The answer was delayed by the arrival of their primi, three dishes of fresh pasta in a creamy mushroom sauce, just as Rick had pictured it all morning. They passed the cheese bowl, wished each other buon appetito, picked up their forks, and began to eat. After a few bites Luca replied.
“It has been, let’s see, a little more than two years, hasn’t it, Flavio?” Flavio nodded as he ate. “Flavio and I remember it well, Riccardo, since my first case when I arrived in Trento involved the accountant in Flavio’s wine export business who was embezzling funds. I hope you don’t mind me mentioning that, Flavio.” Flavio shrugged and continued working on his fettuccine. “It has been a fascinating two years,” the policeman said. “There is so much to see up here, so much to learn.” Rick noticed Flavio rolling his eyes. “But tell me about how you two met, it must be an interesting story. Flavio told me it was at the university in America?”
Rick sprinkled more cheese on his fettuccine. “It was. Our friend here came to my university on a skiing scholarship, and our paths crossed. When he found out my mother was Italian and I spoke the language, I couldn’t get rid of him. His English, I’m sorry to say, was atrocious.”
“Was not,” mumbled Flavio through a mouthful of pasta.
Rick continued as if Flavio had said nothing. “Since I was studying languages, I was able to help him. And he managed eventually to get his business degree. Though a lot of good it did him if now he goes around hiring embezzlers to work in his company.”
“This is a wonderful story.” Luca beamed. “I must hear all the details of your studies in America. I am fascinated by other cultures.”
Flavio pushed back his empty dish. “Luca is fascinated with everything, Rick. Sometimes it makes me tired to be around him.”
Luca grinned. It was the default facial feature of the man. “Flavio told me your uncle is a policeman in Rome. Perhaps I would know him?”
“Commissario Piero Fontana.”
“Commissario Fontana, of course. One of our best detectives. He sometimes teaches at the academy. And have you ever thought about entering the profession, Rick?”
“Funny you should say that.” Rick took a piece of crusty bread from the basket on the table. “My uncle has asked me that question more than once. But I have a translation business which is now well established in Rome, so I’m satisfied with my present work. And my mother would not be pleased if I became involved in criminal activity, even if it were on the correct side of the law.”
The waitress appeared and removed their empty plates. Flavio wordlessly pointed to the empty wine bottle and she nodded before heading into the kitchen.
The policeman’s face turned pensive. “You know, Rick, you being a translator, and American, perhaps you could be of some help to me in this case.” Puzzled looks spread over both Rick and Flavio’s faces. “But without getting you in trouble with your mother.”
Rick took a sip of the wine. “Tell me more.”
Luca brushed some crumbs from his suit jacket and checked to be sure that no mushroom sauce had dropped on his tie. “Well, the person who has gone missing is one of your compatriots, a man named Cameron Taylor who works for an American bank in Milan. He is here on holiday with his sister who is visiting from America. It was she who reported him missing, and I am going to talk with her this afternoon. I studied English at the liceo, but…”
“I understand,” said Rick. “Of course, if I can be of assistance, it would be my pleasure.”
“What about our skiing in the afternoon?” asked Flavio. “I don’t want to ski by myself.”
“Caro Flavio,” answered Rick patiently, “first of all, I spent the morning watching you ski out of sight as I made my way leisurely down the mountain. Second, the only times I caught up with you were when you stopped to chat with people you knew, which was often. So I doubt if you will be lonely out there. And finally, it is my civic duty to help our police.”
“I liked the last part,” said Luca. “And spoken by an American, yet.”
“He’s got dual citizenship, Luca. Italian mother.”
The waitress arrived with another bottle of the wine and showed the label to Flavio. “I think,” he said to his tablemates, “that perhaps we should switch from this Casteller, which was perfect with the cream sauce, to something more substantial to go with our cutlets. Do you agree?”
“Whatever you say, Flavio,” said Luca.
“You’re the wine guy,” Rick added.
“Fine.” Flavio turned to the waitress. “I think Giulio has a few bottles of Teroldego Rotaliano. Bring us one of them if you would.” She walked back into the kitchen through the swinging door, clutching the rejected bottle. “Since I supply them their stock, I know what’s on the wine list. You’ll like this one, it is produced just east of here, and—”
“Don’t start the wine-speak on us, Flavio,” said Rick. Luca enjoyed the comment while Flavio scowled. The contrast between the two men was striking, and Rick wondered how they could have become friends. Probably the same way he and Flavio had hit it off ten years earlier in Albuquerque.
When Flavio Caldaro had arrived on the campus of the University of New Mexico, the only person he knew was the assistant ski coach who had recruited him during a trip to Europe the previous year. The university was known for its foreign student athletes, especially in soccer and basketball, but one from Italy was out of the ordinary. The change from Alps to high desert was tough on the Italian, not to mention getting used to taking classes in English and the total absence of decent Italian food. He was determined to stick it out, at least for one year, but at the end of one semester he was ready to pack it in and head back to the Dolomites. Enter Rick Montoya, son of an American diplomat father and a Roman mother. Rick was already fluent in English and Italian, and his Spanish was pretty good thanks to visits to his grandparents in northern New Mexico, so languages had been the logical, and easy, choice for a course of study. When one of his professors told him an Italian foreign student needed some tutoring, he volunteered to help. Do one for the patria, Rick had thought. After spending about half his life in Italy and half in the States, a sub-theme of Rick’s college years was the issue of his own national identity. Nobody was pushing him to choose between the two countries, but it was something he thought about. Not obsessively—Rick’s main obsession was enjoying college life—but he did think about it. So he welcomed the chance to help a fellow Italian. At first they didn’t get along very well. In fact, after a few weeks of tutoring, Rick went to the professor to say it just wasn’t working. The guy is too negative, Rick told him, I get depressed just being around him. Fortunately the professor convinced him to stick with it.
The waitress returned, opened the new bottle, and poured an inch into a fresh glass in front of Flavio. He tasted it and gave her a nod, after which she filled the other two glasses before returning to his.
“Did you ever think that it might be hard to send it back,” asked Rick, “since they bought it from you?”
“I don’t test every bottle, Rick.”
“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, nu
mber 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.”
Death in the Dolomites: A Rick Montoya Italian Mystery Page 2
