“Flavio, you outdid yourself in the selection of this bottle. Its match with the gnocchi was something magical.”
“You are too kind, Luca. You likely passed the vines that produced this bottle’s grapes when you drove to Campiglio. It is an Etschtaler pinot bianco. Unfortunately a small vineyard. I could sell twice as many bottles as they produce.”
Since moving to Italy, Rick was increasingly finding himself drawn into discussions of food and wine. It was simply something Italians did, along with complaining about the government and worrying that the economy was finally going to collapse. He found it more than ironic that at the same time they complained and worried, Italians were enjoying a lifestyle that would have been the envy of most of his friends back in the States. Now, as the table was cleared of the first course dishes, the conversation, as he knew it would, left food and returned to crime. After the waitress cleared the plates in front of each of them, in anticipation of the secondo, Rick began the questioning.
“So, Luca, how did your meeting with Melograno go? I don’t suppose he confessed to the murder.”
“He did not, Riccardo. I asked him about his movements on the day of the murder, Saturday.”
“And?”
“Not exactly exculpatory. He said he was working in his office, and I confirmed with someone on his staff that he was there most of the day.”
“That sounds like a good alibi,” Flavio said, “if someone vouched for him. You think that person can’t be trusted since he works for Umberto?”
Luca drank the last drops of the wine in his glass. “No, it’s not that. The problem is that if Melograno was in his office, his assistant wouldn’t know if the man was actually inside the whole time.”
“That’s true,” said Rick. “There’s a door to the back stairs. We saw it.”
“Exactly. So he could have been in and out several times and the kid sitting in the outer office wouldn’t have known. Melograno told me he’d gone to a bar nearby when he left the office at about five o’clock. I talked to the barman who said Melograno goes in there most days at that time, and he’s quite sure Saturday was one of them.”
“Quite sure but not positive,” Rick said. “That was about the time the body was being dumped from the gondola.”
Flavio finished his wine. “But if he was at the bar, that lets Umberto off the hook.”
“For the drop of the body, yes it does.” Luca pondered his statement and then snapped out of his thoughts. “Wine steward, are we going to continue with this wine for the second course?”
“No, of course not.” answered Flavio. “The secondo tonight is involtini, so a red is required. There’s a winery just north of Sondrio I deal with that makes an excellent Valtellina. We will have one of their bottles.” He signaled to the waitress who scurried over and took his order.
Rick watched her disappear into the kitchen. “Luca, Flavio and I ran into two of our suspects this afternoon, if I can call them that.”
“Really? Tell me.”
“First, Gina Cortese. We bumped into her when she was between classes, and of course the murder of Taylor came up. She broke down when talking about the guy, and it was real. Don’t you think so, Flavio?”
“Hard to tell, but I think so.”
“She’s got the best alibi of anyone, being with classes Saturday,” Luca said. “Well, let me clarify that; she was in classes from ten o’clock on, so I suppose there may be a gray area early in the morning. But what would be her motive? They could have had a fight Friday night, but it would have been quite a violent one for her to go home and find someone to murder the man.”
Rick recalled Gina slapping her ski school colleague, but said nothing. Three new glasses and the wine had arrived at the table. The bottle was opened and quickly vetted by Flavio before it was poured for Rick and Luca. They tasted and approved.
“I can’t think of any other motive she could have,” said Rick as he studied the dark red color of the Valtellina. “More likely would be her ex-husband, if she was really fooling around with Taylor before the divorce was final. Taylor could have even been the reason for the divorce.”
“I brought up his ex-wife when I talked to the mayor this afternoon. He gave the impression that he’s not shedding tears every night because of the divorce, not that he couldn’t also have had a grudge against the dead man. But now he’s married to his job as mayor, which, ironically, he is trying to use for an alibi. Essentially, he doesn’t have a real alibi, since he spends his days going around town glad-handing the electorate in anticipation of the election. So he was nowhere and everywhere on Saturday. But what intrigues me is his relationship with Melograno.”
