Death in the Dolomites (18 page)

“I should have gotten the license plate number.” Rick nursed a snifter of cognac, not his usual late afternoon drink, but the situation called for it.

“Don't tell your uncle,” Flavio said. Like Luca, he was drinking beer, but an imported brand. “The lovely Caterina has come through this brush with danger as well as could be expected?”

“She was relatively calm when I dropped her off at her apartment.” He watched the cognac as it swirled in the glass. “It's strange, I felt a certain exhilaration when we beat the avalanche, perhaps she was feeling it too. Now it's worn off.”

“That's a typical reaction,” said Luca. He took another drink of beer and stared at the wall of bottles behind the bar. “Riccardo, there is the possibility that this was just some snowmobiler out where he shouldn't have been. Got lost, didn't know he was in a restricted area.”

Rick was sitting between the other two. He shot a look at Luca and shook his head. “The guy was looking right at me, Luca. Even through the tinted mask of his helmet I could feel his eyes on me.”

Flavio coughed softly. “You realize that doesn't make sense.”

Rick slapped his hand on the bar. “Look, Flavio, I—”

“
Calma
, Riccardo,” Luca said. “We don't doubt you. We're just trying to understand what happened and figure out why. There is no doubt in my mind that whoever it was, they were attempting to intimidate you, Signora Taylor, or both of you.”

“Yankees go home,” Flavio said in English, bringing a chuckle from the other two and breaking the tension.

Luca brought the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Who would have known that you two were skiing this afternoon?”

Rick swirled the brown liquid in the snifter, thinking that cognac drinkers must spend as much time swirling as drinking. “Anybody, if they were following us. I picked her up at her apartment and we walked over to the lifts on the east side of town.”

“You walked right in front of Bruno's shop,” Flavio observed.

“I suppose we did. And past the window of Zia Mitzi's bakery.”

Luca frowned. “Too bad you didn't clomp through Melograno's real estate office, past the mayor's shop, and across the porch of the Hotel Trentino. That would have covered all the bases. All right, we must conclude that anyone could have seen that you were going skiing, and on which trails.” He let out a deep sigh. “Let's put aside today's incident for the moment and return to the murder. Forensics has confirmed that Taylor was struck with a bottle, the pieces of which were found along the road back to town from the murder site. And it is the brand of prosecco that Flavio had thought.” Flavio raised an arm in triumph. “We've checked with the distributor,” Luca continued, “and two wine shops purchased one case each in December, as did three hotels in town. One of them is the Hotel Trentino. However, before you ask me to arrest Signor Muller, I should tell you that the mayor bought a complete case himself. Apparently he does that every year and gives them to clients and friends.”

“And political cronies,” Rick added.

“I would also note, before you shift the guilt back to Muller, that cases also went to hotels in Pinzolo, just down the mountain, as well as Folgarida. And various shops and hotels in Trento. It is a popular wine.” He noticed Flavio shaking his head. “You are skeptical, Flavio?”

“No, no, Luca. It's just that they're selling more wine than I thought.”

Rick grinned. “It seems that one of the upsides of helping the police, Flavio, is you've gained some proprietary information about the competition.”

“If we may return to homicide,” Luca said, “the bottle was likely full or partially full when it struck Taylor's head. The contents would have given it the weight needed to do the job. We didn't find the cork in the snow, but if it was opened there, he could have picked it up and discarded it later, as he did with the bottle. Same with cups or glasses. But the basic premise that Taylor was lured up there for some sort of celebration is still valid. It's the most likely scenario, in my view.”

“But lured by whom, and to what end?”

“If we knew that, Riccardo, we could get this over with and I could go home to Trento.”

Two hands dropped over Flavio's shoulders and they heard a feminine voice in English. “Have you and Rick solved the mystery?” The three men quickly slipped off their bar stools and stood facing Lori Shafer. She had gone from her more formal pantsuit to what Rick characterized as business casual, not a term he could translate easily, since in Italian it was an oxymoron.

“Lori,” said Flavio, “I don't believe you have met Inspector Luca Albani.”

She shook Luca's hand and switched into Italian. “
Un piacere, ispettore.
”

“Ah, you speak perfect Italian, Signora. I do not need to expose my wretched English. But I will allow you three to speak any language you wish, as I must, I'm afraid, return to the station. There are many details to attend to.” He gave her a short bow and turned to Rick and Flavio. “Keep your minds working, gentlemen. We will speak later. You will excuse me?” He pulled out his wallet and Flavio waved it away.

“The beer is on me, Luca. Off to work you go.”

“
Grazie
, Flavio.
A presto
.”

Another bow, and he was out the door. Rick moved over to give Lori the seat in the middle as the girl appeared behind the bar, took Luca's empty glass, and smiled at the new arrival. Lori settled into the middle place, but leaned slightly toward Flavio.

He reciprocated the lean. “
Cara
, what would you like?”

Her eyes moved from Rick's cognac to Flavio's beer. “
Birra
,” she said to the girl, then settled back into English. “The inspector seems nice. I've met a few other Italian policemen with my consular work, and they've all been very pleasant with me.”

