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

came up to his ankles. The inspector slogged toward the man, his borrowed boots at least a size too large. He reached him and peered at the spot. After a moment he removed a plastic evidence bag from his pocket, opened it completely and brushed snow into it.

“Good work. It could just be mud, but since the ground is frozen, it’s more likely to be blood.” He held up the bag and they looked at the dark brown stain inside the clump of white. “We’ll send it to the lab. Keep looking, we could find the murder weapon.”

After more than an hour of searching, the only objects found had been in the area for a long time and did not appear to be related to the crime. It was what would be expected for a spot which the youth of Campiglio had used for activities that were either immoral, illegal, or both. Luca left one group of men to continue the search and sent another to check the road back into town and farther up the mountain. The murder weapon could have been thrown from the killer’s vehicle. While they worked, he drove back into town, dropping off Lorenzo in the same square where he had been accosted earlier in the day. Lorenzo got out of the police car and shot off like a trout released in a stream.

Chapter Seven

“You weren’t supposed to work, Rick. You needed a break, especially after what you witnessed last night. Helping Luca with the man’s sister, catching the hat thief, I’ll let that pass. But working on translations the rest of the morning, well, that’s unacceptable. Do you see me calling my office?”

The chairlift was approaching the highest point of Campiglio’s hundreds of kilometers of ski trails, a full 2,500 meters above sea level. The wide trail below ran between two jagged escarpments, its location above the tree line giving it a barren, moon-like quality. Rick and Flavio looked down at the skiers on the two sides of the lift. The trail on the left was wider, attracting the snowboarders and the faster skiers. Several ski school groups made their way slowly down on the right, led by instructors exaggerating their lifts and dips as they encouraged the students to do the same. Rick thought he recognized Gina Cortese, but it was impossible to be sure with the hat and goggles.

“Your office would call you if there was a problem, Flavio. I’ve got no staff, not even a secretary, so I have to keep on top of things myself. And it was just a short translation, I did it without a dictionary. Even you could have done it. With a good dictionary, of course.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the view. The only sound was the call of the ski instructors. Appoggiare—SU—giu. Appoggiare—SU—giu. The students dutifully dug in their poles and flexed their legs up and down, trying—mostly without success—to mirror the movements of the instructor.

“And if the lovely vice consul had not gone off to assist Cat, you might have skipped the afternoon skiing yourself, Flavio. Admit it.”

“That is certainly possible.” Flavio grinned and slapped his gloves together. “Speaking of lovelies, Rick, when I talked with you a few months ago you said you were dating someone. An art history professor, as I remember. You haven’t mentioned her since you arrived.”

“And you haven’t brought her up.”

“Have I touched a nerve, my friend?”

Rick chuckled. “No, Flavio, you have not. Erica is in the States at the moment, teaching a seminar on Italian Mannerism at a major university.”

“The University of New Mexico?”

“Another major university. On the East Coast.”

“They have universities on the East Coast?”

“A few. But when she left, our relationship was up in the air. I’m not sure if it’s going anywhere.”

“So you have no qualms about dating this Taylor woman.”

“I do not think, caro Flavio, that my comforting a fellow American in her time of grief could be categorized as dating.”

“Whatever you say, Rick.” They watched a snowboarder crash and burn on their left. “Did Erica use the S word before she departed for America?”

“The S word?”

“Spazio. Did she say she needed space?”

“No, I don’t remember her saying that.”

“I got the space thing a month ago from a girl. Lives in Bolzano and works for a vineyard we do business with. Beautiful dark eyes to go with her hair. Speaks Italian with a sexy German accent.”

“Everybody in Bolzano has a German accent.”

“Not like Inga.”

They pushed up the safety bar and leveled their skis in preparation for the dismount. When they came to a small snow hill they slid gently off. The empty chair continued ahead for a few meters before whipping around to start its empty descent. Having skied the wider run twice already, they decided to take the other, less crowded run. Once again Rick marveled at his friend’s style, taking each bump, large or small, like it wasn’t there. The upper part of his body barely moved as his arms reached out to place the pole at just the right spot before starting a smooth turn around it. Rick tried his best to copy. He was certainly not a bad skier, but still found himself fighting the mountain. Flavio had become part of the mountain.

Halfway down the lift they stopped, allowing Rick to lean on his poles and catch his breath. Below, the trail split into three smaller routes that made their way back to the Campiglio, but all that was visible from this point were white peaks. Somewhere between the peaks lay the town, waiting for the afternoon’s skiers to descend for the evening.

Rick was ready to start off again when a man wearing the uniform of a ski instructor shot past him, his skis slapping the snow. He was followed by a skier about half as tall, then another, until about ten kids had whizzed past. The skiers, each about eleven or twelve, all wore the same yellow bibs with matching yellow helmets, some trailing