Death in the Dolomites

by David P. Wagner

  “Cat, I really don’t—”

  “No, really, Rick. Apart from not being able to get through this without your help, I feel that we’ve really…well, let’s leave it at that. Why don’t we go into the other room? Our dining area tonight is not very elegant, but we don’t have to stand around here while we have a drink. Bring the bottle, if you would.”

  Moving into the other room was fine with Rick, who was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the conversation. She led the way into the living room where she settled into one end of the sofa and motioned him to sit at the other. Rick put the bottle down on the floor and managed to sit, cross his boot over his leg, and lean back, all while keeping his glass steady.

  “You seem to have recovered well from our little adventure this afternoon, Cat.”

  She grinned and took another drink from her glass. “It was an adventure, wasn’t it? Did the police find the man?”

  “No, he got onto a trail and his track was lost. They’re still investigating.”

  “And they’re still investigating Cam’s murder.”

  “It’s only been two days, Cat.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck with her hand, then took another drink of her prosecco. “I suppose so. I had a roommate at school who read murder mysteries all the time. That’s all she did. If she were here we could ask her how long this should take. Do you read mysteries, Rick?”

  “I’ve read a few.” In fact he loved mysteries, but decided this wasn’t the time to be talking about them with the sister of a murder victim. Light talk was what was in order now, but what? He picked up the bottle and poured her more wine without being asked. Then he topped off his own glass. “Have you been to Rome, Cat?”

  “Years ago. I was in junior high and Cam was in high school. The required trip to the continent with my parents—London, Paris, Rome, Venice.”

  “The grand tour.”

  “I guess so. My father was constantly lecturing us on how important it was to be exposed to it all. Part of our education. Unlike Cam, I was too young to appreciate it. It was on that trip that he caught the bug for Italy, as he used to say.”

  “Do you remember where you stayed in Rome?”

  She closed her eyes tightly. “Hmm. I remember it was near the top of the Spanish Steps.”

  “The Hassler.”

  “That sounds right. I remember walking down the steps and getting in a carriage to take us around the city. The horse was cute. The rest of it was just looking at old stuff.”

  “There’s a lot of old stuff in Rome.”

  “And I think we saw it all.”

  He decided this wasn’t going anywhere. “What’s for dinner? I must admit that all the excitement has given me an appetite.”

  She bounced to her feet, almost spilling her glass. “Me too. And I didn’t even put out any peanuts.” He almost said that she needed Maria around to remember such things, but decided against it. They walked into the kitchen, Rick still the keeper of the bottle, now less than half full.

  Cat gestured for Rick to sit. “I went down to the deli and got anything that looked good and didn’t require cooking. So I’m afraid everything will be cold. Like a picnic.”

  “Sounds fine to me. The wine will keep us warm.” He took another swig of the prosecco, which was excellent. Cam Taylor, it seemed, had known his wines.

  “They don’t call it a deli, do they?”

  “No, it would be a salumaio. But essentially the same thing.”

  “They don’t have delis like this back home, Rick.” She went to the small refrigerator and took out two trays, one in each hand, and placed them on the table. Each was wrapped in paper and tied with a string. She took a knife from one of the drawers, cut the string and removed the paper, revealing two cardboard trays of sliced meats, which she pushed to the middle of the table. “I don’t know what they are, I just pointed and he sliced. Maybe you can tell me the names.”

  “Sure. This one here—”

  “Wait a minute, Rick, let me get the rest.” She drained her glass and placed it in front of Rick. While he dutifully filled it, she went back to the refrigerator and returned with two more trays that were again unwrapped and pushed into place. One was filled with various cheeses, the other held small bowls, each filled with a different item. She held up one finger and made a final run to the refrigerator, coming back with a larger bowl containing four thin artichokes in oil.

  “I guess you didn’t tell this guy there would be only two of us. Or have you invited the Italian army to join us?”

  “I may have gotten a little carried away. Oh, one more thing.” She went to the counter and found a long loaf of crusty bread. “I should slice this.”

  “No need, Cat, we’ll just snap it off as we need it. That’s what is meant when they talk about breaking bread with someone.”

  She pulled a few forks and spoons from a drawer, put them down on the trays, and sat across from Rick. “Okay, Rick, I’m ready for my vocabulary lesson. Not that I’ll remember any of it.” As if to make her point she took another pull of her prosecco. Rick picked up a fork to use as a pointer.

  “Let’s start with the salumi, the cold cuts. This is prosciutto crudo, cured ham, sliced thin, as you can see. Next, bresaola, cured beef that’s a specialty of Lombardy. Then speck, a cured ham from the Alps—you’ll love it—and, finally, a cotto salami. You can get it in the States.” He moved to the bowls. “All right, here’s pâté, no Italian word for it. Not sure what kind this is but I’m guessing some kind of game or fowl, like rabbit or duck. And this, with the shrimp in the gelatin on top, is insalata russa.”

  “Russian salad?”

  “Brava, Cat. As you’ll see when you get under the gelatin, it has a mixture of potatoes, carrots, peas, and a lot of mayonnaise. Next to it is a rice salad, with pieces of cheese and ham mixed through it, and here is finocchio, fennel, in oil. And, finally, in this bowl,” he waved the fork with a flourish, “is carciofi alla romana, roman-style artichokes, cooked and served in oil. Probably not as good as you can get in Rome, but they look passable.”

