Death in the Dolomites by David Wagner (feel good books .TXT) 📕

toward the coffee table, noticing his boots. They would need a good polishing when he got back to Rome, thanks to the slush of Campiglio’s streets. They were ones from the Boot Barn in Albuquerque, not the fancy place in Santa Fe where he’d gotten his other, more dressy pair. These were more comfortable.

“I’m ready.”

Rick looked up. Cat had changed into something which looked like a long sweater, but which he quickly realized was a dress of heavy wool that ended just above her knees. Loose-fitting snow boots rose to meet the hem, but ended just below the knees. The dress was not loose-fitting. Quite an outfit to stroll about the streets of Campiglio, he thought. She had brushed some color to her face, added a light coat of lipstick, and changed the ribbon holding back her hair. After taking it all in, he rose to his feet.

“That was quick. Where’s your coat?”

“The closet there by the door.”

Rick opened the closet door and found the coat she had worn that morning. Next to it were two that must have belonged to her brother. She turned her back to him and he slipped it up over her arms, noticing that she’d added a few new sprays of perfume. He pulled on his own coat, took his hat, and opened the door to the apartment.

When they emerged on the street a gust of snowy wind swirled around their two bodies. Cat pushed herself against Rick’s chest.

“You should have worn a hat, Cat.”

“I’ll be okay. It feels good to be out of that apartment.”

The violent images of the previous evening, pushed from his mind, reappeared. It was just ahead that he had been jolted by the cries of Pittini and rushed up to find him bleeding in the snow. He instinctively glanced around to find that now several people strolled the sidewalk. That would be expected since the snow was not as heavy and the hour not as late. He toyed with the idea of telling Cat about the incident but rejected it immediately. She had enough on her mind. He wasn’t sure how much she wanted to talk, so he decided to wait to let her start the conversation. They came to a shoe store and stopped to gaze at the pairs lined up on the shelves inside the long glass window. The stock was dominated by boots, as would be expected in a mountain town in the winter.

“This is where I got these boots,” Cat said, extending her toe. “They’re very warm.”

“These are warm too,” he said, noticing that she was glancing at his footwear.

“Do you always wear cowboy boots, Rick?”

“When I’m in the States, I wear Italian shoes.”

“Really?”

“Pretty much. Loafers, mostly, when the weather’s not too cold.”

“Clever. American women think the Italian shoes are cool, and Italian women are fascinated by the cowboy boots.”

“That never occurred to me.”

“I’ll bet it didn’t.”

They continued walking slowly along the sidewalk and reached the pedestrian-only area around the main square. Despite the hour, people still milled around in small groups, but they were younger couples instead of the pensioners of the mornings. On leaving the protection of the storefronts Cat clutched Rick’s arm more tightly and pushed herself into his shoulder.

“Shall we go in there for something warm?” he asked. “I went there with Flavio the night we got here.” His eyes pointed to the large bar on one corner of the piazza. Its porch area was covered with snow, but through the frosted windows they could see the heads of people sitting inside.

“Yes, let’s. You haven’t told me about Flavio.”

“College buddy. We’ve been trying to get together since I moved to Rome and finally managed to work it into both our schedules. He lives down in Trento but grew up here.”

They climbed the few steps, crossed the porch and pushed through the heavy wooden door.

The inside was one large room on two levels, perfect to see and be seen, which Rick decided was the idea. On the upper level a bar ran along the entire back wall. Behind it various espresso machines gleamed between rows of bottles and glasses. Chrome stools lined the bar, but most of the customers on the upper level were at the tables along the railing in front of it, or sitting at the area below. A harried waiter rushed past Rick and Cat, giving them his best “sit wherever you’d like” look. They found a table for two at the far end of the upper row with a good view of the entire room. In contrast with the square outside, it was bright, warm, and noisy. They slipped off their coats and draped them over the empty chairs.

“What would you like, Cat?”

“I’d love a cappuccino.”

Rick got the waiter’s eye and he hurried to their table, dropping napkins in front of each of them with a quick movement of the hand. “Un cappuccio e una spina,” said Rick, and the man disappeared.

“Did you say cappuccio?”

“You have a good ear. Yes, it’s more informal, but the same meaning.”

“And what’s a spina?”

“A draft beer. Watch the bartender.” She looked up and saw the man holding down a tall plastic handle, filling a glass with beer.

“I think I get it. He’s pulling on a thing that looks like a spine. So, spina.”

“Brava, Cat, you’ll be fluent in Italian before you know it.”

“I doubt that.” Their drinks arrived at the table. She stirred sugar into her coffee, blew on it, and took a sip. “Perfect. I didn’t think I was cold, but this hits the spot.” She held the cup in two hands and looked over its rim into Rick’s face. “It was awfully nice of you to come to my aid, Rick.

“Glad to help out, Cat.”

“So, there really are no leads on the murder? Must be something.”

He took a sip of his beer, giving him time to think of an answer. It was smoother than the bottled stuff he’d had at her apartment, but that could have been in the refrigerator for