“Word gets around quickly, Signora,” Luca said. “A coffee for me, please. Riccardo?”
Rick nodded that he’d have the same. He moved slowly along the glass of the display case, admiring the cakes, cookies, and pastries. The glass shelves were full, and especially colorful, perhaps in preparation for the weekend visitors who would start arriving early the following afternoon.
“Shall we get something to go with the coffee, Riccardo? Perhaps some of Signora Muller’s famous almond cookies.”
Rick continued to study the gleaming case before looking up. “Huh? Oh, yes, the almond cookies. Absolutely.”
Mitzi interrupted her coffee-making to pull a small plate from a stack against the wall, centering a paper napkin on it. As the two men watched, she used plastic tongs to transfer four cookies from their stack under the glass to the plate, then placed it on the counter between the two men. From her face, they knew she was dying to say something, and she finally succumbed.
“Umberto Melograno is not a nice man, but we didn’t expect this.”
Rick had never studied German, but could recognize schadenfreude when he heard it.
He took a bite of one of the cookies and decided that Flavio was right in singing their praises. Would they get stale on the train if he decided to take some back to Rome? He turned his thoughts back to Campiglio. “Are you planning to turn the business over to your son if you win the election, Signora?”
She was taken aback by the question. So was Luca, who looked at the woman’s face as they waited for a reply. “Well, I hadn’t really thought of it. Most people haven’t given me much of a chance to win. But now, with…” She stopped in mid sentence before beginning again. “Vittorio has taken very well to working here, and in the long run I would love for him to take over. His baking skills are more than I could have hoped for with any employee. And I know he’s changed.” The last comment was directed at the policeman, a clear reference to the boy’s earlier brushes with the authorities. “And Vittorio has returned to the faith, I’m proud to say. He goes to the church every day at this time.” She pointed to the clock on the wall, as if to prove the boy’s piety.
Rick took a second cookie and drained his coffee cup.
***
The door opened silently and Rick slipped inside, crossing himself as he surveyed the cold interior. It was larger than a typical country chapel but still consisted of one main room with a semi-circular apse extended at the far end. The side walls wore a chalky white, except for a few places where the paint had been removed to reveal fragments of old decoration. Rick’s eyes were drawn to the apse. Two pairs of stone columns flanked its opening, likely recycled from some ancient Roman building. Despite the dim lighting, the colorful figures on the ribbed ceiling of the apse, perhaps recently restored, showed a vibrancy that contrasted with the drabness of the rest of the church. That was the idea, to have the worshippers kneel in awe at the sight of Christ looking down on them in all his majesty. Rick could make out other figures, saints for sure, likely including San Vigilio himself, who had given his name to the sanctuary. The only furniture in the church, besides the altar, were four rows of rustic wooden pews. In one of them sat Vittorio Muller, head bowed in prayer.
Rick’s boots clicked softly on the stone floor. The seated man did not react to the sound, nor did he appear to notice when Rick slipped in next to him. His hands were clasped and he leaned forward, elbows on the back of the next pew. He kept his gaze on the row of robed figures above him, but his eyes were dull, almost lifeless. After they had been sitting together for almost two minutes, the young man slowly turned his head toward Rick.
“You’re the American,” he finally said. “With the policeman.”
“Yes.”
Vittorio’s tired eyes searched Rick’s face, then he slowly nodded and returned his attention to the altar. After a slow sigh, he spoke. “You know, don’t you?”
“Yes, Vittorio. And I understand why you did it.”
There was no attempt to wipe the tear that crept down his cheek. “Fiametta should not have died.” The voice was hoarse and firm. “I’ll go, I knew I would have to eventually.” He turned around, understanding what was going on. Luca and a uniformed policeman stood in the back of the church, just inside the door. “Not here. It would not be right.” He stood, touched his chest to form a cross, and walked to the side door.
Rick turned back and held up a hand to Luca.
