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

in the lower scenes, but it was the theme that got Rick’s attention. On the far left, on a crude throne, a crowned skeleton sat playing a bagpipe. The macabre king was accompanied by two other skeletons playing long, thin horns. Rick could almost hear the shrill music the three instruments produced. Moving toward the king of death, if that’s what he represented, ran a long line of ornately robed figures: the lord, his lady, the cardinal, the merchant, the knight, the soldier—continuing to the end of the wall. Each of the living was being pulled along by a grinning skeleton, their partners in the dance of death, moving steadily toward an inevitable meeting with the skeleton king. The dansa macabra. Rick thought of Cam Taylor and shuddered.

He turned and walked back between the stones, avoiding the path that held the grave of the girl. He crossed himself, as he always did when leaving a cemetery, and closed the gate carefully behind him.

***

Lunch began with a local specialty that Rick was looking forward to tasting, a dish not found on menus in other regions of Italy. Canederli were bread dumplings, the local equivalent of the knödel popular on the other side of the Alps. They were held together by egg and cheese, with more flavor added through herbs and bits of speck—smoked and cured ham. The dumplings arrived at the table bobbing in bowls of steaming meat broth, which Rick and Luca sprinkled with cheese. As tasty as they might be, there were not many first courses in Italian cuisine that could not be improved with parmigiano reggiano.

“Flavio doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Rick said to Luca as he cut into one of the dumplings with his soup spoon. “But he told us not to wait.”

“I doubt if he’s going to skip this meal. He’ll probably dine with the comely diplomat. Look at her table.”

Rick turned his head and noticed that an extra place had been set at Lori’s table. “I see what you mean.” He poured more wine into their glasses. “I’m not sure if he would approve of our choice of wine, so it’s just as well.”

“The wine is more than adequate, Riccardo. And now that this wonderful primo is taking the edge off our appetite, we can return to the business at hand. Let me begin with what I learned at the station. The blood in the field is confirmed as that of our victim, so it is virtually certain that he was killed there. This brings in the question of how the body was transported from the murder scene to the gondola base. Concerning the autopsy, the only new information from it regards the murder weapon.”

Rick glanced up from his broth, spoon in hand. “You know what the weapon was?”

“Not precisely, but the forensics people are almost sure it was a bottle. The wound was smooth, and there were specks of paint.” He noticed Rick’s frown. “I know, paint on a bottle doesn’t sound right, but they seemed to be convinced. And there was something else. Grooves, or at least some kind of wavy pattern in the glass of the bottle, made a distinct impression on the skull.”

“A bottle with grooves?”

“I have some men going over what was picked up in the field and along the road, when we first searched the area. The bottle could have been tossed away by the murderer as he drove from the field.”

“It could have been something Flavio sells. Here he comes, we’ll ask him.”

Flavio walked toward them, dressed in jeans and a sweater, waving off the waitress. “Lori went up to change. I’ll, uh, be having lunch with her.” He sat down in his chair and squinted at the bottle.

“Don’t say anything about our choice of wine,” said Rick. “Luca has some serious questions for you regarding the investigation.”

Flavio turned the wine bottle so that the label was facing away from him before giving Luca his full attention. “How can I help?” He listened to the explanation of the autopsy report and snapped his fingers. “That’s easy. It’s a prosecco bottled and marketed for the holidays. People pay extra for the same wine when it comes in a fancy bottle with grooves and painted decoration.”

“Isn’t there a parable in the Bible about new wine in old bottles?”

“There is, Luca, but it doesn’t apply here. I can give you a list of wineries that produce holiday prosecco, but I’m not sure it will help much. It’s sold everywhere, and wine shops don’t keep track of who buys which bottles. A whole case, maybe, but a single bottle, there’s no way to trace it.”

“What kind of person would buy one of these bottles?” asked Rick.

“Could be anyone. Come the holidays, even people on a tight budget tend to buy a nice bottle or two of wine. It’s the best season of the year for my business.”

Luca finished the last of his dumplings. “Well, I can at least have the sergeant check the wine stores in town to find out if anyone bought any in large quantities.”

“This hotel bought a case from me, if I remember right. In fact…” He got up from his chair and walked out of the dining room, allowing Luca and Rick to finish their broth. He returned with a bottle and placed it on the table with a flourish. “Exhibit A, the only one left after capo d’anno. There are other wineries that do the holiday bottles, but this is the one we sell.”

More pear-shaped than straight, the bottle was made of dark green glass with surface grooves wound around the widest part to the base. The glass was thicker than in normal bottles, adding to the weight. The decoration, holly and Christmas balls, looked like they had been painted by hand.

“Very fancy,” Rick said, running his fingers over the bottle. “I can see why these would sell well at holiday time.”

“And it’s a very good prosecco.”

“We would expect nothing less, if you are distributing it, Flavio.”

Luca