Death in the Dolomites David Wagner (each kindness read aloud .TXT) 📖

Flavio clomped across the wooden planks toward the door. A few people sat outside, taking in the view with drinks in their gloved hands. Though the sun was low in the horizon, and mostly behind clouds, the porch was bright compared with the interior of the bar. It took the two men a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim ambiance. There was a lone person at the bar, a tall man with a ski cap pulled around his ears. He was drinking a beer and checking his cell phone for messages. Apparently this spot on the mountain had a signal.

“How about a hot VOV, Rick?” They both peeled off their ski gloves and placed them on the bar.

“I haven’t had VOV in years. Great idea.”

The order was given to the bar man, who pulled a white, ceramic bottle off the shelf and poured a thick, equally white liquid into two small glasses. He stepped to the espresso machine and gave each of the glasses a long shot of steam until the liqueur was covered with a light froth. The drinks were placed on saucers and set in front of the two men. They carefully picked up the hot glasses, clinked them together, and took sips.

“Much better than eggnog,” said Rick. “And my grandfather makes a great eggnog.”

“It’s the strong zabaglione flavor that does it, and strangely enough, I don’t like it in gelato. It’s a flavor that needs to be served hot.”

Rick was about to continue the discussion of liqueurs and gelato when he heard a voice on his right. It was the man who had been at the other end of the bar.

“Aren’t you…?”

Rick glanced up and saw who it was. “Daniele, I didn’t recognize you with the ski cap. Yes, it’s me, Rick Montoya. This is my friend Flavio Caldaro.”

Lotti extended his hand. “Daniele Lotti, piacere.” He turned back to Rick. “And I wasn’t sure I recognized you either. Ski gear does that.”

“Out for an afternoon ski by yourself?” asked Rick, immediately regretting the way it was said.

Lotti didn’t seem to notice. “I was going to ski with Cat, but she’s tied up with the vice consul.”

“I imagine they have a lot to deal with.”

Lotti nodded. Rick noticed that the man didn’t look as gawky or as skinny as when he’d seen him at the apartment. It must be the bulkiness of the ski coat, or the fact that his red hair was now covered. Red hair somehow added to gawkiness. His face looked raw, perhaps from the icy wind of the trails. Or the sun, though there hadn’t been much sun that afternoon.

“You’re from Milan, I assume,” Flavio said.

“And from your accent, I trust you live around here.”

“Correct. Trento. But I grew up right here in Campiglio.”

“But you’re not a policeman.”

“Flavio has a wine business, Daniele, and as you know I’m not a policeman either. I hope you don’t mind me calling you Daniele.”

Lotti responded with a shrug. He took a sip from his beer glass. “Have you found the murderer yet? Even though you’re not a policeman?”

“It was only last night that the body was found.”

“Has your policeman friend found out where he was actually killed?”

Rick thought for a moment about whether he should answer and decided that word would be around the town by now. “A field north of town that overlooks the golf course.”

“You’re kidding.”

Rick gave Lotti a surprised frown. “Why do you say that?”

The man sneered and took another swig of beer. “He’s dead now, so he won’t mind me saying. Cam liked to brag about his exploits with women, and I remember him telling me that he took a girl up to a field north of town that first summer he was here. I’ll bet that was the place. How ironic.”

“Did he mention the name of the girl?”

“If he did I don’t remember. I think he said she was a ski instructor.”

Rick and Flavio exchanged glances, but Lotti kept his eyes on his beer and didn’t notice.

“Do you have any thoughts on who could have done it?”

The man’s head snapped up and his eyes bore in on Rick’s face. “How would I know? I just came up here for a few days of skiing. Now a friend is dead and his sister can’t even give me the time of day. I might as well drive to Milan and go back to work at the office.”

“You must know some other people in Campiglio,” Flavio said. Rick could tell from his voice that his friend was not warming to the man from Milan.

“A few,” was the curt answer.

“How long have you owned your apartment?”

“Apartments,” corrected Lotti, “I own two. I’ve had them a couple of years. It seemed like a good investment, as well as having a place to stay when I wanted to ski. Yesterday I ran into the guy who sold it to me, and he said it’s increased in value by at least ten percent.” For the first time a slight smile crossed the man’s face.

Flavio glanced at Rick, then asked, “Somebody local sold it to you, or someone from Milan?”

“A guy in my office recommended a real estate office here. You’re not also in real estate, are you?”

“No,” answered Flavio, “just wine.”

“Well, the skiing has been good,” said Rick. “I trust you’ve done a lot since you got here Friday. If I remember right it was late Friday afternoon when you drove up from Milan.”

The suspicious look returned to Lotti face. “All it’s done is snow since I arrived, and all I’ve done is ski.” He glanced out the one small window behind the bar. “It looks like it’s starting again. I think I’ll be heading down. Ciao.” He drained the last of his beer and walked to the door, his ski boots scuffing the floor.

“Charming fellow,” Flavio said as he picked up his glass and looked at it. “My VOV’s getting cold.”

“We could have him heat it up again.”

“Not worth it.” Flavio opened his mouth