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

view of the street and across to the other side of Campiglio’s narrow valley where skiers floated down the one white strip of trail visible amid the mountain’s heavy green cover. The lobby of the hotel was open and inviting. On the left a lounge area was furnished with leather chairs, each as large as Rick’s dining table in his small apartment in Rome. To the right, a bar covered most of the wall. Small tables allowed guests to sit and enjoy a libation indoors if they didn’t want to brave the chill of the porch. Directly across from the door was the reception desk, behind which stood a smiling young woman wearing the plain uniform of the Italian hotel clerk, another item on the checklist for earning the fourth star.

“May I help you?”

Luca pulled out his document. “Inspector Albani, Signor Montoya. We’d like to talk to Signor Muller. Is he here?”

Rick expected her expression to become more serious, but she kept up the smile. “Yes, of course, I’ll tell him you’re here. If you’ll excuse me?” She hurried through a door behind the desk.

Luca cast his eyes around the room. “Nice place. Too dear for my expense account, and I love where we’re staying. Can’t beat our food.”

A man appeared from another part of the room, his features trying hard to mask his concern.

“I’m guessing Zia Mitzi called ahead,” Rick whispered.

Lauro Muller wore a suit, the first Rick had seen in Campiglio other than Luca’s. Unlike the policeman’s, Muller’s was measured to fit perfectly and looked like it just came from the dry cleaner. The tailoring had been done with such skill that the man’s girth was not immediately noticeable, but his height could not be disguised. Rick, who was more than six feet himself, found himself looking down at the man. What he looked at was a face whose shape matched Muller’s body, with a neatly trimmed goatee that blended into his neatly trimmed hair, both flecked with salt and pepper to add seriousness to his demeanor. Anyone meeting this hotel owner would immediately think—even without seeing the hotel itself—that his was a serious establishment. He introduced himself to the two visitors with firm handshakes and gestured toward the back of the room.

“Gentlemen, please come back to my office so we can talk without interruption. Allow me to lead the way.”

A door led into a cramped rectangular room with two metal desks, each with a computer. A young man, jacket-less but with a dress shirt and tie, sat at one, an earpiece and filament microphone clipped to his head. He was discussing reservations with someone at the other end of the line. Despite the computers, shelves lining the wall were filled with the thick notebooks that Italian businesses and bureaucrats had been using for decades. Rick wondered if Muller had a plan to put everything on discs during the off-season. They followed the man through another door into his office.

“Please sit down. Can I get you something, perhaps? Coffee?”

Luca held up a hand. “No thank you, Signor Muller, we don’t want to be any trouble.”

They took their places on a leather sofa at least six inches lower than Muller’s high-backed desk chair. Now they were looking up at him.

The office was small but well furnished. One wall was covered with photographs which Rick at first assumed were of Muller with important personages, perhaps famous people who had been guests at the hotel. A closer look revealed that while other people were found in the photos, most of the images included cars of various vintages and styles. So Muller was a car aficionado, and perhaps a collector. It was a hobby Rick had toyed with when he’d started working in New Mexico after college, but he’d never had enough money to become serious about it. One photo, a large one centered on the wall, caught his interest. It showed Muller wearing mechanic’s overalls, standing next to a small greenish vehicle, a wide grin splitting his round face.

Rick pointed at the photo. “Is that Willys MB yours, Signor Muller?”

The man’s mouth dropped open, forming an oval that matched the shape of his head. “Why, yes, yes it is. You…do you know about Jeeps, Signor Montoya?”

“I had a friend back in America who had one like yours. It looks like about a 1943.”

“1942, actually, it probably landed in Sicily, or Anzio.”

Rick turned to Luca who had been silently following the exchange. “The United States made a decision not to ship back most of their Jeeps after the war, which ironically has meant that parts for collectors are now easier to find here in Europe than in America.”

“So you won the war but lost your Jeeps.”

“You could say that, Inspector,” Muller piped in. “But Signor Montoya, your friend in America, his is the Willys, not the Ford model?

“Willys, for sure. He let me drive it a few times, an amazing engine.”

“The go devil engine,” Muller said in English.

“Bravo, Signor Muller.” Rick glanced at Luca’s frown. “But perhaps we should get to the business at hand.”

Muller’s face became serious and he turned to Luca. “Of course. Inspector, how can I be of assistance? You are looking into this business of the American?” He rocked back in his chair. The desk hid the lower part of his body, but Rick guessed that his feet were suspended above the floor.

“That’s correct,” answered Luca. “As well as the attack on Guido Pittini.”

“You don’t think the two crimes are related, do you, Inspector?”

Luca shrugged and pulled out pen and pad. “We understand you have been trying to purchase a piece of property on the north edge of town.”

“Yes, I’d heard that the police had been up there looking around. Is that where the murder took place, Inspector?” The reply was a silent glare. “Of course, of course, Inspector. You are the one asking the questions.” He adjusted his tie, blue with small white polka dots. “Yes, I have been bidding on the property, and as I’m sure