Death in the Dolomites

by David P. Wagner

Rick waited for her to add “when you find my brother,” but she didn’t.

  Chapter Four

  In the elevator Rick studied Cameron Taylor’s business card. He was a vice president, but Rick had learned once that almost everyone in a bank except the cleaning crew had such titles. The name of the bank rang a bell in his head.

  “Luca, I think I know the guy who runs this bank. I did a simultaneous interpreting job at an economic conference last year in Milan and he was a panelist.”

  “You know him well enough to call him about this case?”

  “Sure. I had a long chat with him at the reception. Since he was new and didn’t speak Italian, he didn’t mix much with the other participants.”

  “All the more reason for you to make the call, Riccardo.”

  “He’s probably fairly fluent by now, Luca, that was months ago. He had a tutor.”

  “I’m sure the language abilities of most of your compatriots are similar to mine.”

  When they got to the street, the snow was falling more steadily, enough so that some of the passing cars had turned on their wipers, though not their lights. The strong scent of bakery goods hit their nostrils through the cold air.

  “Shall we have a coffee, Riccardo?”

  “And perhaps a pastry with it?”

  “If you don’t tell my wife.”

  “My lips are sealed, Luca.”

  As in most pastry shops in Italy, a small bar ran half the width of the store, behind which stood a gleaming silver espresso machine. The other half was devoted to the pastries, the full collection rather than just the tempters in the window. The various categories—brioches, cakes, cookies, strudel, éclairs—were separated on the glass shelves by colorful sprigs of artificial flowers. As always in Italy, style was paramount.

  A bell had rung when they came in, and a red-faced woman appeared from a door behind the glass display cases. She wiped her hands on a flour-spotted apron as she appeared. From her shape Rick guessed that the pastries behind the counter did not get thrown away when they became stale.

  “Desidera?”

  “Si, grazie,” Luca answered. “Due espressi, per favore.” He moved to the glass case and turned to Rick. “How about this mille foglie?” He was pointing at square layers alternating tissue-thin pastry with a white filling, and topped with powdered sugar. Rick nodded, and the woman took time from her coffee-making duties to put two on a plate and place it between the two customers. After getting their coffees and taking the first sips, Rick spoke.

  “Well, Luca, what do you think of our American visitor?”

  “A fascinating young woman, Riccardo, who clearly has a very strange relationship with her brother. Not unlike siblings in many Italian families, I should add. Two of my cousins, the children of my Zia Beppa, for example, have been fighting since they were children. Beppa thought that once past childhood they would outgrow it and be close, but they’re my age and still bicker at each other about the silliest things. My aunt has given up. But Signora Taylor and her brother appear to have something more complicated going than do my two cousins. Did I understand correctly that he is called Cam and she Cat? Doesn’t Cat mean gatto?”

  “In her case, gatta, but yes, you’re right on both counts, Luca. So what comes next?”

  The policeman bit into the pastry, sprinkling powdered sugar down the front of his coat. “Well, I will have copies made of this photograph and the local police can take it around to the ski lift operators and throughout the town. And there are the two men who must be interviewed.” After an attempt to brush off the sugar he pulled his notebook from his suit jacket and flipped through some pages. “A certain signor Melograno, who met with our missing man about a loan, and Daniele Lotti, who lives across the hall from our two siblings. And of course, Signora Cortese, the ski instructor.”

  Rick bit more carefully into his pastry, and had a small napkin ready. It was excellent, with just a hint of almond paste. “Melograno shouldn’t be hard to find. They probably will know him at the police station.”

  Luca winked and turned to the woman, who was washing cups in a small sink. “Signora, do you know a Signor Melograno, involved in real estate here in Campiglio?”

  “Of course, Inspector,” she answered brightly. “Dottor Umberto Melograno, he often buys cakes here. His office is on this street, about a hundred meters up on the left, just as the hill starts.”

  “Thank you. And how did you—?”

  “My neighbor has a cousin who works in the police station. Have you found the American?”

