“That way is less steep, Cat, and it has some beautiful views once we get through the opening in the trees. Let’s take it.”
“Sure, Rick, lead the way.”
He turned his skis toward a trail that dipped down and to the right, Cat behind him. They were the only skiers choosing the easier route; everyone else continued down the more challenging main trail which was also a faster way to reach the chairlift to the top. The incline on this trail was about perfect for easy skiing. Rick dropped his arms and let his poles drag in the snow, allowing gravity to push him forward. Beyond the trees, they burst into an open field, the trail cutting through its center. The left side was open and flat enough to land a small plane in summer. To their right, the ground rose steeply and steadily until it reached a few clumps of trees after a hundred and fifty meters. Jagged peaks rose dramatically in the distance behind.
Something wasn’t right.
Rick turned his skis, coming slowly to a stop so that he was facing back toward where they had just come. Cat slid down next to him, her skis pointing in the opposite direction from his.
“It’s beautiful, Rick, this was a good—”
“Just a second, Cat.” He held up his hand and turned his head toward the mountain. “It sounds like…but I thought they weren’t allowed up here.”
What had started as a soft purr somewhere up on the mountain changed to a louder hum before bursting into a rattling roar. Then a dark snowmobile shot out from one from the clumps of trees high above them and started weaving its way downward. It bounced along like a child’s toy, but with each second became larger. Behind the handlebars crouched a black-suited figure who scanned the valley below him while he gunned the engine. Rick looked back at where they had come from and then down the trail.
“Let’s go, Cat. I don’t like the looks of this.”
“But, Rick—”
“Move, Cat. Fast.”
She moved, pushing hard on her poles. Rick turned himself around and followed her, looking up every few seconds at the snowmobile. Fortunately the snow was deep, and it was having trouble getting through. The driver revved the motor as he cut his sharp turns, the afternoon sunlight glinting off his windshield. He was now about a hundred meters above, and even though a helmet covered the driver’s face, Rick knew he was looking straight at them. Cat apparently knew it, too, since she was struggling to gain speed. The soft incline, which had made the trail inviting, now worked against them. To make things worse, the warmth of the afternoon had turned powder into slush in some spots, slowing them even more.
“Who is it, Rick?” Cat yelled as she worked her poles and skis.
“I don’t know,” he called, “but somehow I doubt he just wants to ask directions.”
Rick knew that once they passed through the field the trail went into more woods before rejoining the main trail. And in the woods the snow would be in the shade, so slicker and faster. There would be other skiers on the main trail, and, if they were lucky, also a stray pair from the ski patrol. Strength in numbers. Could they get there? He looked up and saw that the snowmobile had bogged down in the deep snow. The driver had gotten off his seat and pushed the handlebars from the side, while gunning the motor, making the tread spin and kicking up a wide, white plume. With him stuck, we might just make it, Rick thought. They were now only about seventy-five meters from where the trail cut back into the trees.
He was watching Cat struggle to make more speed when a different sound came from above. It was a low groan that slowly drowned out the raspy noise of the snowmobile’s motor. Rick’s eyes jerked up and saw that their pursuer had disappeared behind a curtain of powder now moving in their direction. A thought flashed through Rick’s head that the snowmobile’s intent all along had been to cause an avalanche. Just as quickly, he forced himself to forget intent—what mattered now was saving their skins.
At least they were pointed in the best direction. He’d heard many times that outrunning an avalanche was futile, and they were on just the right diagonal line toward the trees. Would they make it? Only about fifty meters left. Fortunately the effect of the danger on Cat was to push her to go faster; he couldn’t see her face but her taut body showed intensity. Twenty-five yards. She was forcing herself to look straight ahead, but Rick kept one eye on the descending wave of white. Ten. If Cat’s bad leg didn’t give out, they would reach the trees in time.
Cat shot into the clump of trees just as the avalanche reached the trail, but the edge of it caught Rick and tried to turn him around. He fought the force of the snow and was barely able to escape it, managing to tumble into the protection of the trees. His body rolled twice before ending up against the base of a tree. He looked back and saw that the trail behind them was obliterated.
“Rick, are you hurt?” Cat’s voice came in gasps. She lay on her side, skis still attached, her chest heaving.
“I’m okay.” He struggled to his feet, shuffled to her side, and flopped on his back. “That wasn’t exactly the way I had pictured our last run of the day.”
“It was a run, all right. But what…?”
Rick had raised his hand and lifted his head from the packed snow of the trail. The sound of the avalanche had stopped when it reached the level field below the trail. There had been silence, but now they could hear a very faint rumble of a motor. They exchanged looks and quickly got to their feet. The sound did not seem to be coming closer, but they couldn’t be sure.
“Let’s hope he’s buried under a few feet of snow, Cat, but we’d better not wait around to find out.”
***
Luca snapped shut his cell phone, dropped it into his jacket pocket, and took a long drink of beer. “The ski patrol has not found the snowmobile, and probably won’t. He was lucky not to have been caught up in the avalanche. Had it started above him, they might still be trying to dig him out. There was a large indentation where you saw him get stuck, and tracks that showed he’d managed to get back into the trees above the hill. They followed the tracks, but when they merged onto a service trail, there was no way to differentiate them from those of other vehicles. They’re checking registrations, but with so many of them, it’s almost impossible to know whose snowmobile it is. And it could have been borrowed or stolen.”
“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 Ri
ck 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.
Death in the Dolomites: A Rick Montoya Italian Mystery Page 18
