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

wood, its eventual shape still anyone’s guess. “Early morning, before the shop opens, is the time I get some of my best carving done.”

“What time do you open?”

“Ten. During the season we are open every day, and my salespeople arrive a few minutes before ten. Unless there’s some reason to be here, that’s when I make my rounds about the town. My staff is very dependable. So I was out most of the day.”

“Lunch?”

Grandi pondered the question, as if he had been asked something more profound. “Let’s see. Saturday I just had a panino and a glass of wine at the bar across the piazza. No time for a regular lunch. Then more calls around town.” He had been looking at the wooden ceiling as he tried to recall his movements, but now gazed directly at the policeman. “You know, of course, that I am running for re-election.”

“Which explains your busy schedule.”

“Well, Inspector, during the ski season I’m always on the move, especially on weekends, but if you are thinking that I may be doing more of it because of the election, well, guilty as charged.” He held up his hands defensively. Another try at humor.

“So you didn’t come back here at all on Saturday?”

“I returned at about six and stayed until we closed at seven thirty. No, that’s not true. I worked here by myself until a little after eight thirty. I had dinner by myself at home. I live a few blocks away.”

“When you make your rounds, if that’s the word, how to you get around town?”

“Mostly on foot, of course. But if there’s someone I need to see who is more distant, or if I have to go up to the ski lifts north of town, I use the city vehicle.”

“That’s a nice perk.”

“Yes it is. A Land Rover. My predecessor picked it out; I might have gone with something else. Something Italian. But I’ve never been stuck, even in the heaviest snow.”

“I trust you ski?”

Grandi gave the policeman a puzzled look. “Of course, Inspector. Everyone here skis. I don’t get out to enjoy the trails as much as I’d like, what with my responsibilities to the town.”

“And you do get some good snowfalls in Campiglio.”

“Yes, Inspector, for business, thank God that we do. Such as last night when that horrible attack took place.”

“I was going to ask you about that, Signor Sindaco.”

Grandi looked at the policeman’s face and squinted his eyes. “Surely you don’t think it is connected to the American’s murder.”

“Two violent crimes within days in a town this size. What would you think?”

Grandi clearly did not want to think anything of the sort. “Pure coincidence. Guido had a reputation with the ladies. My guess is that his attack had something to do with those activities.”

“He works on your campaign.”

“That’s correct. But what…certainly you couldn’t think that his attack could be politically motivated.”

“Politics can become heated.”

“Inspector, Campiglio is a civilized place.”

Luca did not point out that crimes often happen in the most civilized of places. Even murder. “A zealous supporter in the opposing campaign?”

Grandi waved the suggestion away with a flick of his hand, but then used it to rub his head in thought. Luca waited, not wanting to interrupt what was going through the man’s mind. “Last week Guido got into a shouting match with someone who works for the other candidate. It got ugly but certainly not violent.”

“Who was that?”

“It was an isolated event,” Grandi said, putting a weak smile on his face and holding up his hands. “I should not have even mentioned it. It makes me appear to be engaging in dirty politics.”

“But Signor Grandi, I really must—”

“No, no. I’ve said enough. Perhaps you should talk to my opponent.”

Chapter Eight

Gnocchi verdi alla gorgonzola was the pasta course at the hotel that evening, a dish firmly based in the north of Italy with touches from various regions. The spinach that made the potato dumplings green was a Tuscan staple, but the gorgonzola cheese was arguably as Milanese as the Duomo. There was even a stop on the Milan metro named Gorgonzola. And the slight bacon taste in the gnocchi could have come from the eastern Po Valley, where not all pork went into the production of prosciutto. But the origins of the various ingredients were not important to the three men savoring the gnocchi. The dish’s various features had joined perfectly together in the kitchen before arriving at their table, and that was enough for them. Luca sat back in his chair and picked up his glass. The straw yellow liquid swirled softly inside it.

“Flavio, you outdid yourself in the selection of this bottle. Its match with the gnocchi was something magical.”

“You are too kind, Luca. You likely passed the vines that produced this bottle’s grapes when you drove to Campiglio. It is an Etschtaler pinot bianco. Unfortunately a small vineyard. I could sell twice as many bottles as they produce.”

Since moving to Italy, Rick was increasingly finding himself drawn into discussions of food and wine. It was simply something Italians did, along with complaining about the government and worrying that the economy was finally going to collapse. He found it more than ironic that at the same time they complained and worried, Italians were enjoying a lifestyle that would have been the envy of most of his friends back in the States. Now, as the table was cleared of the first course dishes, the conversation, as he knew it would, left food and returned to crime. After the waitress cleared the plates in front of each of them, in anticipation of the secondo, Rick began the questioning.

“So, Luca, how did your meeting with Melograno go? I don’t suppose he confessed to the murder.”

“He did not, Riccardo. I asked him about his movements on the day of the murder, Saturday.”

“And?”

“Not exactly exculpatory. He said he was working in his office, and I confirmed with someone on his staff that he was there most of the day.”

“That sounds like a good alibi,”