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

and tossed down the liqueur with a quick jerk of his hand. “Rick, he bought his apartments from Umberto.”

“Melograno? Aren’t there any other real estate offices in Campiglio?”

“A few, but Umberto is the best known, and he sells a lot of apartments. I’d bet on it.”

***

Luca looked at the sky and touched the front brim of his hat, noting how well it kept the snow from his face. One of his better purchases, no doubt about it. Would his wife’s opinion of the hat be the same as Riccardo’s? Didn’t matter; he loved it. And he’d bring her back something from the chocolate shop next to the mayor’s store so she’d know he’d been thinking of her. He stopped and looked in the window at the rows of chocolate stacked elegantly. Handmade inside, of course, in various flavors and shapes, light and dark. It all looked good. There must have been some kind of hidden exhaust fan, since the aroma of chocolate brushed his nostrils. He sighed and walked a few steps to the entrance to the mayor’s shop. A bell over the door rang when he entered.

The mayor was nowhere to be seen. An older couple was looking at a table full of wooden Pinocchios, some as tall as the grandchild they likely were shopping for. A salesgirl who was hovering over them looked up at the policeman with an “I’ll be with you in a moment” smile, so he shook the snow off his hat and began wandering around the shop. It was, he decided, exactly what one would expect to find in an alpine town anywhere. What better souvenir could you bring back from the Dolomites than something carved out of wood? The image that came to mind was the goatherd, locked in his wooden hut, carving away in front of the fire while the goats bleeted in the cellar below and the wind howled outside. Man and goat, waiting for spring when they would climb the mountain again to find succulent grass peeking from the melting snow. So while the winter held on, there was the old man, working away, turning a rough block of wood into a tiny work of art. Must have been some movie he’d seen as a kid. Luca was turning a tiny carved goat in his hand when he heard Grandi’s voice.

“Inspector, I hope you have some news for me. There are already stories in the papers that will not be helpful to tourism in Campiglio.” The head seemed even balder than it had been in Melograno’s office. It could have been the lighting, or its pink contrasted just enough with all the natural wood around the shop.

“We are just beginning to gather evidence, Signor Sindaco.”

“And where is that evidence pointing?”

They were still standing, and Luca glanced at the couple nearby, who were now looking at cuckoo clocks. Grandi got the message. “Ah, yes. Why don’t we sit over there?” He motioned to the table where they had talked previously, out of earshot of the others. When they were seated, Luca spoke in a lowered voice.

“My sense is that the criminal is a local, or at least someone who knows the town well.” He was trying to give the mayor the impression that he was sharing confidential information, though everyone in town must have come to the same conclusion. It seemed to work. Grandi looked over at the other people and then leaned toward Luca.

“Is that so?” His voice was also almost a whisper. “But who could it be? I know everyone in town, and I can’t for the life of me think who would have murdered the man.”

“Had you known Signor Taylor?”

“Me? Why, no. I don’t make a point of meeting every tourist that comes to Campiglio. Though some people here would say that I try.” From Grandi’s smile, Luca sensed this was an attempt at humor. He waited for the man to continue. “Inspector, you’ve talked to the people he saw before he was killed, I know that. What have you concluded?”

The mayor knows exactly who I’ve interviewed since setting foot in his little town, Luca thought. He probably knows what I had for dinner last night. Is this the time to bring up the issue of his ex-wife? Why not?

“How is your relationship with Gina Cortese, Signor Sindaco?”

He must have been expecting the question. “I don’t see her very often now that our divorce is final. There were no children. It’s a small town, so we can’t avoid occasionally running into each other, but we’ve both moved on.”

“I assume you know that she was seeing Signor Taylor?”

Grandi gave a neutral shrug. His body language said that he didn’t care who she was seeing, but Luca was not totally convinced. “Inspector, you don’t think that Gina could be involved, do you?”

“As I said, the investigation is just beginning. I must assume nothing and suspect everything.”

“Of course. And I suppose I should tell you where I was at the time of the murder. Isn’t that what always happens in these investigations?”

“Well, Signor Sindaco, I really—”

“No, we must do it by the book.” He tapped his finger to his forehead and closed his eyes in thought. Somewhat theatrically, in Luca’s mind. “It’s difficult to remember every minute of Saturday, or any other day for that matter. I like to move around the town.”

“Keep your finger on the public pulse, so to speak.”

Grandi glanced up and nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes, indeed. I take my job as mayor very seriously. On Saturday I went by the tourism office, to get a reading of how business was doing. Then I stopped at the ski lift consortium, where they sell ski passes, and found that the numbers were very good. Lots of people getting the weekly pass, meaning they are here for the entire week, staying in hotels and eating in restaurants. And I also—”

“Was that in the morning? Early?”

“No, that would be mid-morning. Earlier, I was here working.” He gestured at the block of