  “Not yet, Signora.” He pulled out some bills to pay for the coffee and waved away Rick’s protests. “You just helped me a great deal, Riccardo, and I know you will continue to do so. You must allow me to buy you a simple cup of coffee.” He paid, thanked the woman, and they left the shop.

  “I would have liked to have stayed longer in that warmth and wonderful bakery smell, but our friend there was trying to catch everything we said. She already knows the three people we’re going to interview.”

  Rick adjusted his hat and looked up at the falling snow. “We, Luca?”

  “It is too late to join Flavio at this hour, you might as well keep me company. And as I said earlier, I would rather test my theories on the nephew of a prominent policeman than with the local police force.” He held up his index finger and tapped it gently on the side of his nose. “And, my American friend, it helps that my colleagues in Rome agree with me. They have given the okay to have you assist.”

  Rick knew very well which “colleagues in Rome” were behind it.

  Luca put on a mock face of sadness. “In the American western movies, of which I am very fond, the sheriff pins a badge on the man who is being deputized. Alas, I have no such badge for you.”

  “I appreciate that, Luca, but we can keep this informal.”

  “Excellent. Now, back to my theories that are in need of testing.”

  “Test away, Luca.” They set off in the direction of Melograno’s office.

  “Well, caro Riccardo, did you notice how Signora Taylor reacted when it was revealed that she had dinner with Lotti, the man who lives across the hall and owns their rental apartment? I found that intriguing. But that said, I wouldn’t think that her dinner arrangements with Signor Lotti would have anything to do with her brother going missing. No, it is more likely that this Melograno, or the ski instructor, could lead us to some answers. But we will have to talk to Lotti too. What were your impressions?”

  The hatless detective walked on the building side of the sidewalk, keeping himself under the occasional storefront portico that protected him from the snow. Rick noticed him ducking out of the weather, but refrained from mentioning the head-cover issue again.

  “Yes, Luca, I too noticed her reaction to bringing up her dinner companion, but also saw the way she perked up when mentioning Bruno, the ski rental guy. I met him a few days ago when Flavio took me there to rent my skis.” He pointed across the street. “That’s his shop there, by the way. You know,” Rick added with a grin, “I think he sells hats.”

  The policeman considered the idea. “Okay, let’s make a detour. But allow me to make a quick call to the station so that we can learn where to find this ski instructor.” He pulled out his phone, dialed, and told the person on the other end what he needed. “They’ll call me back.” They crossed the streets, dodging a few cars which were fortunately not going very fast. A thin, gray slush covered the pavement, streaked by the tracks of tires. Luca shook the snow off his hair before they entered the shop.

  Only a few customers wandered through the store, and they didn’t appear to be serious buyers, but this was not the busy time of day for Campiglio merchants. On one side of the large room, men’s clothing was stacked on tables or hung on racks: sweaters, ski coats, pants, and even hats. On the other side was the women’s clothing, similarly arranged on tables, and along
the rear wall ranged skis, boots, and poles, for both purchase and rental. At a bench, a boy of about ten was trying on a pair of red ski boots, his mother and a saleswoman looking on. The boy stood up and clomped around the carpet, happiness covering his face. Rick and Luca watched him and then turned to a shelf holding various styles of hats. As they looked, a man with thick dark hair and matching goatee approached them. He was dressed in the uniform of Campiglio locals: a light cashmere sweater, elegant slacks, and thick-soled shoes.

  “Can I help you find something?” he asked.

  Rick turned and smiled. “Salve, Bruno. We met a few days ago when I came in with Flavio to rent skis. Riccardo Montoya.”

  Bruno nodded and smiled. “Yes, of course, Riccardo. The skis are serving you well, I trust?”

  “They are, thank you. I’m here with a friend who arrived in Campiglio without a hat. Perhaps he can find one here.”

  Luca turned around to reveal the suit and tie under his coat. He extended his hand and smiled. “Luca Albani. Piacere.”