The second course arrived, thin cutlets of veal that had been spread with bread crumbs, cheese, and mushrooms, rolled into meaty tubes, and lightly sautéed in oil and butter. They were arranged on each plate at right angles to a bundle of green asparagus sprinkled with parmegiano reggiano. The three men silently admired the food before putting knife and fork to it. After a few bites Luca returned to his point.
“I remember what you said, Flavio, about Melograno being the mayor’s largest contributor, and I know that the election campaign is heating up, but…” He tried to find the words. Rick and Flavio waited patiently, enjoying their veal and asparagus while they did. “Is there more to their relationship than the need to get Grandi re-elected?”
“It’s no secret,” said Flavio, “that Umberto has designs to increase his influence outside of Campiglio. The bribery case that was dropped involved a regional politician, not a local one. But he cultivates the local economy very carefully, winning friends, and weakening enemies whenever he can. Bruno Bauer, for example…Umberto lent him the money to renovate his store.”
“Bauer’s store looked brand new when we were there, didn’t it, Luca?”
“Yes it did. New carpeting, lighting. It looked very elegant. To go along with the merchandise. The hats, for example.” He pretended not to notice Rick’s grimace. “And who was the other person you two saw on the mountain while I was working?”
“Daniele Lotti,” Rick answered. “He was having a beer in a little place halfway down. He did not seem very happy, with a good friend dead and the sister ignoring him.”
“Did you ask him to describe all his movements on Saturday?”
“Hardly, Luca. But he did tell Flavio and me that all he’s done since he got here on Friday night is ski, so I assume that’s what he did on Saturday. Or will say he did.” Rick put the last piece of veal into his mouth. The asparagus spears were already gone. “If that’s the case, he has no alibi whatsoever for Saturday.”
“What’s his motive?” Flavio asked.
“His motive, Flavio, is Signora Taylor’s motive.” Rick and Flavio looked at Luca, waiting for him to continue. “It is clear the young lady has a motive, which is what we must assume is a large inheritance, that now she does not have to share. It also appears clear that Lotti is attracted to her, even if she does not wish to reciprocate. But this gives her a power over the poor man. They did have dinner together the night before the murder.”
“An interesting scenario,” Rick said, “planning murder over dinner.”
“And as possible, or unlikely, as any of the others we have come up with,” Luca said. “There’s really nothing else to make him a suspect, except for his lack of alibi.”
“He told us something else that is a coincidence, but a weird one,” Rick said. “Taylor told him the first sexual encounter between him and Gina Cortese took place the first summer he came here, in the very field where he was murdered. Taylor apparently liked to brag about his conquests.”
That got the policeman’s attention. “I am beginning to like our victim less and less. But I have to wonder: Who else knew about that tryst in the field?” The three of them pondered in silence until Rick spoke.
“Something else, Luca. F
lavio thinks Lotti bought his apartments from Melograno.”
Luca was about to take a drink of the wine, but now lowered the glass back to the table. “From Melograno? Is that significant?”
“I wondered the same thing, but Flavio thinks it’s not,” said Rick. “He’s the most prominent real estate dealer in Campiglio, it would be logical for Lotti to have used him. So it would mean about as much as Melograno having bought a bear carved by Mayor Grandi.”
“Ah, our delightful Mayor Grandi.” Luca seemed about to comment on the mayor when he stopped in mid-thought. A grin split his face. “By the way, Flavio, I trust you know who is Grandi’s opponent in this election?” Flavio nodded.
Rick looked from one face to the other. “Now what?”
“Well, Rick,” said Flavio, “that other candidate would be Mitzi Muller, who is known to everyone in Campiglio as Zia Mitzi. Nobody gives her much of a chance to unseat Grandi.”
