“Let’s get you home, Cat. You look exhausted.”
“It has been a long day. The cold outside and this cappuccino woke me up, but now it’s starting to get to me.”
Rick rose from his chair and walked to the bar, behind which their waiter was pouring drinks into glasses on a tray. From a wad of tickets in his pocket he found the right one and passed it to Rick, who checked it, counted out some euros, and thanked the man. As he walked back to the table he saw a familiar figure standing at a table near the door. He was chuckling as he slipped Cat’s coat over her shoulders.
“What’s funny Rick?”
“That man over there is the mayor of this wonderful town. As you may be able to tell, he is up for re-election.” He watched Grandi work the room like a pro, shaking hands with the tourists but giving more familial hugs to the locals. It reminded him of his father showing the flag at a diplomatic reception. “Wait a second, Cat, I am curious about something.” She pulled out a small mirror from somewhere and checked her makeup while Rick watched Grandi shake hands with Bruno after giving his ex-wife a peck on each cheek.
Cat took Rick’s arm as they walked toward the door. “You know the mayor, Rick?”
“You’re the one who said it’s a small town, Cat.” He pushed open the door to let her pass. Leaving the heat and stuffiness of the bar, the crisp outside air felt good. Rick pulled down his hat and looked up to see Flavio, with Lori Shafer in tow, coming across the snow-covered porch, heads bent against the wind.
“Out for a night on the town, Flavio?”
His friend’s head popped up. “Rick, what a nice surprise.”
“Ciao, Rick,” said Lori. “Hi, Cat. I don’t think you’ve met Flavio Caldaro. Flavio, this is Cat Taylor.”
Flavio pulled off his glove and took Cat’s hand. “It is my pleasure, Caterina. I only wish we were meeting under better circumstances. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“That’s kind of you. And I am so glad to meet Rick’s friend. He has told me about you.”
“Only things that put me in a good light, I hope.”
Rick watched his friend work his magic. He had always been good at making a first impression, especially when it involved beautiful women. Lori held Flavio’s arm tightly.
“You are just leaving?” Flavio asked. “Can we talk you into going back in and joining us for something?”
Rick was about to beg off, but Cat spoke first. “Thank you, Flavio, but I really need some sleep. I’ve had a difficult day.”
“Of course, Caterina. We will do it another time. Right, Lori?”
“Yes, another time,” said Lori. “Cat, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Cat shivered, and Rick wondered if it was the cold. “You know, Lori, I think I need to rest in the morning. Make some calls back to the States.”
“Certainly. I’ll be over after lunch.”
Cat glanced at Rick, who was watching the exchange. He wondered who she would be getting out of bed by calling the States in the morning.
“Actually, Lori,” Cat continued, “Rick has been nice enough to invite me to go skiing in the afternoon. He thought it would be good to get my mind off things. So maybe I’ll see you around, say, four?”
“Sure, four o’clock is fine.”
Rick thought he noticed Lori squeezing Flavio’s arm, but it could have been his imagination. Air kisses were exchanged and Rick and Cat descended into the square, now virtually deserted. When he heard the door of the bar close he stopped and put his hands on Cat’s shoulders.
“The two beers may have clouded my memory, Cat, but I don’t recall asking you to join me on the slopes tomorrow.”
She took one of his arms and folded it over her shoulder while she pushed against him. “I said it without thinking, but you don’t mind, do you? I couldn’t face another whole day with that woman.”
Rick had to admit that he wouldn’t mind, as long as it didn’t interfere with assisting Luca in the morning. He kept the arm around Cat’s shoulder as they crossed the plaza, their footprints beginning to fill with snow as soon as they stepped out of them. It was going to be another good night for skiers.
Chapter Nine
After a night of heavy snowfall the morning had arrived with clear skies. The first rays of sun cut between the eastern peaks and exploded into bright prisms on every white surface they hit. A snowy night followed by a sunny morning; nothing could have made the skiers—or the tourist office—more pleased. Skiers in small streams clomped along the town’s sidewalks toward various impianti, eventually converging into rivers of jostling bodies as they neared the lift lines. Everyone knew this would be a perfect day, and they wanted to get the most of it.