  “Before you move on to the cheeses, Rick, we’d better open another bottle. There’s one in the refrigerator.”

  Rick did as he was told, filling the glasses before returning to his chair and again picking up the fork. “All right. Your trusty salumaio has given us a good selection of cheese. This one, however, should really be over with the antipasto tray, mozzarella di bufala. If it’s the real stuff, and only by tasting will we know, it has come from water buffalo near Naples. These other four are more desert cheeses. This one shaped like a log is caprino, a soft goat cheese. I think this next one is an asiago, which comes from around a town of the same name not too far from here. Here’s some gorgonzola, Italy’s blue cheese and a Milanese specialty. And this last one, I’m guessing, is a pecorino, hard goat cheese. But I’ll have to taste it to be sure.” He put down the fork and spread out his hands over the table. “We will not go hungry.”

  “I’ll say,” she giggled. “I’m full already. Please start.”

  Rick was glad to take the cue. He needed something in his stomach other than wine, and the food spread out before them was beckoning. He took the fork and transferred some of the sliced meats to his tray. Cat did the same while he waited.

  “Buon appetito, Cat, and thank you for inviting me.” He snapped off a chunk of bread and passed it to her.

  “My pleasure, Rick, and buon appetito.”

  Several minutes of tasting and food discussion followed. Cat agreed that the speck was the best of the cold cuts, with the bresaola a close second. The Russian salad got higher points than the rice salad; the type of pâté could not be identified with precision; and the artichokes were acceptable, given the location of the cook. The decision was made to push back and take a breather before starting on the cheeses. In addition, at Rick’s suggestion, they agr
eed to open a bottle of red wine to go with them. He was dispatched to the pantry to pick a bottle, and Cat disappeared into the back of the apartment.

  Rick found a long shelf filled with bottles standing upright, making it easier to check labels. Again he looked for the holiday prosecco, but found only more bottles of the same one they were drinking. Reds and whites on the shelf were primarily from Lombardy; Cameron Taylor apparently had decided to stay close to Milan in his wine purchases. It would go along with his personality: learn local wines first and then branch out. All very organized. Rick decided on a Valcalepio, which, according to the label, came from the province of Bergamo, east of the Lombardian capital. He took it off the shelf and walked back into the kitchen where he was hit with an invisible wave of Cat’s perfume.

  “This one looks fine, Cat. It’s red and it’s liquid, so it should fit the bill with the cheese.” He found a corkscrew in a drawer and popped open the bottle while she got two new glasses.

  The cheese course conversation was more subdued; the wine was having its effect. After they had tried all five cheeses and were starting another round, Rick noticed that Cat’s mood seemed to change slightly. She had just taken a long drink of the red wine when Rick noticed her staring at her glass. He waited.

  “Rick, I was never a very good sister to Cam. He was right in wanting me to do better with myself, but I always tried to push him out of my life. I should have just accepted that he was better than I was and taken his advice.”

  Rick decided it would be better to let her talk. He cut a piece of pecorino, put it on his plate, and waited for her to continue.

  “I wish he were here now to give me advice on how to get through this.” She laughed while she pushed a tear from her eye with one finger. “That’s funny. Even Cam would have laughed at that, and he didn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

  “I’m sure you had some fun together as kids, Cat. Remember those times.”

  She took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling as she thought. “Yes, there were times when we were very young, before he got…well, you know. One time we locked Maria in her room when my parents were out, and ate cookies.”

  Rick popped the pecorino in his mouth. “I’ll bet it was your idea.”

  “That I don’t remember, but I’m sure it was Cam’s. Mom and Dad thought he could do no wrong, but I knew better. This wine is good.” She held out her glass to be filled. “A healthy body, but with just enough youth to give it some impertinence.” She looked at Rick for a reaction. “That’s the kind of thing Cam would say. I was never sure if he was serious or not.”

  “I hope he wasn’t.”

  They ate some cheese and sipped more of the Valcalepio while they talked of wine, a topic about which both of them were interested but not fanatical. She talked about visiting the Napa Valley. He told her that the first vineyards in what would be the United States were planted in the Rio Grande valley. They agreed that prosecco was as good as any French champagne, but decided not to open another bottle.

  Cat pushed her plate away and leaned back in the chair, wineglass in hand. After another sip she got to her feet, walked to the refrigerator and smiled back at him. “I have some desert for us, Rick.”

  He restrained himself and did not say what he was thinking. “Something light, I hope.”

  “Not too heavy. There’s a wonderful bakery right here in the building. You passed it.”

  “I had a coffee there a couple days ago.”

  “Bruno from the ski shop recommended it, not that he needed to, since the smells from the ovens float up the air shaft into the kitchen. Cam never went in since he didn’t like sweets.”

  “But you do. And you don’t seem any the worse for your sweet tooth.”

  She giggled and posed as if she were on a fashion-house runway. “Do you think so?”

  “Absolutely. So what is the desert?”

