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

Muller said you wanted to ask me some questions. I hope it won’t take long, there may be a client arriving soon to check into this room.”

Luca leaned against the side board. “It shouldn’t take long. Where were you Monday night, at about eleven thirty?”

“Monday? Let’s see… at my apartment. I try to stay in a few nights a week, to get my sleep and regain my strength. Monday was one of them.”

“Can anyone confirm that? Your wife?”

“I’m divorced, Inspector.” He glanced at Rick and back at Luca. “I assume you’re the inspector. Italian police I’ve met don’t wear boots like his.”

Rick chuckled. “You’re correct, Signor Spadacini. And you know why we’re asking?”

“Of course. Pittini. He went too far and got someone very annoyed. I can understand that. But it wasn’t me.”

“The argument you had with him?” said Luca. “It was apparently quite heated.”

Spadacini shrugged and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Ask anyone who was there and they’ll tell you that he was getting in my face first, and I reacted. But just with words. It happens. Guido can be a stronzo at times. Ask anyone that too.”

“What was the argument about?”

“I don’t remember exactly, Inspector. Something he said about Zia Mitzi, I think.”

“What’s your usual work schedule, Signor Spadacini?”

“During the season I’m here six days a week, but I’m always on call. Like today. It’s my day off , but this damn shutter motor brought me in. I won’t get out of here until lunch time.”

“You must do well on overtime pay,” said Rick.

“But when can I spend it?”

“On those nights when you’re not regaining your strength.”

Spadacini’s mouth formed something between a grin and a leer, showing that in addition to everything else, he had perfect teeth.

Chapter Ten

Rick looked up as they walked back to the station from the hotel. The sky had clouded over, bringing lower temperatures and a chill wind. It could mean less than ideal skiing conditions in the afternoon when he was meeting Cat, but Flavio had told him that the weather could change quickly—for better or worse.

“So, Inspector, what did you think of Spadacini?”

“Gaetano the heart-stealer? He appears to be an ideal employee for Muller, Riccardo. Clearly a competent electrician, and a loyal soldier in his wife’s electoral campaign. I expect he’s good at winning over female voters as well as members of the electricians’ union.”

“In that regard, he may service more than just the electrical system in the hotel.”

Luca shook his head and frowned, but it was a weak frown.

They turned the corner onto the main street, and Rick had taken a few steps along the sidewalk before realizing that Luca was not next to him. He turned to see him peering into the window of a store.

“Look at this, Riccardo.” Luca motioned to Rick with a hand gesture that in the States would indicate “good-bye,” but in Italy meant “come here.”

Elegantly arrayed on satin inside the glass were handmade knives, fine cutlery, and other kitchen instruments not found in the average kitchen. The ornate bone handles on the knives, many carved in the form of wild animals, almost discouraged being covered by someone’s hand. These items would be purchased for ostentation, Rick decided, even a shiny gadget like the truffle slicer. Come to think of it, especially the truffle slicer. Cheese knives, including the ubiquitous parmigiano reggiano blades, lay against dark wood cutting boards in all shapes and sizes.

Luca tapped on the glass. “Who would come to this town and buy that?” He was pointing at a chain mail glove, next to which lay a knife with a short blade and ebony handle. Between them on a laminated wood board was an oyster shell. “If they didn’t have the shell there, I wouldn’t have known what that was for. So you live in Milan, come up to Campiglio to ski, and decide to pick up equipment to open oysters?”

“You never know when you’ll need to shuck an oyster, Luca. It pays to be prepared.”

“I suppose so.”

A few minutes later they reached the station, where the car was waiting for them in front. Rick got in the passenger side and put his Borsalino in the backseat. Luca didn’t take the hint, keeping the deer stalker on his head. They drove out of town to the north, the road climbing steeply before flattening out and passing a large parking lot where trails came down from the two sides of the valley. A covered foot bridge connected the trails for those skiers who wanted to change mountains. Through the glass Rick could see people moving in both directions, their skis over their shoulders, clomping toward the lifts. They drove under the bridge and climbed past the full parking lot, beyond which the valley opened into a treeless expanse that in the summer, Flavio had told him, was a nine-hole golf course. Cross-country skiers followed thin trails through the valley, moving like stiff puppets on connected strings. It was a form of skiing that had never interested Rick. Too much like work.

The road reached the top of the hill and entered the forest, broken initially by some apartment buildings on the left and an occasional glimpse of the open valley through the trees on the right. As they passed one break in the trees, Luca took his right hand off the steering wheel and pointed. “That’s where the hat and the blood were found. Back in there.”

Rick turned his neck to look before they passed the opening. “I can see why Melograno and Muller want that property. Perfect location for either a hotel or an apartment.” A location to die for, he could not help thinking.

The forest had begrudgingly given way to the road. Large trees stood menacingly on both sides, their branches touching in solidarity as if ready to reclaim the thin strip that civilization had sliced through them. Despite the heavy cover, the forest floor was deep with snow, blown there by the wind. Rick guessed that even in summer this