Death in the Dolomites (2 page)

“Your time is better spent supervising your accountants, I suppose.”

The policeman listened to the exchange and asked: “Are you two always like this?”

***

Rick stood in front of the mirror and used the hair dryer that came with the room, remembering his mother's admonition never to go out in the winter with a wet head. He also contemplated the word Italians used for hair dryer:
föhn
. There was a literal translation,
asciuga capelli
, but most Italians seemed to use the German word which came from a brand of hair dryer, in turn derived from a warming Alpine wind. As Rick mused that such etymological trivia was the curse and delight of the professional translator, he heard the call of his cell phone. Its ring, the Lobo Fight Song, managed to cut through the sound of the dryer. He walked out to the dresser, checked the number, and smiled.

“Commissario Piero Fontana, I am honored.” It was the standard greeting he used when his Uncle Piero called.

“Riccardo, my favorite nephew.” The reply was also traditional, both knowing that Rick was the man's only nephew. “I trust you are enjoying your ski holiday. Here in Rome it rains without ceasing.”

“That makes me enjoy my holiday even more,
Zio
. If you called to find out the weather in the Dolomites, it is perfect. A light snow has been falling since I arrived, making ideal powder for skiing. I'm not sure which group is happier here in Campiglio, the merchants and ski lift operators, or the tourists.”

“I was not calling for a meteorological update, Riccardo, but I'm pleased to hear it. The purpose of my call was something else.” Rick waited, hoping that there was not a problem, though the tone of his uncle's voice indicated all was well in Rome. Except the weather. “Word has reached my office that there is a police investigation going on in Campiglio, and it has occurred to me that you could be of some assistance.”

Once again the commissario was trying to get Rick into police work, even if it had to be through the back door. Thanks to Piero's efforts, Rick was already on the books of the
Polizia dello Stato
as an informal consultant. Ostensibly it would be for cases involving cross-cultural problems or translations, but as far as Piero was concerned, it could be for anything interesting that might pop up.

“I'm already on it,
Zio
, you needn't have called.” Rick grinned as he waited for a reply, which did not come immediately. Piero had been caught off guard, and that didn't happen very often.

“The missing American?”

“Exactly. I am about to head into town with Inspector Luca—”

“Albani, Inspector Luca Albani. Yes, he's the one. But how could you…?”

Rick was tempted to have some more fun with his uncle, but opted instead to tell him the story of meeting the policeman in the hotel and being asked to help with translation. In such a small town, such things happen, he said.

“Well, Riccardo, I am pleased that you were so willing to help one of my colleagues, though I don't think I have ever met the man. It means you won't be displeased to hear that I had called Trento to suggest that you be brought into the investigation.”

Rick shook his head as he held the phone to his ear. This was typical of Uncle Piero. “I doubt if I can be of much help, except to do some translating for the inspector.”

“You never know, Riccardo.” There was a pause. “I should tell you that Inspector Albani has a good reputation.”

Rick grinned. It was just the kind of thing his uncle would have checked on before getting his nephew involved.

“There's something else, though,” Piero added. “Inspector Albani is also known to have some quirks.”

I'd already sensed that, Rick thought.

They exchanged family pleasantries for a while longer before Rick hung up and finished getting dressed. He was pleased and flattered that his uncle had gotten semi-official support for his assisting in the disappearance investigation. This could allow him to get more into things than simply translating for Luca with the sister of the missing man. He wondered how the inspector would take having an amateur forced on him.

Chapter Three

The main square of Campiglio was getting another dusting of light snow. Earlier a Zamboni-like machine had pushed the night's accumulation into high piles on two sides of the
piazza
, allowing the pensioners out for their morning exercise to stroll across it without trouble. The afternoon crowd was different, more mothers with carriages and small children, and even some tourists who for some reason had skipped the afternoon session on the slopes. The shops were open, but would not be doing much business until the late afternoon and evening when the mountain closed. Luca gestured Rick to stop, pointing to three little boys who had climbed to the top of one of the snowbanks. They were pushing chunks of snow off their little hill and watching them splatter over the pavement.

“Look at the reactions of those men on the bench,” said Luca. Four men in their seventies sat watching the boys' antics. “The two on the left, who are frowning, they don't have any grandchildren. But not the other two men, they are loving it.”

Rick studied the bench. “Perhaps the two grumpy ones are relatives of the men who sweep the
piazza
. Or maybe they had the job themselves before they retired.”

“When I retire, I will prefer watching children.”

“You're too young to be thinking about retirement, aren't you Luca?” They walked out of the square onto Campiglio's main street, following the directions given them at the local police station. Luca had politely turned down the offer of the sergeant to accompany them to the apartment of the missing man's sister.