Rick, with no skis over his shoulder, walked against the current. The pointed footprints of his boots contrasted with the snub-toed marks of the skiers he passed heading in the opposite direction. If he hadn’t known it already, their faces told him he would be missing an ideal morning on the mountain. But the excitement of the investigation easily made up for it, and the snow would still be there in the afternoon when he took to the mountain with Cat.
He was becoming an accepted member of the station team, despite his quasi-official status with the Polizia dello Stato. The uniformed policeman at the front desk barely looked up when Rick pushed through the front door and made his way to Luca’s office. The door was ajar, and he tapped lightly.
“Avanti.”
“We missed you at breakfast, Luca.” Rick took his usual seat opposite the inspector.
“That’s because you came down at a much later hour. I had to eat early since…” He spread his arms over the papers. “Since I had all this waiting for me. It’s been so long since I had my coffee I am ready for another, but let me first bring you up to speed on what is happening in the investigation.”
“Some developments?”
“You could say that. One of the men who helped search the field yesterday was talking with his wife about it, and she told her cousin, who happens to work in a real estate office.”
“Melograno’s?”
“No, a competing one. Anyway, the cousin is sure that the field where the cap and blood were found is the one that Melograno is trying to purchase with the loan from Taylor’s bank.”
Rick’s eyes widened. “An interesting coincidence.”
“I’m sure your uncle has talked to you about such coincidences, Riccardo.”
“He has, he has. So what could—”
“Wait, it gets better. This person also said that it’s well known in local real estate circles that there is another bidder on that plot of land.” He leaned back in his chair.
“Don’t keep me hanging, Luca.”
“It is a certain Lauro Muller, the owner of a local hotel.”
“Lauro Muller. Hmm. Am I supposed to recognize—wait a minute. Zia Mitzi is named Muller. Has to be a relative.”
“Her husband, to be exact. He’s what could be described as a prominent businessman, and the manager of her mayoral campaign. Apparently he wants to buy the property to build another hotel. It would be a perfect place for one, I must say. People staying there could ski out the back door.”
“The same reason Melograno wants to build an apartment complex there.”
“Exactly. And it is one of the last choice pieces of undeveloped land in Campiglio close to the ski trails. I asked the sergeant to track down exactly who owns it. And something else about the Muller family: There is a son. He came back to Campiglio a few months ago after spending several years in Milano, where he was involved in some petty crime. Since returning home, however, he’s been working in his mother’s bakery and hasn’t gotten into any trouble.”
“His mother has whipped him into shape.”
“Mammas often do that.”
The two men silently pondered mothers. It was something Italian me
n did often.
“Has Pittini’s condition improved?”
“No, still in a coma. The stab wound is healing nicely, however. I did confirm that he was working the gondola on the night of the drop, so the possibility that he was involved in the Taylor case becomes stronger.”
“That’s good, since it weakens the possibility that the attacker was after me.”
“I suppose it does.” Luca pushed his papers to one side and got to his feet. “Let’s get a coffee on the way to see Mitzi Muller. I’d rather not get one from her if we are going to be asking her questions about the case. Wouldn’t be professional.”
“And that means we shouldn’t buy any almond cookies either. Flavio will be disappointed.”
While Luca pulled on his jacket, Rick walked to the wall and pulled out the thumbtack from where it was stuck near one corner of the poster. He smoothed down the curled corner with his left hand and carefully pressed the thumbtack back in place. The poster now showed the tips of the woman’s skis. It had been driving him crazy.
