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

would not be inviting terrain for alpinisti—it would be much more practical, and pleasant, to hike the high, snow-less ski trails.

The road bent sharply for a bridge over a small stream, its icy water flowing back toward Campiglio. Gradually the forest began to thin out, a house or two appeared, then a ski trail flowed down from the hills on the left side of the road. After a few bends they descended into Folgarida, a tiny town on the north side of the mountain. Luca spotted a policeman, rolled down his window, and after identifying himself, asked directions.

The man saluted, but not too formally. “The building is that one, Inspector. And if you leave your car over there, I won’t give you a parking ticket.”

“That’s very kind of you, Corporal. We won’t be long.”

The space the policeman had indicated was behind a set of covered benches in the middle of what Rick guessed to be the main square of the town. A very tiny main square. Two people sat on one set of benches holding skis and poles, waiting for a ride or perhaps a bus. Rick looked up the street lined with hotels and could see that it ended about a hundred meters from where they stood. Space here was clearly at a premium; the town clung tightly to the side of the mountain, like it wasn’t supposed to be there. The narrow ribbon of pavement and its thin sidewalks were relatively flat, but everything else was on an incline. On both sides of the street, buildings had been squeezed into the mountain. Like some of the neighborhoods Rick had been to in Rio when he’d visited his parents, the buildings on the lower side of the street were entered on the upper floors. But instead of offering a view of Guanabara Bay, their windows looked out over snow-covered trees.

Not many people were out walking, but the town was much smaller than Campiglio, so that would be expected. People came here to ski, and at this time of day they were on Folgarida’s trails or over the mountain on Campiglio’s. Judging by the number of cars squeezed along the length of the street, there were quite a few skiers, and that didn’t count cars parked in the underground garages of the hotels. On one side of the piazza, a tourist office shared its space with a real estate company, and on the other a row of low apartment buildings wedged themselves into the mountain. It was at one of these buildings that the policeman had pointed.

They walked across the street and up some stairs to the entrance. It was chalet style, like everything else in the region, but older and shabbier than the buildings next to it. Luca scanned the eight names and pressed the button under one of them. Almost instantly the door buzzed open. He looked at Rick and lifted his eyebrows before pushing open the door.

The apartment they were seeking was on the second floor—or first by Italian designation—so they had one flight of stairs to climb. The stairwell was lit, but dimly, as was the hallway, but Luca found the door number without trouble. He rapped lightly.

“It’s open!” called a voice inside. This time it was Rick’s turn to raise his eyebrows before turning the knob and pushing open the door. They saw the back of a man who adjusted a scarf around his neck before pulling on a black leather coat. “I’m glad you’re here early,” he said before turning around to face Rick and Luca. His movements stopped. “Who the hell are you?”

“Signor Peruzzi?”

Rick got a strong whiff of aftershave lotion, which went with the man’s clean-shaven face and perfectly coiffed hair. After regaining some composure, he looked from one face to the other and settled back on Luca’s. “Uh, no. That’s my uncle. But who are you?”

“Inspector Albani,” Luca said, showing his identification. “And Signor Montoya. Does Signor Peruzzi live here?”

“Yes, he’s here. I thought you were the cleaning lady. I have an appointment so I was glad she came early, but—”

“But we’re not the cleaning lady. Per favore, can you tell your uncle we’re here?”

“Of course, of course. Is this about the murder in Campiglio? I heard that the police, I mean that you, found the body on Uncle Lamberto’s property, and—”

“If you can just tell your uncle we’re here, you can get to your appointment.”

“Yes. Yes, certainly. Thank you. I’ll do that.” He hurried down the hall and disappeared.

Rick watched him dart into a room. “I wonder where he heard that?”

“Stories can change while traveling between one person’s mouth and another person’s ear, Riccardo. It’s not surprising that this one didn’t make it over the mountain road intact.”

“Inspector.” They looked down the hall to where the man stood. “Please come down here, my uncle will see you in his room. He doesn’t get around very well.” Rick and Luca walked down a hall that was bare except for some closed doors to reach the waiting man. “Zio, this is Inspector Albani and…I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“Montoya.” Rick looked into the room, which was on the back of the building. Despite open curtains and shutters, thick branches just outside the window allowed little light to enter. Much of the space in the room was taken by a large bed covered by a heavy quilt. Next to the bed a white-haired Lamberto Peruzzi sat in a high-backed reclining chair set about a third of the way to horizontal. A book, open pages down, sat within reach on a table next to him, and next to it a glass of mineral water. Light came from a gooseneck floor lamp.

“Please sit down, gentlemen. I regret I cannot greet you properly, on my feet. Please also excuse the lack of comfortable seating.” He waved a thin hand at two simple wooden chairs and looked at his nephew. “You can be on your way, Massimo. Be careful driving over the mountain.”

“But Zio, if you—” The old man