Death in the Dolomites by David Wagner (people reading books TXT) 📗

the children of my Zia Beppa, for example, have been fighting since they were children. Beppa thought that once past childhood they would outgrow it and be close, but they’re my age and still bicker at each other about the silliest things. My aunt has given up. But Signora Taylor and her brother appear to have something more complicated going than do my two cousins. Did I understand correctly that he is called Cam and she Cat? Doesn’t Cat mean gatto?”

“In her case, gatta, but yes, you’re right on both counts, Luca. So what comes next?”

The policeman bit into the pastry, sprinkling powdered sugar down the front of his coat. “Well, I will have copies made of this photograph and the local police can take it around to the ski lift operators and throughout the town. And there are the two men who must be interviewed.” After an attempt to brush off the sugar he pulled his notebook from his suit jacket and flipped through some pages. “A certain signor Melograno, who met with our missing man about a loan, and Daniele Lotti, who lives across the hall from our two siblings. And of course, Signora Cortese, the ski instructor.”

Rick bit more carefully into his pastry, and had a small napkin ready. It was excellent, with just a hint of almond paste. “Melograno shouldn’t be hard to find. They probably will know him at the police station.”

Luca winked and turned to the woman, who was washing cups in a small sink. “Signora, do you know a Signor Melograno, involved in real estate here in Campiglio?”

“Of course, Inspector,” she answered brightly. “Dottor Umberto Melograno, he often buys cakes here. His office is on this street, about a hundred meters up on the left, just as the hill starts.”

“Thank you. And how did you—?”

“My neighbor has a cousin who works in the police station. Have you found the American?”

“Not yet, Signora.” He pulled out some bills to pay for the coffee and waved away Rick’s protests. “You just helped me a great deal, Riccardo, and I know you will continue to do so. You must allow me to buy you a simple cup of coffee.” He paid, thanked the woman, and they left the shop.

“I would have liked to have stayed longer in that warmth and wonderful bakery smell, but our friend there was trying to catch everything we said. She already knows the three people we’re going to interview.”

Rick adjusted his hat and looked up at the falling snow. “We, Luca?”

“It is too late to join Flavio at this hour, you might as well keep me company. And as I said earlier, I would rather test my theories on the nephew of a prominent policeman than with the local police force.” He held up his index finger and tapped it gently on the side of his nose. “And, my American friend, it helps that my colleagues in Rome agree with me. They have given the okay to have you assist.”

Rick knew very well which “colleagues in Rome” were behind it.

Luca put on a mock face of sadness. “In the American western movies, of which I am very fond, the sheriff pins a badge on the man who is being deputized. Alas, I have no such badge for you.”

“I appreciate that, Luca, but we can keep this informal.”

“Excellent. Now, back to my theories that are in need of testing.”

“Test away, Luca.” They set off in the direction of Melograno’s office.

“Well, caro Riccardo, did you notice how Signora Taylor reacted when it was revealed that she had dinner with Lotti, the man who lives across the hall and owns their rental apartment? I found that intriguing. But that said, I wouldn’t think that her dinner arrangements with Signor Lotti would have anything to do with her brother going missing. No, it is more likely that this Melograno, or the ski instructor, could lead us to some answers. But we will have to talk to Lotti too. What were your impressions?”

The hatless detective walked on the building side of the sidewalk, keeping himself under the occasional storefront portico that protected him from the snow. Rick noticed him ducking out of the weather, but refrained from mentioning the head-cover issue again.

“Yes, Luca, I too noticed her reaction to bringing up her dinner companion, but also saw the way she perked up when mentioning Bruno, the ski rental guy. I met him a few days ago when Flavio took me there to rent my skis.” He pointed across the street. “That’s his shop there, by the way. You know,” Rick added with a grin, “I think he sells hats.”

The policeman considered the idea. “Okay, let’s make a detour. But allow me to make a quick call to the station so that we can learn where to find this ski instructor.” He pulled out his phone, dialed, and told the person on the other end what he needed. “They’ll call me back.” They crossed the streets, dodging a few cars which were fortunately not going very fast. A thin, gray slush covered the pavement, streaked by the tracks of tires. Luca shook the snow off his hair before they entered the shop.

Only a few customers wandered through the store, and they didn’t appear to be serious buyers, but this was not the busy time of day for Campiglio merchants. On one side of the large room, men’s clothing was stacked on tables or hung on racks: sweaters, ski coats, pants, and even hats. On the other side was the women’s clothing, similarly arranged on tables, and along the rear wall ranged skis, boots, and poles, for both purchase and rental. At a bench, a boy of about ten was trying on a pair of red ski boots, his mother and a saleswoman looking on. The boy stood up and clomped around the carpet, happiness covering his face. Rick and Luca watched him and then turned to a shelf holding various styles of hats. As they looked, a