A Monk of Fife<br />Being the Chronicle Written by Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, Concerning Marvellous by Andrew Lang (top e book reader .txt) 📕

finding our missing man. Someone here knows something, and likely there are others who know that that someone knows something, so we just have to discover which someone that someone is. Did I explain that right?”

“I think I got it. Where to now?”

The policeman looked at his watch. “According to the sergeant, Signora Cortese should be finishing her classes right about now, and can be found in the bar at the bottom of the lift over…” He twisted his head around, getting his bearings, before pointing to the east. “Over there. He said we should be able to walk to it easily. But then everything is within easy walking distance here.” He slapped Rick on the back. “This isn’t Rome, is it?” They began to walk, and Luca continued to chatter. “There is something to be said for the small town, isn’t there, Riccardo? I grew up in Rome, just outside the walls near San Giovanni in Laterano, and getting anywhere was problematic. Always buses, taxis, or the metro, if the metro happened to go somewhere you wanted to reach, which wasn’t often. Look around us. Few cars, everyone walking, the air is fresh. I now wonder why our friend Flavio left here to move to Trento. True, Trento isn’t very big, either, but this place, well, it’s so—what’s the phrase?—misura di uomo. That’s it, human-sized.”

They had left the center of the town, such as it was, and were walking along a sidewalk below the mountain. On their left the mountain rose steeply behind houses, its upper reaches visible through the trees as they walked. On the other side of the street a treeless park formed a white bowl in the center of the alpine valley, its curving paths cleared to give access to a small frozen lake. Three solitary skaters moved around the ice under the light snowfall, reminding Rick of a snow globe he had as a kid. Whatever happened to it? Could Mamma have given it away along with his Topolino comics?

On their left, past a few apartment buildings, a field opened up where two skiers took off their skis, hoisted them over their shoulders, and walked stiffly off in heavy ski boots. Beside the field rose a large structure concealing the machinery for the ski lift that served this part of the mountain. High above its roof the egg-shaped capsules descended from the mountaintop or rose toward it. Fortunately for Rick and Luca, who were without snow boots, there was a cleared stairway leading to the entrance.

The bar at the top of the stairs looked out over the end of a pista. It was an unpretentious establishment: scuffed cement floors, no wall decorations, and a dozen wooden tables and chairs served by a bored barman. On the snow outside the windows a few skiers, all of them young, pushed hard on their poles to reach the waiting line for another ride to the top. They knew it was getting late in the afternoon and the lifts would be closing soon. The trick was to come back down just before the line closed, get on one of the last cabine to the top, then make that final, relaxed run before the ski patrol did its sweep of the trails.

It was not difficult to spot Gina Cortese. The ski instructors sitting at a table in one corner of the bar were dressed the same, their matching ski coats sporting the round patch of the Scuola Italiana di Sci. All the faces were evenly tanned and all the bodies were athletic, but she was the only woman. A variety of drinks stood on the table, from coffee to mineral water, but in front of her was what appeared to be a small glass of grappa. As Rick and Luca watched, she ran her hand through her hair, then shook it out with a rapid snap of the head. Despite her efforts, and its relatively short length, the hair remained matted from a day spent under a knit cap. Rick stood back while Luca approached the group.

“Signora Cortese? I wonder if I could have a word with you?”

“If you need good skiing lessons, Signore, you should talk to one of the rest of us.” The man’s comments brought laughter from the group.

“Perhaps he needs lessons in something other than skiing,” said the one sitting next to her.

She got to her feet, seeming to ignore the comment, but then lashed out an open hand against the back of the man’s head. The man cowered, a look of anger on his face, while the group reacted with a roar. She picked up her glass in one hand and the jacket in the other. “Let’s go over to that table. We can talk about when I could schedule you this week.” She looked more closely at the policeman. “Or is it for some family member?”

“We can sit over here.” Luca gestured toward the table where Rick was already standing. “In fact, Signora Cortese, I do not want to set up lessons, though I have never learned to ski. I am Inspector Luca Albani, and this is Riccardo Montoya.” He flashed his police ID.

She took the seat offered by Rick and gave them a puzzled look. “Police? Why would you need to talk to me? I paid off that traffic ticket a month ago. Is that what this is about?”

Luca held up his hands defensively. “No, no, we are not interested in your traffic infractions, I can assure you. We would like to ask you about Signor Cameron Taylor. We understand you are a friend of his.”

A half sneer crossed her lips as she took a sip from her drink. “Cam? He was a friend, until he stood me up last night.” The smile disappeared. “Wait, has something happened to him?” Her eyes went from Luca to Rick and back.

“We don’t know, Signora. He has been reported missing and we hoped you could help us find him. His sister said you were with him