  She opened the refrigerator and took out a small dish, which she placed on the table among the cheeses. Chocolate éclairs.

  He stared at them. “Cat, I don’t think I can do it. I love chocolate éclairs. Any other time I could eat both of them, but after that meal I just don’t have the space.”

  “You know, Rick, I don’t think I do either.” She put them back in the refrigerator. “Room for coffee?”

  “Coffee sounds like a good idea.” He got to his feet and picked up his plate. “Let me help clean this up. Do you have some containers for what we didn’t finish? There are at least a couple more good meals here.” He glanced at Cat who was leaning against the counter. “Why, you can feed Lori tomorrow when she comes over.”

  That got another giggle. “Let’s just put it all back on the same trays it came in.”

  They combined the leftovers on trays and she found room for them in the refrigerator. Rick remembered Cat’s lack of coffee-making skills and began doing the needful in that department. Ten minutes later they were seated on the sofa in the living room, stirring small cups of hot, dark liquid.

  “I’d put on some music, Rick, but this place doesn’t have a sound system.”

  Rick blew on the coffee and took a small sip. “No need, Cat, we can listen to the snow.”

  Thick flakes, just visible from the lights of the room, were rapping against the picture window. It would be a long night for the street crews, and an early start for the men driving the snowcats that groomed the trails. But a wonderful day for the skiers.

  “It does make a nice sound, doesn’t it?” She finished her coffee and put her cup and saucer on the table. “But we’re cozy here inside.” She snuggled closer to Rick and moved his arm so that it covered her shoulders.

  He stretched to place his cup and saucer next to hers. “It appears that you have put today’s danger out of your mind, Cat. I admire your resilience.”

  “I’m not sure how resilient my body is, Rick. Remember when I fell? That leg has been aching since I got back to the apartment.”

  “Has it? Perhaps we’d better get you to the clinica tomorrow.”

  “No, I don’t think it’s anything serious. But if you just massaged it, that will do the trick.” She got out from under his arm, slipped out of her shoes, and flopped her right leg over his lap. “Right there is where it’s sore.”

  Rick dutifully began to knead the designated muscles, but as he did, he could not keep a thought out of his mind.

  I’d swear it was the other leg she fell on.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rick was waved past the policeman on duty and walked to the inspector’s temporary office. The paper sign on the partially open door was slightly askew, so he carefully adjusted it before knocking. “Buon giorno, ispettore.”

  Luca, in shirtsleeves, looked up from a stack of papers. “Riccardo, buon giorno. Come sit. I was just trying to organize my thoughts on this terrible crime, and you are the only other person who is aware of all that has happened. So you can be of great assistance. I just spoke with my public prosecutor, and she is no help at all. She wants everything in the case tied up with a nice bow, like a torta from Zia Mitzi’s bakery, before she steps in. And she is pressing me to bake the cake.”

  Rick stripped off his coat and put it on a chair with his hat before taking a seat. “I was hoping you’d have it all solved by now.”

  “Magari,” answered Luca, the tips of his fingers touching. It was a word which could have various meanings, but Rick took it as “if only.”

  He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. “Luca, why don’t I go over what we have, and you can tell me where I’m wrong? Starting with the suspects. The way I see it there are the big three and then some lesser names. The three first.” He held up his thumb, Italian style, to start the count.

  “The mayor. Grandi’s motive is that his wife was fooling around with Taylor well before the divorce was final. And he doesn’t have much of an alibi. He’s anywhere
and everywhere on the day of the murder.” The index finger uncurled to join the thumb. “Melograno. Our real estate agent could have had an argument with Taylor about the loan. Perhaps the American was telling him he was inclined to recommend against it. And Melograno’s whereabouts on the morning of the disappearance cannot be confirmed.”

  “Though if the barista’s memory is correct, it can be confirmed for the time the body was dropped.”

  “That’s true.” Rick’s hand was still in the air, and his middle finger joined the other two digits. “The third main suspect is Muller, since it was in his interest that Melograno not get the loan. As you observed after we talked to the man, if there’s no banker there’s no loan, or at least that’s what Muller could have thought. And as he himself told us, he doesn’t have much of an alibi for the day of the murder.”

  “Just like Grandi.” Luca picked up a pencil and twirled it between his fingers.

  “Just like the mayor, correct. Which brings us to the next level of suspects, or at least people who could have been involved. The former Signora Grandi, the volatile Gina Cortese, can top that list. Motive: she found out about other girlfriends after he’d told her she was the one and only. But she would need an accomplice, since she has an alibi, and with her size couldn’t do it on her own anyway.”

  Luca tapped the table with the pencil. “Which brings up Bauer.”

  “Well, she and Bruno appeared to be very friendly the other night in the bar.”

  “We must find where Bauer spent the day on Saturday.” He flipped open his notebook and used the pencil to write. “We will go see him this morning.”

  “That will work. I need to get new gloves after mine were ruined the other night.”

  “Perfect, we can catch two pigeons with one fava bean.” He consulted his notes. “Next on the list is Spadacini, the electrician. He could have been doing the dirty work for Muller along with his electrical jobs.”

  “And he is a suspect in the stabbing of Pittini.”