When he emerged into the graveyard, the scene was what Rick expected. Heavy snow had begun to cover the smaller headstones on the ground, and the wind was pushing gray drifts against the stone walls. Luca and the other policeman stood back patiently, collars turned up to protect themselves from the icy wind. They watched Vittorio, who knelt in the snow before the girl’s grave, one hand touching the photograph on the stone slab before him. After moving his lips silently he rose to his feet, adjusted the plastic flowers in the metal vase, and walked slowly toward the policemen.
Rick began to follow him, but something made him stop and turn his eyes up toward the side of the church. The day was losing light, and the storm was gaining strength, but he could still see them. As they had done for centuries, and would be doing for centuries to come, the skeletons performed their dance of death.
***
Rick poked through the bread basket and found a piece of crusty pane rustico. “I thought that the encounter with Vittorio was going to take away my appetite, but I’m affamato. Though I can’t stop feeling sorry for the kid.”
“So will a judge,” said Flavio. “I know Luca is obliged to tell us that people can’t just go around stabbing other people, but if there ever was a justification for violence, Vittorio had it. Fiametta, the girl he loves, gets involved with a married man who then gets her pregnant, forces her into an abortion, and abandons her. What man would not want revenge?”
“He will, at the very most, get a minimum sentence,” Luca said. “I may not have the highest opinion of my public prosecutor, but she will look at all the aspects of this case.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “You are correct, Flavio, we police must frown on stabbing, no matter what the motive. But at least Vittorio had the right man, and it wasn’t Riccardo.”
“One more attempt on Rick’s life wouldn’t matter. He’s used to it by now.”
“If my mother finds out about all this, I will have to fear for my life.”
“Your uncle will not tell his sister, Riccardo?”
“Fortunately not, Luca.” He chewed on the bread without enthusiasm. “How did Bruno get caught up in this?”
“It was the store, Rick,” answered Flavio. “Melograno had lent him the money to do the renovations. But business was not good, as everyone in town knew. So my guess is he was having trouble paying off the loan. Umberto was in a perfect position to extract a big favor from the guy. He could have put Bruno out of business if he wanted.”
“We did notice that,” said Luca. “Not many customers in the place.” He saw Flavio looking toward Lori’s empty table. “Flavio, your consolesa is not dining with you tonight? Is it because you prefer the company of Riccardo and me?”
Rick chuckled. “Hardly, Luca. She is having dinner with Signora Taylor. I invited Cat to join us here at the hotel, but she declined, said she needed to take care of some final details with Lori.”
“I don’t get it,” said Flavio, shaking his head. “Cat Taylor looked for any excuse to avoid spending time with Lori, and now she chooses to have dinner with her.”
Luca swished his wine and leaned back in his chair. “Gentlemen, I am reminded of my Aunt Giulia.”
Rick and Flavio exchanged glances, and Flavio heaved a sigh.
“Giulia,” Luca went on, “is married to my mother’s brother, and is the mother of my cousin Federico who is several years younger than I. They live in a small town about two hours south of Rome. I’ve only been there once. W
hen Federico was growing up, at family events Aunt Giulia never wasted an opportunity to extol the pious virtues of her son. He was going to be a priest, and a smart one too. No doubt about it, he was destined for the priesthood and he would not be just some parish priest. Something in the curia, perhaps even a red hat someday. I remember Federico as being a quiet kid who sat in the corner by himself at family gatherings. I assumed he was pondering the life of saints or preparing future homilies. When he finished the liceo, he went off to seminary in Rome.”
Rick picked up the wine bottle and refreshed the other two glasses before filling his own.
“Grazie Riccardo.” Luca took a sip and continued. “Or so we thought he had.”
“I think I can see this coming,” Flavio said.
Luca held up a hand. “About that time, I was working on a case in the Borgo, near the Vatican, and was in a nightclub trying to track down a shady character. I didn’t find the guy, but I did run into my cousin Federico. He was in there with a friend and their two female companions. Let’s just say he wasn’t trying to convert anyone that night.”