“They have been charmed by you, Lori.”

Flavio was getting back into his Casanova role. Rick wondered if Flavio was worse when Rick was around—showing off, so to speak, but returning to normal conversation when he was alone with the woman. He'd have to ask sometime, but not now in front of Lori. She was enjoying it.

“How is Cat doing, Lori? When I left her she seemed to have calmed down.”

“Yes, Rick, she's much better.” Her beer appeared and she took a long drink. “I made her some tea and we talked about movies, American TV, that kind of thing. I thought that was better than dwelling on what had just happened, or the decisions she still has to make about bringing her brother's body home.”

“Your job is part therapist,” Flavio said.

“Whatever helps,” she answered, and then turned back to Rick. “She's looking forward to having dinner with you tonight, Rick.”

Cat's done it again
. He had no recollection of inviting her to dinner, though he probably should have. With all the confusion it hadn't entered his mind. Was this another way for Cat to avoid spending time with Lori?

“Oh, dear, Rick, from the look on your face I have the idea that she hasn't called you yet.”

“Well, as a matter of fact—”

“Be surprised when she calls. She pushed me out so that she could go out and buy some food.”

***

He had acted appropriately surprised and pleased with the invitation, despite having looked forward to what was on the dinner menu at the hotel. He stopped at a wine shop to pick up a bottle and checked out the prosecco selections for the murder weapon. It wasn't there. After considering and rejecting the additional purchase of flowers he continued toward Cat's apartment.

Following the relative warmth of the day, a cold front was moving into the valley and with it a light snowfall. He remembered that in New Mexico some of the heaviest snowstorms followed unseasonably high winter temperatures. Perhaps that was also the way it worked in the Dolomites. Unlike people in the States, where weather was followed more closely than the stock market, Italians focused more on things over which they had some control. Or perhaps there was just less weather in Italy. Whatever it was, he'd become Italian about weather since moving to Rome.

He stopped in front of Bruno's shop and peered in at the merchandise. As it had been when he'd gone in with Luca, the store was almost deserted. One customer rummaged through merchandise at the table where the infamous hat had been discovered. At the cash register Bruno was checking out a customer who had purchased what looked to be a sweater or light coat. Even through thick glass and from a distance, Rick could see the tired look in Bruno's eyes. The previously sharp lines of his goatee were softened by light growth on the rest of his face, and his hair needed a comb. Business must be better than it looks; he's working too hard, Rick thought.

He carefully crossed the street, dodging a few cars, and stepped up onto the curb in front of Zia Mitzi's bakery. The lights were on, but he saw no one inside. As he walked toward Cat's door some movement caught his eye and he saw Mitzi's son, crouched down behind the counter, arranging the cakes behind the glass. There had been a space, likely occupied by a
torta
recently sold, that Vittorio Muller now filled by repositioning the five remaining cakes. Then he carefully placed decorative fruit and flowers between them. It was the classic penchant of Italian shopkeepers to make even the simplest displays elegant in their simplicity, something that always impressed Rick.

Rick walked to the door to Cat's building, rang the bell, shaking the snow off his hat while he waited.

A loud “Rick?” crackled from the small speaker.

“In the flesh, Cat.”

The door buzzed and Rick pushed it open. Many times in Rome he'd been a guest for dinner at the apartment of some young woman. The aromas of sauces or simmering meat usually began to reach his senses as he began climbing the stairs, or if there was an elevator, they hit him when it opened on the floor. Then the hostess would throw open the door to welcome him, a stray bit of hair perhaps falling over her brow, a few light stains on her apron. It always marked the beginning of a wonderful evening.

When he reached her floor Cat was standing in the doorway. There were no aromas and no stained apron, but given the sweater and tight slacks, Rick was not disappointed. She kissed him on both cheeks, Italian style, though the lips lingered more than was typical for a friendly greeting. He wiped his boots on the doormat and dropped his coat and hat over a chair near the door.

“It ain't a fit night out for man nor beast,” he said as he rubbed his hands together.

“Let me get you a cold drink to warm you up, Rick, if that makes sense.”

“It does if it contains alcohol.” He followed her into the kitchen where the small table was set for two.

“I have a bottle of prosecco in the refrigerator which we really have to drink. I don't know what I'm going to do with all of my brother's wine. Probably just give it to Daniele.”

“I'll open the bottle if you get the glasses.” He opened the refrigerator and found to his relief that it was a plain bottle, not of the decorative type used in the murder. And this was not the time to tell her about the murder weapon, if he ever would. He put the bottle on the counter, peeled off the foil around the top and unhooked the wire that held the cork in place. Then he carefully began pushing the top of the cork with his two thumbs, turned the bottle and pushed again, continuing until it popped, bouncing off the ceiling. Cat laughed and held out the glasses which he filled with the bubbling liquid. Nothing spilled.

“
A tua salute
,” said Rick as he touched his glass to hers.

She took a sip, keeping her eyes on his. “Rick, you're the only good thing that has come out of this trip for me.”

“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.”