers, some more withered than others, adorned a few of the graves, placed in metal vases set into the stones, often next to an oval black-and-white photograph of the departed. Rick walked slowly, reading the names and studying the photographs, wondering if the people buried under the frozen ground had been consulted on choosing which image would be used. The faces in the photos were stiff and frowning, as if saying they would rather be somewhere else. All but one—a smiling young woman whose color photo matched the bright plastic flowers set in the vase next to it. A few flakes from the recent snows had stuck to the photo and to the petals of the flowers. Rick brushed the gravestone with his hand to better read the name and date. After a few moments of thought he stepped back and noticed the gravestones on either side. The parents had died only a few years after their daughter. A slow death caused by grief? Perhaps this was one story he did not want to know more about.

  He was turning to leave when he looked back at the side of the church. Its flat surface was broken by a door and two windows, but his eye went to a series of colorful frescoes. He walked closer to get a better view. Most of the wall’s paintings were of saints and biblical stories, what would be expected, but at the top, just under the eaves, a striking procession marched the entire length. Thanks to the protection of the roof over the centuries, its figures had more vibrancy t
han in the lower scenes, but it was the theme that got Rick’s attention. On the far left, on a crude throne, a crowned skeleton sat playing a bagpipe. The macabre king was accompanied by two other skeletons playing long, thin horns. Rick could almost hear the shrill music the three instruments produced. Moving toward the king of death, if that’s what he represented, ran a long line of ornately robed figures: the lord, his lady, the cardinal, the merchant, the knight, the soldier—continuing to the end of the wall. Each of the living was being pulled along by a grinning skeleton, their partners in the dance of death, moving steadily toward an inevitable meeting with the skeleton king. The dansa macabra. Rick thought of Cam Taylor and shuddered.

  He turned and walked back between the stones, avoiding the path that held the grave of the girl. He crossed himself, as he always did when leaving a cemetery, and closed the gate carefully behind him.

  ***

  Lunch began with a local specialty that Rick was looking forward to tasting, a dish not found on menus in other regions of Italy. Canederli were bread dumplings, the local equivalent of the knödel popular on the other side of the Alps. They were held together by egg and cheese, with more flavor added through herbs and bits of speck—smoked and cured ham. The dumplings arrived at the table bobbing in bowls of steaming meat broth, which Rick and Luca sprinkled with cheese. As tasty as they might be, there were not many first courses in Italian cuisine that could not be improved with parmigiano reggiano.

  “Flavio doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Rick said to Luca as he cut into one of the dumplings with his soup spoon. “But he told us not to wait.”

  “I doubt if he’s going to skip this meal. He’ll probably dine with the comely diplomat. Look at her table.”