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

Teroldego Rotaliano. Bring us one of them if you would.” She walked back into the kitchen through the swinging door, clutching the rejected bottle. “Since I supply them their stock, I know what’s on the wine list. You’ll like this one, it is produced just east of here, and—”

“Don’t start the wine-speak on us, Flavio,” said Rick. Luca enjoyed the comment while Flavio scowled. The contrast between the two men was striking, and Rick wondered how they could have become friends. Probably the same way he and Flavio had hit it off ten years earlier in Albuquerque.

When Flavio Caldaro had arrived on the campus of the University of New Mexico, the only person he knew was the assistant ski coach who had recruited him during a trip to Europe the previous year. The university was known for its foreign student athletes, especially in soccer and basketball, but one from Italy was out of the ordinary. The change from Alps to high desert was tough on the Italian, not to mention getting used to taking classes in English and the total absence of decent Italian food. He was determined to stick it out, at least for one year, but at the end of one semester he was ready to pack it in and head back to the Dolomites. Enter Rick Montoya, son of an American diplomat father and a Roman mother. Rick was already fluent in English and Italian, and his Spanish was pretty good thanks to visits to his grandparents in northern New Mexico, so languages had been the logical, and easy, choice for a course of study. When one of his professors told him an Italian foreign student needed some tutoring, he volunteered to help. Do one for the patria, Rick had thought. After spending about half his life in Italy and half in the States, a sub-theme of Rick’s college years was the issue of his own national identity. Nobody was pushing him to choose between the two countries, but it was something he thought about. Not obsessively—Rick’s main obsession was enjoying college life—but he did think about it. So he welcomed the chance to help a fellow Italian. At first they didn’t get along very well. In fact, after a few weeks of tutoring, Rick went to the professor to say it just wasn’t working. The guy is too negative, Rick told him, I get depressed just being around him. Fortunately the professor convinced him to stick with it.

The waitress returned, opened the new bottle, and poured an inch into a fresh glass in front of Flavio. He tasted it and gave her a nod, after which she filled the other two glasses before returning to his.

“Did you ever think that it might be hard to send it back,” asked Rick, “since they bought it from you?”

“I don’t test every bottle, Rick.”

“Your time is better spent supervising your accountants, I suppose.”

The policeman listened to the exchange and asked: “Are you two always like this?”

***

Rick stood in front of the mirror and used the hair dryer that came with the room, remembering his mother’s admonition never to go out in the winter with a wet head. He also contemplated the word Italians used for hair dryer: föhn. There was a literal translation, asciuga capelli, but most Italians seemed to use the German word which came from a brand of hair dryer, in turn derived from a warming Alpine wind. As Rick mused that such etymological trivia was the curse and delight of the professional translator, he heard the call of his cell phone. Its ring, the Lobo Fight Song, managed to cut through the sound of the dryer. He walked out to the dresser, checked the number, and smiled.

“Commissario Piero Fontana, I am honored.” It was the standard greeting he used when his Uncle Piero called.

“Riccardo, my favorite nephew.” The reply was also traditional, both knowing that Rick was the man’s only nephew. “I trust you are enjoying your ski holiday. Here in Rome it rains without ceasing.”

“That makes me enjoy my holiday even more, Zio. If you called to find out the weather in the Dolomites, it is perfect. A light snow has been falling since I arrived, making ideal powder for skiing. I’m not sure which group is happier here in Campiglio, the merchants and ski lift operators, or the tourists.”

“I was not calling for a meteorological update, Riccardo, but I’m pleased to hear it. The purpose of my call was something else.” Rick waited, hoping that there was not a problem, though the tone of his uncle’s voice indicated all was well in Rome. Except the weather. “Word has reached my office that there is a police investigation going on in Campiglio, and it has occurred to me that you could be of some assistance.”

Once again the commissario was trying to get Rick into police work, even if it had to be through the back door. Thanks to Piero’s efforts, Rick was already on the books of the Polizia dello Stato as an informal consultant. Ostensibly it would be for cases involving cross-cultural problems or translations, but as far as Piero was concerned, it could be for anything interesting that might pop up.

“I’m already on it, Zio, you needn’t have called.” Rick grinned as he waited for a reply, which did not come immediately. Piero had been caught off guard, and that didn’t happen very often.

“The missing American?”

“Exactly. I am about to head into town with Inspector Luca—”

“Albani, Inspector Luca Albani. Yes, he’s the one. But how could you…?”

Rick was tempted to have some more fun with his uncle, but opted instead to tell him the story of meeting the policeman in the hotel and being asked to help with translation. In such a small town, such things happen, he said.

“Well, Riccardo, I am pleased that you were so willing to help one of my colleagues, though I don’t think I have ever met the man. It means you won’t be displeased to hear that