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

the street, Signor Montoya, on the first floor, but facing the mountain, not the street.” She pointed in the direction of the attack. “Lauro, my husband, was still up, he works a different schedule than I do. But he didn’t hear anything either.”

“Your husband owns a hotel, I understand.”

“That’s right Inspector, the Hotel Trentino.” She turned in the other direction. “Two blocks down and one block back to the east.”

“The victim worked for your opponent, Mayor Grandi.”

For the first time she showed some annoyance. “It is impossible that Guido’s attacker could have had any political motive. I’m sure you know that there are many men around Campiglio who have reason to be angry with him, and it has nothing to do with local politics.” Her face changed to a slightly darker hue of pink.

“Did your son hear anything, Signora?” asked Rick. He couldn’t bring himself to call her Mitzi. “I assume he lives with you.”

“Vittorio has to be up even earlier than I do, Signor Montoya, since he lights the ovens and prepares the bread dough. He was asleep before I was.” The bell rang over the door and two women came into the store. Mitzi looked at them and back at the two men. The smile returned, but Rick thought it was more for the new arrivals. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Luca looked down at the cookies and Rick wondered if he was going to change his mind about purchasing some. “One more thing, Signora. I understand that your husband is trying to purchase a plot of land just outside of the town.”

Mitzi held up her hands, and Rick could see specks of what looked like white cake icing on some of the fingers. It matched most of the cakes under the glass case. “I don’t get involved in my husband’s business, Inspector, and he doesn’t tell me how to bake cookies. It works out well for both of us.”

***

Rick watched Luca slowly retie the ear flap strings before carefully placing his hat on his head. It was starting to be a ritual with the man when he emerged into the cold. Just wearing the thing was bad enough, but treating it like some kind of heirloom was a bit much. The policeman glanced at Rick and grinned.

“Next stop, Riccardo, the Hotel Trentino. We have some questions for Signor Muller.” Rick heard the muffled sound of Luca’s phone, which was quickly fished out and answered. The inspector nodded, wedged the telefonino between shoulder and ear, and scribbled notes as he listened. “Thank you, Sergeant. We’re going to see Signor Muller now, and then we’ll be back at the station to get the car.” He stowed phone, pen, and pad, and turned to Rick. “We have the name and address of the owner of the empty lot. He lives in Folgarida, the next town to the north. We’ll drive there after our visit to the hotel.”

“We passed Folgarida when Flavio and I drove into town last week. It has its own ski lifts and trails, but is connected with Campiglio’s. You can get a special lift ticket and ski both places.”

“Were you tempted?”

“Not really. There are more than enough trails here in Campiglio to satisfy a skier like me, I don’t need another valley. The way Flavio talked, the special pass is more for people staying in Folgarida who want access to Campiglio, not the other way around.”

They crossed the street, which had little traffic at this time of the morning, and started up a side street. On the corner they had passed two signs for the Hotel Trentino. A rectangular brown sign on a light pole was courtesy of the traffic authorities, with the same size and lettering used all over Italy to help tourists find lodging. The other was a carved wooden sign, complete with a little chalet roof and a small spotlight. Attached as it was to the corner building, it reminded Rick of the madonnelle, the small but elaborate religious shrines found on so many corners in Rome, put there in commemoration, or as thanks for some answered prayer.

“The sergeant gave me another new piece of information, Riccardo, and just in time for our meeting with Signor Muller. Signora Pittini told the policeman on duty at the hospital that her husband had an argument a few days ago with one of Zia Mitzi’s supporters.”

“Violent?”

“They didn’t come to blows, but from what she heard from her husband, it was very heated.”

“She’s just remembering that now? Maybe she wants to make the attack seem political, since everyone in town is assuming that it had to do with women, which reflects badly on her.”

“Your cynicism shocks me, Riccardo. The poor woman was under such stress after the attack, and so consumed with nursing her beloved husband back to health, it just slipped her mind.” He pulled the notepad from his pocket. “Fortunately we have a way to confirm the story or not. Gaetano Spadacini, the man her husband argued with, happens to work at the Hotel Trentino.”

The hotel stood at the end of the short street. Its brown wood contrasted with the green of the mountain rising behind it. The inverted V of its sharply pitched roof covered a row of balconies, which in turn covered more balconies, four floors in all. Rick wondered if the rooms in the back, with the view of the mountain, fetched more than those overlooking the roofs of Campiglio. Perhaps they were equally pricey. The hotel where he was staying was very comfortable, but clearly the Hotel Trentino was in a higher category. In fact, as the signs at the corner had indicated, it boasted four stars, based on the amenities checklist set up by the national tourist authority. Or was that another regulatory function taken over by EU bean counters in Brussels?

They passed the entrance to an underground garage and mounted steps to a covered porch running the width of the building. Rustic chairs, all empty, enjoyed a