***
The same rich profumo of baked goods washed over them as they came through the door of the shop, even richer than their previous visit. Rick surmised that today they were closer to the morning baking hour, and the strong flavors of the ovens still hung in the air. He immediately regretted that Luca had vetoed any purchases. Besides the almond cookies, which he immediately spotted behind the glass, there were rows of other goodies to tempt him. Any one of them would have gone perfectly with an espresso.
There was no one behind the counter when they entered, but soon a figure appeared through the door. He was in his early twenties, unshaven, and stared at them through tired eyes. The long, white apron was stained with flour or sugar, and dark hair pushed out from under a blue baseball cap with a yellow M on the front. The way he stared at Rick and Luca, one would have thought he had just emerged from a cave after a long hibernation. After several seconds he spoke, but it was not to the two visitors.
“Mamma! Clienti!” He kept his eyes on them as he called out, then turned and disappeared into the back. Rick and Luca were left looking at each other for several seconds before Zia Mitzi hurried through the door. She had the same work outfit as their previous visit, but this time her hair was covered with a white scarf tied in the back. Perhaps she had been frosting a cake when they arrived.
“Yes, gentlemen, what can I—oh, it’s you, Inspector.” She tried to put on a more serious face, but it seemed to go against her nature. While other women her age had wrinkles caused by worry, Rick surmised that those around her eyes and mouth had formed from too much smiling. This was a resolutely cheerful woman. “Such a terrible thing, with that American man. I feel so bad for his sister. She lives upstairs, you know.” She cleaned her hands on her apron. “But you’re not here to talk about that, I’m sure. Can I get you another coffee? And some pastry?”
“Thank you, Signora Muller, but we are here regarding the investigations, and hoped you could be of help.” A perplexed look crossed her face as she waited for the policeman to continue. “I don’t believe you’ve met Signor Montoya.” Rick nodded.
“I had heard that an American was helping in the investigation, so I assumed he was the one who came in here with you the other morning. Welcome to Campiglio, Signor Montoya.” Her natural smile returned.
“Thank you, Signora.”
“Please, both of you, call me Mitzi. Everyone else does. Would you like to sit down?” She motioned to three small tables at one side of the room, near the window.
“Thank you,” answered Luca, “but we just have a few questions to ask. Let me start with the attack of two nights ago. Since it happened only a few steps from here, do you have any idea who could have done it?”
“The sergeant who came by yesterday asked me if I had heard or seen anything, but I told him we were closed at that hour. Since I get up so early every morning to bake, I was fast asleep when it happened, and since I sleep so soundly…”
“You live close by?” asked Rick.
“We live just down the street, Signor Montoya, on the first floor, but facing the mountain, not the street.” She pointed in the direction of the attack. “Lauro, my husband, was still up, he works a different schedule than I do. But he didn’t hear anything either.”
“Your husband owns a hotel, I understand.”
“That’s right Inspector, the Hotel Trentino.” She turned in the other direction. “Two blocks down and one block back to the east.”
“The victim worked for your opponent, Mayor Grandi.”
For the first time she showed some annoyance. “It is impossible that Guido’s attacker could have had any political motive. I’m sure you know that there are many men around Campiglio who have reason to be angry with him, and it has nothing to do with local politics.” Her face changed to a slightly darker hue of pink.
“Did your son hear anything, Signora?” asked Rick. He couldn’t bring himself to call her Mitzi. “I assume he lives with you.”
“Vittorio has to be up even earlier than I do, Signor Montoya, since he lights the ovens and prepares the bread dough. He was asleep before I was.” The bell rang over the door and two women came into the store. Mitzi looked at them and back at the two men. The smile returned, but Rick thought it was more for the new arrivals. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Luca looked down at the cookies and Rick wondered if he was going to change his mind about purchasing some. “One more thing, Signora. I understand that your husband is trying to purchase a plot of land just outside of the town.”
Mitzi held up her hands, and Rick could see specks of what looked like white cake icing on some of the fingers. It matched most of the cakes under the glass case. “I don’t get involved in my husband’s business, Inspector, and he doesn’t tell me how to bake cookies. It works out well for both of us.”