“From the way he’s campaigning,” said Luca, “it appears that Grandi’s not taking any chances. And, Flavio, what does Aunt Mitzi do around here that makes her known to everyone?” Rick knew from the ever-present grin that Luca knew the answer to his question.
“She runs the best pastry shop in town. That may be why she isn’t given much of a chance of winning. Nobody wants her to be elected, for fear she’d spend less time baking.”
From Luca’s expression one might have thought he’d pulled a rabbit from a hat.
“Wait a minute, Flavio,” said Rick. “Is her shop right on the main street, across from Bruno’s ski shop?”
“Aha, so you’ve been there and didn’t tell me. I would have asked you to bring back some of her almond cookies. Best cookies in the Dolomites.”
“Her mille foglie was pretty good. You can still see traces of it on Luca’s jacket lapel.”
Luca instinctively glanced down at his jacket and laughed. “Well, I think such a prominent citizen of Campiglio should be questioned about the case. Riccardo, we will have to make a return visit to her establishment. And we won’t forget the almond cookies.” Luca held up a finger. “But, Zia Mitzi does not seem like the kind of person who would use violence to win the mayorship.” His comment was greeted by blank looks from the other two men at the table. “I’m talking about the attack last night. Remember that the victim worked for Grandi’s campaign.”
Rick nodded. “One theory, Flavio, is that the attack on Pittini had something to do with his work for Grandi.”
“When you told me about the attack, Rick, you failed to mention that.”
“I suppose I was too concerned that I could have been the target.”
“You’re forgiven.” Flavio turned to the policeman. “But an attack on the street over who should be mayor of Campiglio? That doesn’t sound like my beloved hometown.”
Luca nodded. “That was exactly the mayor’s initial reaction today when I broached the possibility, Flavio. And if anyone suspected Mitzi of such activities, or suspected someone on her campaign, Grandi would be the one to know.”
“By the way, Luca,” Rick said, “what’s the condition of Pittini?”
“He still hasn’t regained consciousness. His wife remains at his side, and a policeman is on call, ready to get any kind of information out of him if he comes to. Even though the attack was from behind, he may well know who it was. Or suspect someone.” The policeman watched the waitress take away his empty plate.
Rick watched his own plate disappear. “The mention of Mitzi reminds me of her cookies, which logically brings us to the issue of dolci to finish off this wonderful meal.” He pushed the chair back slightly from the table. “I, for one, will skip the sweets and have some fruit. What about you, Flavio? Flavio?” Rick turned to follow his friends eyes, and saw that Lori Shafer, still dressed in her working pantsuit, had taken her place at a table in one corner of the room. “Aha. The lovely Ms. Shafer returns from her consular duties. She was working late.”
Flavio turned back to his tablemates. “I can’t let her dine alone, my friends, that would be rude.”
“So that is the American diplomat,” said Luca. “Of course, Flavio, do the needful. The waitress will find you for your dessert and coffee order.” Flavio rose from their table and walked across the room, saying a quick hello to the Smiths on the way. The Americans were just finishing their involtini con asparagi. Rick and Luca watched as Flavio greeted Lori and took the chair across from her, flashing a quick grin back at their table as he sat. She looked up and waved at Rick.
“I think you are correct about needing something sweet, Riccardo. With our coffee. Just to clear the palate, of course.”
“Of course, Luca. They have an excellent panna cotta, I had it a few nights ago.”
“Small portion?”
“Tiny.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have.” Luca got the attention of the waitress and ordered the dessert. Rick asked for the frutta fresca. “Riccardo,” the policeman continued, “there is someone else we should interview, besides the other mayoral candidate.”
He’s back to using “we” again, Rick thought. “And who would that be?”
“Bruno Bauer, of the hat emporium. You said that Signora Taylor spoke of him like they knew each other, and now we find that he got a loan from Melograno.”
“I don’t see any motive for Bauer to murder Taylor.”
“Nor do I, Riccardo, nor do I. Unless, again, the murdered man’s sister is actually behind the crime, and we substitute Bauer for Lotti in that scenario.”
