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

paper he’d pulled from his coat. “The building should be just ahead. There it is, number 381. Apartment 4A.”

The entrance to the residential floors was centered between two shops. A shoe store was on the left, its vetrina shelves filled with thick-soled boots and furry after-ski footwear. Sweet smells escaped through the glass doors of the bakery on the other side. Cookies and small cakes were artistically stacked to lure the passing public, but after his hearty lunch at the hotel, Rick was not tempted. The door to the apartment entrance was open and the two men walked into a small hallway that was decorated with marble and glass. Not luxurious, but certainly not shabby. They got into the elevator and took it to the top floor where they found apartment A and rang the bell.

Money was what came to mind when Rick saw the woman who answered the door. Who was it who said you can never be too rich or too thin? Catherine Taylor’s outfit was casual but chic: black corduroy slacks over brown leather boots, a white cashmere sweater, a single pearl hanging from a gold pendant around her neck. The blond hair was pulled back and held in place with a thin wine-colored scarf, revealing small gold hoops in her ears. Makeup was minimal, but she didn’t need much after what nature had bestowed. Despite her age, which Rick guessed to be about twenty-five, she did not appear to be awed by the presence of the police. Whether she had summoned them or been stopped by them in the past remained to be seen. What she did show on her face was surprise that the policeman—and it was clear from Luca’s suit and overcoat who was the policeman—was accompanied by someone in the more informal attire of the town, including—strangely enough—cowboy boots. And that person was only a few years older than she was, and good-looking.

“I was expecting only one person.”

Luca extended his hand to the woman and stepped slowly into English. “I am Inspector Albani, from Trento. My English, it is not good. I have brought Signor Montoya who will give a help.” He grinned at her and then at Rick.

“I’m Rick Montoya, Miss Taylor.”

“Montoya. That sounds Mexican.” She concentrated on Rick as if the policeman, after making his initial speech, had suddenly disappeared.

“New Mexican, actually.” Rick wondered what other warm and welcoming phrases would emerge from this lovely mouth. “Montoyas have been living there for about three hundred years. May we come in?” Luca continued to smile, not getting any of what Rick had said.

“Oh, of course. Sorry.” She stood back and gestured toward the room which opened off the small entranceway, giving Rick a whiff of a perfume that smelled vaguely familiar. The living room had the kind of furniture expected in a Dolomite ski resort rental: wood and more wood. Had it been Montana, there would have been a few antlers hanging somewhere, but here the wall decorations were local tourism posters. On a table in one corner sat a large wood carving of a deer or elk, he wasn’t sure which. Rick’s eyes were drawn to the large window and its view of the eastern side of the valley. He could see a few rays of sun hitting the piste where he would have been had he gone skiing with Flavio. Getting a tan was one of the primary reasons Italians went to the mountains, so the east-slope trails were popular with the afternoon skiers.

Without being asked, the two men pulled off their overcoats and folded them over a lone wooden chair near the door. Catherine Taylor took a seat in a cushioned chair with arms of roughly hewn logs, and motioned her visitors to the matching sofa that faced her.

The policeman took a notebook and pen from his suit pocket and spoke in Italian. “Riccardo, if you could ask her about the circumstances of her brother’s disappearance? When it was, what he did in the days before, that kind of thing.”

“Miss Taylor,” said Rick in English, “could you—”

“Please call me Cat, everyone does.”

So the snow queen wants to melt, he thought. “Fine, Cat. And please call me Rick. If you could tell us exactly what happened, on a time line, to get things started. I will give the inspector a running translation as you talk.” He inclined his head toward the policeman who sat with pen poised, and when she started to speak, Rick translated in a low voice, as he had done countless times in his work.

“My brother and I have been here for five days. That is, here in Campiglio. I was in Milan for one night before we came up here. He rents this apartment from someone he knows. Well, we both know him, from Milan.”

“So you have been to Italy before.” Rick translated his question for the policeman before turning back to her.

“Oh, yes. Cam—nobody calls him Cameron except our parents—Cam has been living in Milan for almost two years, and I’ve visited him a few times.”

Cam and Cat, thought Rick. Cute. “It sounds like you are very close to your brother.”

Her answer was not what he expected. “I don’t think you could characterize our relationship as close. Saying that my older brother has always bullied me would be too strong, but he has tried always to order me around, like he knows what’s best for me.” Luca looked up from his pad for the first time to see that the look on her face matched her comment.

“My older sister used to treat me like that,” said Rick, hoping to lighten things up.

“This was more than the usual brother-sister rivalry, Rick.”

“Yet you came here for various visits.”

She leaned back in the chair and carefully crossed her legs, the slacks tightening over her knee. “He’s my brother,” she said, as if that explained everything. “And, I just went through a difficult divorce, so what better way to get away from problems than jump on a plane for