“That’s a fascinating story, but—”
“The story isn’t done, Riccardo. We met for coffee the next morning and he told me that he was glad I’d seen him at the nightclub. It had forced him to come to terms with himself, to stop living a lie. He had dropped out of the seminary and was studying accounting, which was his true calling. That weekend he would go home and tell his parents the truth.”
Luca drank some wine while Rick and Flavio watched, sensing that the story was still not finished. They were correct.
“Aunt Giulia has never spoken to me again. At every family gathering since then, whether a wedding, funeral, or christening, she avoids me as if I have some dread disease. She talks to everyone else, but not to me. I’ve come now to accept it.”
Luca spread his hands to indicate he was done. Rick and Flavio looked at each other and then back at the policeman, who was savoring another drink from his glass.
“Don’t you see? Signora Taylor is my Aunt Giulia.”
“That could be it,” Rick finally said. “She didn’t like her brother very much, but the one part of him she was able to admire was his business ethics. Then it turns out he was a blackmailing scoundrel, but instead of blaming her brother, she takes it out on you for discovering his sins. She doesn’t want to be around you.”
Luca hesitated, glancing at Flavio before answering. “Or, Riccardo, she doesn’t want to be around us. You were as much involved in this investigation as I.”
Flavio laughed. “That’s great, you find her brother’s murderer and that’s the thanks you get. But as strange as Luca’s aunt story was, it does make a certain sense.” He picked up his wineglass. “Let’s forget the vagaries of the Taylor family, drink to the successful end of Luca’s investigations, and change the subject to what is on the menu.”
After the toast, Flavio held the floor, and Rick was glad that he did. The analysis of Cat’s behavior rang true. He was the messenger and he was getting the blame.
“This exquisite Valpolicella,” Flavio was saying, “from the hills north of Verona, will be the perfect accompaniment to one of the specialty dishes of the Trentino region.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Pizzoccheri.”
At that moment the waitress arrived with a large platter, and with her serving fork and spoon began dishing out a pasta which looked different from anything Rick had ever seen. Had Flavio timed this?
“…made with buckwheat flour, thus the brownish coloring, tossed in butter with, as you can see, a bit of chard, slices of potato, and very importantly, soft casera cheese. Look how nicely the cheese has melted. And we shall add some grated cheese to enhance the taste. I prefer grana padana on this dish, but this parmigiano reggiano will certainly do no harm. It never does.”
The girl served the three and departed. Discussion of the investigation or anything else came to a temporary halt as they lifted their forks.
Chapter Fifteen
“You did not see her again?”
Commissario Piero Fontana looked across the starched, white tablecloth over tortoiseshell half-glasses. The glasses, Rick had decided, were a major concession for his uncle, a man who prided himself on cheating Father Time. At first it was only for reading. Now he used them in restaurants, not just for the menu but to better enjoy the visual as well as the gustatory aspects of a good meal. Naturally, his glasses were the height of fashion, which in this case meant traditional. As was his suit this day, a double-breasted charcoal gray to go with an off-white shirt and dark blue print tie.
“She left for Milan the next morning, without saying good-bye, but three days later called from Malpensa. I was on the train back to Rome. My guess is she was in the first-class lounge and had just downed a couple of glasses of prosecco while waiting for her flight.”
The policeman looked at his glass. “Prosecco? How ironic.”
Rick shook his head. “I never thought of that. Anyway, she thanked me and apologized for the way she’d slipped out of Campiglio. Then what you’d expect: look me up when you’re in the States, that kind of thing.
“Without much conviction.”
Rick shrugged and took a drink of wine.
“And you didn’t invite her to Rome?”
“I did not.”
Uncle Piero nodded and rubbed his chin, a sure sign that another question was coming. “Did she drive to Milan? That wouldn’t seem like something she would take on, even under normal circumstances.”
Rick smiled. “Only you would think of that small detail, Zio. No, her brother’s car was actually owned by the bank, and they later sent someone to get it. She was driven back by Daniele Lotti.”
“Ah. The landlord of the holiday apartment.”