“The picture you’re painting of Cat is one of a scheming woman who can wrap men around her little finger.”
“Well, Riccardo, I assume you noticed that she is a beautiful woman, and—”
He was interrupted by the arrival of the custard in a small ramekin. A brownish liquid had been dripped over the white surface. The waitress also set a bowl of fruit on the table, which Rick began to study after gesturing for Luca to eat. The inspector took a small spoonful of the custard.
“An excellent panna cotta. Smooth with a dash of amaretto serving as the perfect foil for the cream. Your suggestion is much appreciated.”
Rick pulled an orange from the bowl and placed it on his plate. Using the knife provided by the waitress, he sliced off one end and peeled the thick skin, happily finding that it was a Sicilian blood orange, his favorite. After separating the slices, he picked up a fork, sliced one of them, and put it in his mouth. Italians always used a knife and fork to eat fruit, even bananas. Luca watched the process as he enjoyed his sweet.
“Enough murder talk, Riccardo. Tell me, where do you live in Rome?”
“I have a small apartment near Piazza Navona.”
“Ah, right in the centro storico. How were you able to come across such a place?”
“A distant relative owns it.”
Luca had made quick work of his dessert and was scraping up the last bits with his small spoon. “Of course. That’s what family is for. I lived with my parents until I got married, a typical Italian story, and then managed to find an apartment only a few blocks from where they live.”
“Much to your mother’s delight.”
“And my wife’s. Fortunately they get along well. When I was transferred up here I don’t know what upset Mamma more, losing her son, or her daughter-in-law.”
Try moving to a different continent, Rick thought, and see how your mother takes it. “Where was your apartment?”
“Outside the walls, the Porta San Giovanni area. Near Piazza Zama.”
“I’ve been to Piazza Zama,” Rick said, “There’s a restaurant—”
“Severino. Best saltimboca in Rome, which is saying a lot.” His empty custard bowl was whisked away, a coffee cup put in its place. “Riccardo, do you know what Piazza Zama is named for?”
“The Battle of Zama, if I remember my Italian history correctl
y.”
“Bravo. The final and decisive battle of the second Punic War, Scipio defeating Hannibal outside Carthage. Here it is the twenty-first century, and we Romans think it important to name a square after an event that took place in 202 BC. Quite a long collective memory, don’t you think?”
Rick drank the last of his coffee. “There’s simply more history to remember here, Luca. The state I come from in America boasts the oldest capital in the country, yet it only dates back four hundred years.”
“The one with the Roman street grid.”
“Your short-term memory is pretty sharp too.” Rick glanced at Flavio and Lori, who were in the middle of a deep conversation. He wondered what language they were using, but suspected it was English. Despite the jokes, Flavio’s English was excellent, as was his accent—when he wanted it to be. Rick returned his attention to the inspector. “Do you really want me to go with you to talk with Mitzi and Bruno Bauer tomorrow?”
“Absolutely, having you present when I talk to people keeps them off guard, better than if I took one of the local police with me. And I value your opinions.”
“That’s good of you, but I—” Rick was interrupted by his cell phone, which he pulled from his pocket. Not a number he recognized. He glanced at Luca who gestured for him to take the call.
“Montoya.”
“Rick, this is Cat. I need your help. Can you come over right now?”
***
Rick looked at himself in the mirror of the elevator as it rose to Cat’s floor. He wore the shearling coat from a small shop in Taos, bought when he was on a ski break from college. The leather on the sleeves was beginning to get shiny, and it had a small hole on the bottom of one side from when he’d caught it in his seat belt lock. It was too expensive to have the hole repaired, and over time the story of the bullet hole had proven to be worth gold at Albuquerque singles bars. He would never get rid of the jacket; not just for its warmth, but the memories it held of cold times past. And it went with his cowboy boots, as well as with the wide-brimmed hat he now held in one hand.
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