  Bauer took a moment to react as he reciprocated the policeman’s handshake. “Bruno Bauer, piacere mio. We have some more hats over here if you don’t see what you want on this shelf. Will you, uh, be in Campiglio long?”

  “That depends, that depends.” Luca held up a plaid wool hat that to Rick looked suspiciously like something Sherlock Holmes would wear. “I don’t really ski, so perhaps something other than the knit ones would be what I’ll need.”

  Again Bruno did not answer immediately, looking at Luca with a blank expression. “Take your time, and if you need any help please let me know. Riccardo, nice to see you. If you’ll excuse me…” He strode off toward the back of the store as Luca looked at himself in a mirror on the wall, the deerstalker hat on his head. He didn’t seem to notice that the store owner had left them.

  “I kind of like this one, Riccardo, not just because it will keep my head warm, but the herringbone pattern of the cloth is very handsome. And it’s on sale.”

  “I can see why it’s on sale. You’re not really considering buying that, are you Luca?”

  “And why not? Look, the back brim will keep the snow off my neck, and if it gets really cold, the flaps come down over my ears.” He demonstrated; untying the ribbons from the top and letting the sides flop down. “Ecco. I’ll take it.”

  “Sei pazzo.”

  “You won’t call me crazy when your ears are frozen and mine are like bread from the oven. You’ll wish you’d bought one of these instead of that out-of-fashion hat you’re wearing.”

  “This is a Borsalino.”

  “I rest my case. I’ll pay for this and we’ll be off to see Signor Melograno.”

  When they got to the street Rick looked at Luca in his new hat and shook his head in wonder. “Luca, did you even take notice of Bruno Bauer?”

  “Of course I did.” He turned to admire himself in the glass of the store window. “He obviously knew who I was, I might just as well have been wearing a sign on my back. And he could not have gotten away from me faster. Very curious.”

  “I had the same impression. And after the way Cat spoke about him, I looked him over in a different light than when I was in there with Flavio a few days ago.”

  “Your conclusion?”

  “That she may be interested in more than his rental skis.”

  “I would concur.” In contrast to when he was hatless, Luca now grabbed the place close to the curb, the snow settling softly on his new hat. He pulled out his cell phone and punched some buttons. “Sergeant? Inspector Albani. Any word on where to find Gina Cortese?…Excellent.” He wedged the phone against his ear and made some notes. “Thank you, we’ll do that later this afternoon. We’ve talked with the American woman and now we’re off to interview a certain Signor Umberto Melograno. What can you tell me about him?”

  ***

  They found the office of Agenzia Immobiliare Melograno S.A. just up the hill from the town’s main square. The building was a new construction, but in the chalet-style that dominated Campiglio. Rick surmised the design came under municipal building ordinances like the pueblo revival or territorial style required in Santa Fe. The covered porch allowed window-shoppers to peer at the merchandise of two stores on the ground floor. Next to the door leading to the second floor, a glass case with pictures of apartments and houses invited those interested to visit the real estate office. Luca and Rick shook the snow off their hats and shoulders and accepted the invitation.

  They opened the door at the top of the stairwell and found that the office took up the entire second floor. Directly in front of them was a reception area divided into two sections, each with two sofas facing each other and low tables between them. Magazines were fanned in neat arrangements on both tables. From their covers, Rick guessed them to be tourist and ski publications. Behind the seating area, on the far wall, Rick counted three doors, all closed. Along the left side of the room, glass walls enclosed a long wooden table and chairs where four people were meeting, their voices muffled by the glass. The right side of the office had three cubicles, two of which were unoccupied. In the third cubicle, a woman rose from her desk when she noticed the two new arrivals.

  “May I help you?”

  “We would like to talk with Signor Melograno, please. I am Inspector Albani and this is Signor Montoya.”

  The woman’s eyes darted from one to the other before settling on the policeman. “Signor Melograno is in a meeting at the moment.” She motioned toward the meeting room. “Is this about the missing American?”

  Luca gave her his best smile. “Yes it is.”