“It is never too early to think about choices in life, my American friend, no matter how distant they may seem to be. Life is like riding in a car on the autostrada. You vaguely make out something very far off, and before you realize it…zoom, it is past you. You must always be watching, enjoying what is around you, asking questions. Like that balcony up there.” Most of the buildings on the main street had shops at street level, apartments in the upper stories, most with balconies. Inspector Albani was looking at one whose flower boxes, despite the season, were filled with healthy red geraniums. “The person living in that apartment has taken loving care of those flowers, perhaps covering them at night to avoid freezing or even bringing them inside. The contrast with the other apartments on the floor is striking. What would cause someone to go to such trouble? The desire to show up the neighbors? Or something more noble, like a vow to continue to care for the flowers after the death of a spouse who in life took great joy in them? There is a story there, either an uplifting one or something more banal.”

Rick was starting to understand what Flavio meant about getting tired around Luca.

“I am curious, Riccardo, about you and Flavio, the chance meeting at the university which has turned into a strong friendship. He was immersed in a foreign culture, struggled, but was thrown a lifeline by someone who by chance had lived in two cultures himself. The story fascinates me.”

“Everything seems to fascinate you, Luca.”

The policeman laughed. “You are right. But you two are so different. You seem very relaxed and cheerful. Flavio, he's…”

“He's not relaxed and cheerful. True. But now it's my turn for the analysis, Luca. I think you know very well how we could have become friends, since you went through the same process after you two met during that embezzlement investigation. He came to trust you, and you eventually got through Flavio's armor and found that he could be a loyal friend. You learned that he would, as we say in America, give you the shirt off his back. And now you want to see if my experience was the same as yours. Am I right?”

Luca's grin almost ran the width of his round face. “I am impressed by your intuition, Riccardo. You will be of great help in this investigation, and not just by allowing me to bounce my theories off a fellow Roman.” Rick threw up his hands defensively. “Yes, yes,” responded Luca, “you are not a
Romano
in the usual sense.
But regardless, your uncle is right in trying to get you into police work full time rather than occasionally helping out policemen like me.” He brushed snow off his thick black hair.

“Won't happen, Luca. Where's your hat?”

“How embarrassing. I left Trento this morning in such a rush I forgot to pack it. Mine would not be as stylish as yours, though.”

Rick touched his fingers to the brim of his Borsalino. He'd admired it in the window of a hat shop near Piazza Navona for weeks before the cooler weather in Rome finally provided a justification for the purchase. “Unless you can find this guy quickly, Luca, you'll have to get one here. You don't want to be catching a head cold.”

“You sound like my wife.” He looked at a piece of paper he'd pulled from his coat. “The building should be just ahead. There it is, number 381. Apartment 4A.”

The entrance to the residential floors was centered between two shops. A shoe store was on the left, its
vetrina
shelves filled with thick-soled boots and furry after-ski footwear. Sweet smells escaped through the glass doors of the bakery on the other side. Cookies and small cakes were artistically stacked to lure the passing public, but after his hearty lunch at the hotel, Rick was not tempted. The door to the apartment entrance was open and the two men walked into a small hallway that was decorated with marble and glass. Not luxurious, but certainly not shabby. They got into the elevator and took it to the top floor where they found apartment A and rang the bell.

Money was what came to mind when Rick saw the woman who answered the door. Who was it who said you can never be too rich or too thin? Catherine Taylor's outfit was casual but chic: black corduroy slacks over brown leather boots, a white cashmere sweater, a single pearl hanging from a gold pendant around her neck. The blond hair was pulled back and held in place with a thin wine-colored scarf, revealing small gold hoops in her ears. Makeup was minimal, but she didn't need much after what nature had bestowed. Despite her age, which Rick guessed to be about twenty-five, she did not appear to be awed by the presence of the police. Whether she had summoned them or been stopped by them in the past remained to be seen. What she did show on her face was surprise that the policeman—and it was clear from Luca's suit and overcoat who was the policeman—was accompanied by someone in the more informal attire of the town, including—strangely enough—cowboy boots. And that person was only a few years older than she was, and good-looking.

“I was expecting only one person.”

Luca extended his hand to the woman and stepped slowly into English. “I am Inspector Albani, from Trento. My English, it is not good. I have brought Signor Montoya who will give a help.” He grinned at her and then at Rick.

“I'm Rick Montoya, Miss Taylor.”

“Montoya. That sounds Mexican.” She concentrated on Rick as if the policeman, after making his initial speech, had suddenly disappeared.

“
New
Mexican, actually.” Rick wondered what other warm and welcoming phrases would emerge from this lovely mouth. “Montoyas have been living there for about three hundred years. May we come in?” Luca continued to smile, not getting any of what Rick had said.

“Oh, of course. Sorry.” She stood back and gestured toward the room which opened off the small entranceway, giving Rick a whiff of a perfume that smelled vaguely familiar. The living room had the kind of furniture expected in a Dolomite ski resort rental: wood and more wood. Had it been Montana, there would have been a few antlers hanging somewhere, but here the wall decorations were local tourism posters. On a table in one corner sat a large wood carving of a deer or elk, he wasn't sure which. Rick's eyes were drawn to the large window and its view of the eastern side of the valley. He could see a few rays of sun hitting the
piste
where he would have been had he gone skiing with Flavio. Getting a tan was one of the primary reasons Italians went to the mountains, so the east-slope trails were popular with the afternoon skiers.