“Ah indeed.”
The commissario tilted his head as he looked at his nephew. “Riccardo, you should take up this Taylor woman’s invitation to look her up in America. You could visit her and also drop in on someone else you know well. Erica is still there, is she not?” He paused, enjoying himself. “Has it occurred to you that the two of you could run into each other sometime?”
“It’s a big country, Zio. I think I’m safe.”
The second course appeared. It was a cold day for Rome, so they both had chosen a substantial pasta dish to start, penne all’ arrabbiata. The spicy tomato sauce was tame by New Mexico standards, but this was Rome, not Albuquerque. For the first time in their collective memory, both men also chose the same dish for their secondo. Carpaccio was as far from a thick steak that a diner could go and still have a meat dish: raw beef sliced paper thin, covered by equally thin shreds of parmigiano reggiano, and then very lightly drizzled with olive oil. After a second mutual “buon appetito,” they pushed the meat onto their forks and savored its pure taste. It was a few moments before conversation resumed.
“Your friend Flavio. Does he ever come to Rome? I would like to meet him. Not just to thank him for saving the life of my favorite nephew, but he also sounds like a fine young man.”
“He’s promised to get to Rome, but I suspect he will be finding more reasons to do business in Milano these days. He and the vice consul hit it off quite well.”
They took more bites of the carpaccio and sipped the dark vino rosso.
“So this man Muller, he will now build his hotel on the fated land?”
“It’s up in the air. The sale was made, but with all the publicity, some environmental groups have noticed its location and decided the land should remain in its natural state. Between legal cases and public pressure, they have blocked the construction. Flavio tells me it could be tied up in litigation for years.”
“A case held up in the Italian legal system for that long?” the policeman deadpanned. “I would be shocked.” He speared some beef with his fork, wrapped it around a sliver of cheese with the help of his knife, a
nd pushed it around the oil. “And about your mayor friend, has the election taken place?”
“He won in a landslide. Taking down a murderer, it appears, never hurts in an election campaign. And his business is booming, thanks to all the news stories. He displays the bear he used on Melograno in a place of honor in his shop window, and he can’t carve copies fast enough to meet the demand.”
“You didn’t get one?”
“No, but I got a couple of wooden cars for Susana’s two boys. Pricey but nice.”
The commissario smiled. “Nothing is too good for one’s nephews. Il carpaccio? You enjoyed it?”
Rick’s plate was already bare. “Excellent. I must have it again sometime.”
His uncle looked at his wineglass as if searching for something in its darkness. “Riccardo, as you know well, I have always regretted that you did not go into police work. You have the mind, and the patience, to become one of the best.” He saw that Rick was about to speak and held up his hand, a glint of gold cuff link peeking out from the coat sleeve. “But this time, I was fearful of your safety. I never would have forgiven myself should some harm have come to you.”
Rick watched his uncle drain his glass. It was a different side to a man who was always relaxed when around his nephew but now carefully chose his words. Or had he rehearsed them beforehand? The mood passed quickly.
“And now, my dear Riccardo, what is on your calendar? Some visiting monolingual dignitary to accompany around Rome perhaps? Or one of those international seminars?”
“There are a few professional conferences in the north that I may be working. Nothing firm yet.”
“Nothing in southern Italy? Your work never seems to send you there.”
“With the Mafia and the Camorra? Much too dangerous, Zio.”
Author’s Note
While the characters and story of this book are completely fictitious, the town of Campiglio is not, though its full name on the map and in Italy tourism books is Madonna di Campiglio. It is one of numerous delightful ski towns scattered around the Italian Alps, but a special one for my family since we spent many pleasant days there. I have tried to portray the town with reasonable accuracy, but for plot logistics have taken some liberties with locations and other specifics. For example, the two-gondola cable system featured in the first chapter was long ago replaced with efficient multiple cars. Also, while the town has a magical main square, the businesses put on it, and on other streets, may not correspond with reality.
Death in the Dolomites: A Rick Montoya Italian Mystery Page 24