***
Rick watched Luca slowly retie the ear flap strings before carefully placing his hat on his head. It was starting to be a ritual with the man when he emerged into the cold. Just wearing the thing was bad enough, but treating it like some kind of heirloom was a bit much. The policeman glanced at Rick and grinned.
“Next stop, Riccardo, the Hotel Trentino. We have some questions for Signor Muller.” Rick heard the muffled sound of Luca’s phone, which was quickly fished out and answered. The inspector nodded, wedged the telefonino between shoulder and ear, and scribbled notes as he listened. “Thank you, Sergeant. We’re going to see Signor Muller now, and then we’ll be back at the station to get the car.” He stowed phone, pen, and pad, and turned to Rick. “We have the name and address of the owner of the empty lot. He lives in Folgarida, the next town to the north. We’ll drive there after our visit to the hotel.”
“We passed Folgarida when Flavio and I drove into town last week. It has its own ski lifts and trails, but is connected with Campiglio’s. You can get a special lift ticket and ski both places.”
“Were you tempted?”
“Not really. There are more than enough trails here in Campiglio to satisfy a skier like me, I don’t need another valley. The way Flavio talked, the special pass is more for people staying in Folgarida who want access to Campiglio, not the other way around.”
They crossed the street, which had little traffic at this time of the morning, and started up a side street. On the corner they had passed two signs for the Hotel Trentino. A rectangular brown sign on a light pole was courtesy of the traffic authorities, with the same size and lettering used all over Italy to help tourists find lodging. The other was a carved wooden sign, complete with a little chalet roof and a small spotlight. Attached as it was to the corner building, it reminded Rick of the madonnelle, the small but elaborate religious shrines found on so many corners in Rome, put there in commemoration, or as thanks for some answered prayer.
“The sergeant gave me another new p
iece of information, Riccardo, and just in time for our meeting with Signor Muller. Signora Pittini told the policeman on duty at the hospital that her husband had an argument a few days ago with one of Zia Mitzi’s supporters.”
“Violent?”
“They didn’t come to blows, but from what she heard from her husband, it was very heated.”
“She’s just remembering that now? Maybe she wants to make the attack seem political, since everyone in town is assuming that it had to do with women, which reflects badly on her.”
“Your cynicism shocks me, Riccardo. The poor woman was under such stress after the attack, and so consumed with nursing her beloved husband back to health, it just slipped her mind.” He pulled the notepad from his pocket. “Fortunately we have a way to confirm the story or not. Gaetano Spadacini, the man her husband argued with, happens to work at the Hotel Trentino.”
The hotel stood at the end of the short street. Its brown wood contrasted with the green of the mountain rising behind it. The inverted V of its sharply pitched roof covered a row of balconies, which in turn covered more balconies, four floors in all. Rick wondered if the rooms in the back, with the view of the mountain, fetched more than those overlooking the roofs of Campiglio. Perhaps they were equally pricey. The hotel where he was staying was very comfortable, but clearly the Hotel Trentino was in a higher category. In fact, as the signs at the corner had indicated, it boasted four stars, based on the amenities checklist set up by the national tourist authority. Or was that another regulatory function taken over by EU bean counters in Brussels?
They passed the entrance to an underground garage and mounted steps to a covered porch running the width of the building. Rustic chairs, all empty, enjoyed a view of the street and across to the other side of Campiglio’s narrow valley where skiers floated down the one white strip of trail visible amid the mountain’s heavy green cover. The lobby of the hotel was open and inviting. On the left a lounge area was furnished with leather chairs, each as large as Rick’s dining table in his small apartment in Rome. To the right, a bar covered most of the wall. Small tables allowed guests to sit and enjoy a libation indoors if they didn’t want to brave the chill of the porch. Directly across from the door was the reception desk, behind which stood a smiling young woman wearing the plain uniform of the Italian hotel clerk, another item on the checklist for earning the fourth star.
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