Without being asked, the two men pulled off their overcoats and folded them over a lone wooden chair near the door. Catherine Taylor took a seat in a cushioned chair with arms of roughly hewn logs, and motioned her visitors to the matching sofa that faced her.

The policeman took a notebook and pen from his suit pocket and spoke in Italian. “Riccardo, if you could ask her about the circumstances of her brother's disappearance? When it was, what he did in the days before, that kind of thing.”

“Miss Taylor,” said Rick in English, “could you—”

“Please call me Cat, everyone does.”

So the snow queen wants to melt, he thought. “Fine, Cat. And please call me Rick. If you could tell us exactly what happened, on a time line, to get things started. I will give the inspector a running translation as you talk.” He inclined his head toward the policeman who sat with pen poised, and when she started to speak, Rick translated in a low voice, as he had done countless times in his work.

“My brother and I have been here for five days. That is, here in Campiglio. I was in Milan for one night before we came up here. He rents this apartment from someone he knows. Well, we both know him, from Milan.”

“So you have been to Italy before.” Rick translated his question for the policeman before turning back to her.

“Oh, yes. Cam—nobody calls him Cameron except our parents—Cam has been living in Milan for almost two years, and I've visited him a few times.”

Cam and Cat, thought Rick. Cute. “It sounds like you are very close to your brother.”

Her answer was not what he expected. “I don't think you could characterize our relationship as close. Saying that my older brother has always bullied me would be too strong, but he has tried always to order me around, like he knows what's best for me.” Luca looked up from his pad for the first time to see that the look on her face matched her comment.

“My older sister used to treat me like that,” said Rick, hoping to lighten things up.

“This was more than the usual brother-sister rivalry, Rick.”

“Yet you came here for various visits.”

She leaned back in the chair and carefully crossed her legs, the slacks tightening over her knee. “He's my brother,” she said, as if that explained everything. “And, I just went through a difficult divorce, so what better way to get away from problems than jump on a plane for Italy? Cam had told me not to marry the guy in the first place, but at least he's been decent enough not to keep reminding me.”

“And what has been your routine since you got to Campiglio?”

“What you would expect on a ski holiday, though for Cam it's been a combination of business and pleasure.”

“How so?”

“Cam was meeting with someone involved in real estate regarding a possible loan from the bank where he works.” This got another look from the policeman. “He didn't give me any details, of course.”

“Well,” said Rick, “it's a good way to write off some of the expenses for the trip.”

For the first time Cat Taylor laughed, and it was not endearing. “Let me tell you something about my brother, Rick. He attended parochial school and then went on to fulfill his dream of graduating from Notre Dame. He stayed on in South Bend to study international business. One of the basic precepts that was drummed into his head in business school was the importance of ethics. He takes the morality of business dealings very seriously. So, in response to what you said, I know for certain that he would never go on a ski trip and write it off as business expense because of some short meeting with someone. Even if the bank allowed it.”

Rick was impressed. “He sounds like a very—”

She raised her hand to interrupt. “Ah, but unfortunately this high moral posturing only counts in his work. His personal life is a different story.”

By now the policeman was concentrating on her face. His pen rested on the pad.

“Are you talking about the way he treats you?” Rick asked.

“The way he treats me is of no real importance. I've been able to defend myself since I was in grade school.” The two men continued to stare at her, waiting. “Let me put it this way. When this job in his bank's Milan office came up, he jumped at it. After all, he had done a semester abroad in Rome as an undergraduate at Notre Dame and spoke passable Italian. But the real reason he was so enthusiastic was that it would get him out of town, way out of town, far from not just one but two women.” She laid her right arm carefully over the back of the chair and smirked.

Rick was intrigued. Why is this woman talking this way about her missing brother? Apparently Luca had the same thought, and he spoke softly into the ear of his trusted interpreter who listened and then turned back to Catherine Taylor.

“Cat, we seem to have gotten off track. Can we get into the details of what your brother did since you arrived here? He's the one the inspector is here to find.”

“Of course.” She gazed at the ceiling to gather her thoughts and Luca once again readied his pen and pad. “We drove up Wednesday from Milan after lunch and got here just as it was getting dark. There was no food in the apartment so we went out to a restaurant for dinner.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yes. I wasn't very hungry, and was still tired from the flight since I'd arrived that morning. I'm not very good with jet lag. I'm still not sleeping through the night and need a nap in the late afternoon. Cam naturally tries to keep me going all day, says it's the only way to beat it.”

Rick tried to keep her on topic. “The next day?”

“Thursday we skied in the morning and had some lunch on the mountain. After eating we skied down, I stayed in, and Cam went to his meeting. Before you came I was trying to recall the man's name since I knew you'd ask, and all I can remember is that Cam said his name meant pomegranate.”