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

relative warmth of the day, a cold front was moving into the valley and with it a light snowfall. He remembered that in New Mexico some of the heaviest snowstorms followed unseasonably high winter temperatures. Perhaps that was also the way it worked in the Dolomites. Unlike people in the States, where weather was followed more closely than the stock market, Italians focused more on things over which they had some control. Or perhaps there was just less weather in Italy. Whatever it was, he’d become Italian about weather since moving to Rome.

He stopped in front of Bruno’s shop and peered in at the merchandise. As it had been when he’d gone in with Luca, the store was almost deserted. One customer rummaged through merchandise at the table where the infamous hat had been discovered. At the cash register Bruno was checking out a customer who had purchased what looked to be a sweater or light coat. Even through thick glass and from a distance, Rick could see the tired look in Bruno’s eyes. The previously sharp lines of his goatee were softened by light growth on the rest of his face, and his hair needed a comb. Business must be better than it looks; he’s working too hard, Rick thought.

He carefully crossed the street, dodging a few cars, and stepped up onto the curb in front of Zia Mitzi’s bakery. The lights were on, but he saw no one inside. As he walked toward Cat’s door some movement caught his eye and he saw Mitzi’s son, crouched down behind the counter, arranging the cakes behind the glass. There had been a space, likely occupied by a torta recently sold, that Vittorio Muller now filled by repositioning the five remaining cakes. Then he carefully placed decorative fruit and flowers between them. It was the classic penchant of Italian shopkeepers to make even the simplest displays elegant in their simplicity, something that always impressed Rick.

Rick walked to the door to Cat’s building, rang the bell, shaking the snow off his hat while he waited.

A loud “Rick?” crackled from the small speaker.

“In the flesh, Cat.”

The door buzzed and Rick pushed it open. Many times in Rome he’d been a guest for dinner at the apartment of some young woman. The aromas of sauces or simmering meat usually began to reach his senses as he began climbing the stairs, or if there was an elevator, they hit him when it opened on the floor. Then the hostess would throw open the door to welcome him, a stray bit of hair perhaps falling over her brow, a few light stains on her apron. It always marked the beginning of a wonderful evening.

When he reached her floor Cat was standing in the doorway. There were no aromas and no stained apron, but given the sweater and tight slacks, Rick was not disappointed. She kissed him on both cheeks, Italian style, though the lips lingered more than was typical for a friendly greeting. He wiped his boots on the doormat and dropped his coat and hat over a chair near the door.

“It ain’t a fit night out for man nor beast,” he said as he rubbed his hands together.

“Let me get you a cold drink to warm you up, Rick, if that makes sense.”

“It does if it contains alcohol.” He followed her into the kitchen where the small table was set for two.

“I have a bottle of prosecco in the refrigerator which we really have to drink. I don’t know what I’m going to do with all of my brother’s wine. Probably just give it to Daniele.”

“I’ll open the bottle if you get the glasses.” He opened the refrigerator and found to his relief that it was a plain bottle, not of the decorative type used in the murder. And this was not the time to tell her about the murder weapon, if he ever would. He put the bottle on the counter, peeled off the foil around the top and unhooked the wire that held the cork in place. Then he carefully began pushing the top of the cork with his two thumbs, turned the bottle and pushed again, continuing until it popped, bouncing off the ceiling. Cat laughed and held out the glasses which he filled with the bubbling liquid. Nothing spilled.

“A tua salute,” said Rick as he touched his glass to hers.

She took a sip, keeping her eyes on his. “Rick, you’re the only good thing that has come out of this trip for me.”

“Cat, I really don’t—”

“No, really, Rick. Apart from not being able to get through this without your help, I feel that we’ve really…well, let’s leave it at that. Why don’t we go into the other room? Our dining area tonight is not very elegant, but we don’t have to stand around here while we have a drink. Bring the bottle, if you would.”

Moving into the other room was fine with Rick, who was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the conversation. She led the way into the living room where she settled into one end of the sofa and motioned him to sit at the other. Rick put the bottle down on the floor and managed to sit, cross his boot over his leg, and lean back, all while keeping his glass steady.

“You seem to have recovered well from our little adventure this afternoon, Cat.”

She grinned and took another drink from her glass. “It was an adventure, wasn’t it? Did the police find the man?”

“No, he got onto a trail and his track was lost. They’re still investigating.”

“And they’re still investigating Cam’s murder.”

“It’s only been two days, Cat.”

She rubbed the back of her neck with her hand, then took another drink of her prosecco. “I suppose so. I had a roommate at school who read murder mysteries all the time. That’s all she did. If she were here we could ask her how long this should take. Do you read mysteries, Rick?”

“I’ve read a few.” In fact he loved mysteries,