  “I’ll tell Signor Melograno you’re here.”

  They sat on one of the sofas while she walked to the door of the conference room and tapped on its glass door. The man at the head of the table looked up in annoyance. She opened the door, went to Melograno and whispered in his ear. As she talked he leaned forward to take stock of the two men sitting in the waiting area, giving them a stilted smile and nod. After hearing his reply she closed the door and came back to the two visitors. “Signor Melograno will be with you as soon as he finishes his meeting. May I bring you some coffee or something else to drink?”

  “Thank you, no need to trouble you, we’ll just wait,” said Luca, answering for both of them. She returned to her cubicle and the policeman twirled his new hat on his knee before joining Rick in studying the man in the glass room. The only real estate agents Rick had known were in Albuquerque, and they had mostly been smiling middle-aged women with ample hair, usually blond. Melograno was a large man with a jowl bordering on a double chin, his head topped with thick, dark hair that fell slightly over the back of his collar. Rick was struck by the man’s resemblance to a former governor of New Mexico. Had Melograno’s shirt not been a clean, starched tattersall, he could almost have been described as unkempt. The nearly sloppy image was reinforced when he stood up—his belt was only partially visible and the shirt buttons strained under pressure. The other three people were standing as the meeting broke up. Two of them left the room after pulling on coats and went directly out the door to the stairway. The other listened to Melograno without speaking, then left the room herself and walked past Rick and Luca to one of the two unoccupied cubicles. Melograno walked to the chairs and the two visitors rose. His handshake was strong, almost intimidating. Luca introduced Rick without any explanation of his presence. If Melograno was curious, he didn’t show it.

  “Inspector, I am at your disposal. A strange business, that of Mister Taylor.”

  “It is indeed. I hope you can be of some assistance.”

  “I shall do my best. Perhaps it would be better if we went to my office. Let me lead the way.”

  Melograno walked to one of the doors at the back of the room, and they followed with hats and coats in hand. He opened it and stood aside to let them enter. “Please make yourselves comfortable.” He gestured at
a set of thick leather chairs at one side of the room. The other side held a large desk, behind which stretched a low shelf with a few magazines stacked on it, and a standard filing cabinet. Except for a telephone and a small laptop computer, the desk was bare. The most striking feature of the room was its picture window. Its view extended vertically from the base where skiers finished their runs, all the way to the peak of the mountain. The only competition with the window was a roughly carved wooden bear, almost the size of Melograno himself. The beast stood on its back legs, its bared claws and fangs guarding a side door that Rick guessed led to the executive washroom. A few meters to one side of it was another door, probably leading to a back stairway, which would be required in a building of this size. Between the two doors, on the wall, three colorful pheasants perched proudly. Each stood on its own small shelf, looking as lifelike as the day it had been dropped from the air. The two visitors settled into the chairs, coats and hats over their laps, and their host took a seat opposite them.

  “The real estate business is going well?” Luca’s question was a normal way to start a conversation with a real estate agent and nothing more. Even though the man knew his visitors didn’t work for the tax police, it wouldn’t be the kind of information a businessman would volunteer.

  Melograno shrugged. “Not my best year, not my worst.”

  “But the snow must help business,” said Rick.

  Melograno looked at Rick, as if debating with himself whether to ask why he was there. “Snow is always welcome in a ski resort town. The last few days have been especially helpful. Weekends are usually a busy time for real estate, when tourists arrive from Lombardy and the Veneto, and that has been the case yesterday and today.” He turned to the policeman. “But you are here about the disappearance of Signor Taylor.”

  Luca flipped open his notebook. “Signor Taylor’s sister told us that you met with him on Thursday. Tell us about that.”

  Melograno put the tips of his fingers together in a praying gesture and tapped them against his chin. After a few moments of thought he answered. “The meeting was business-related, of course, and though I can’t go into detail because of proprietary information, it is not a secret that I have applied for a loan from his bank. It isn’t a large loan from their point of view, but for me it will be extremely helpful.”