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

said that Signora Taylor spoke of him like they knew each other, and now we find that he got a loan from Melograno.”

“I don’t see any motive for Bauer to murder Taylor.”

“Nor do I, Riccardo, nor do I. Unless, again, the murdered man’s sister is actually behind the crime, and we substitute Bauer for Lotti in that scenario.”

“The picture you’re painting of Cat is one of a scheming woman who can wrap men around her little finger.”

“Well, Riccardo, I assume you noticed that she is a beautiful woman, and—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of the custard in a small ramekin. A brownish liquid had been dripped over the white surface. The waitress also set a bowl of fruit on the table, which Rick began to study after gesturing for Luca to eat. The inspector took a small spoonful of the custard.

“An excellent panna cotta. Smooth with a dash of amaretto serving as the perfect foil for the cream. Your suggestion is much appreciated.”

Rick pulled an orange from the bowl and placed it on his plate. Using the knife provided by the waitress, he sliced off one end and peeled the thick skin, happily finding that it was a Sicilian blood orange, his favorite. After separating the slices, he picked up a fork, sliced one of them, and put it in his mouth. Italians always used a knife and fork to eat fruit, even bananas. Luca watched the process as he enjoyed his sweet.

“Enough murder talk, Riccardo. Tell me, where do you live in Rome?”

“I have a small apartment near Piazza Navona.”

“Ah, right in the centro storico. How were you able to come across such a place?”

“A distant relative owns it.”

Luca had made quick work of his dessert and was scraping up the last bits with his small spoon. “Of course. That’s what family is for. I lived with my parents until I got married, a typical Italian story, and then managed to find an apartment only a few blocks from where they live.”

“Much to your mother’s delight.”

“And my wife’s. Fortunately they get along well. When I was transferred up here I don’t know what upset Mamma more, losing her son, or her daughter-in-law.”

Try moving to a different continent, Rick thought, and see how your mother takes it. “Where was your apartment?”

“Outside the walls, the Porta San Giovanni area. Near Piazza Zama.”

“I’ve been to Piazza Zama,” Rick said, “There’s a restaurant—”

“Severino. Best saltimboca in Rome, which is saying a lot.” His empty custard bowl was whisked away, a coffee cup put in its place. “Riccardo, do you know what Piazza Zama is named for?”

“The Battle of Zama, if I remember my Italian history correctly.”

“Bravo. The final and decisive battle of the second Punic War, Scipio defeating Hannibal outside Carthage. Here it is the twenty-first century, and we Romans think it important to name a square after an event that took place in 202 BC. Quite a long collective memory, don’t you think?”

Rick drank the last of his coffee. “There’s simply more history to remember here, Luca. The state I come from in America boasts the oldest capital in the country, yet it only dates back four hundred years.”

“The one with the Roman street grid.”

“Your short-term memory is pretty sharp too.” Rick glanced at Flavio and Lori, who were in the middle of a deep conversation. He wondered what language they were using, but suspected it was English. Despite the jokes, Flavio’s English was excellent, as was his accent—when he wanted it to be. Rick returned his attention to the inspector. “Do you really want me to go with you to talk with Mitzi and Bruno Bauer tomorrow?”

“Absolutely, having you present when I talk to people keeps them off guard, better than if I took one of the local police with me. And I value your opinions.”

“That’s good of you, but I—” Rick was interrupted by his cell phone, which he pulled from his pocket. Not a number he recognized. He glanced at Luca who gestured for him to take the call.

“Montoya.”

“Rick, this is Cat. I need your help. Can you come over right now?”

***

Rick looked at himself in the mirror of the elevator as it rose to Cat’s floor. He wore the shearling coat from a small shop in Taos, bought when he was on a ski break from college. The leather on the sleeves was beginning to get shiny, and it had a small hole on the bottom of one side from when he’d caught it in his seat belt lock. It was too expensive to have the hole repaired, and over time the story of the bullet hole had proven to be worth gold at Albuquerque singles bars. He would never get rid of the jacket; not just for its warmth, but the memories it held of cold times past. And it went with his cowboy boots, as well as with the wide-brimmed hat he now held in one hand.

He didn’t remember the elevator being so slow. Finally it lurched to a halt and released him into the hallway. After two rings of the bell, the door opened. Cat was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, her face scrubbed of makeup, hair pulled back. If he hadn’t gotten her call he would have thought that she wasn’t expecting visitors. Her appearance did not detract from her looks. She closed the door and put her arms around him, that same perfume hitting his senses.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Rick.”

“What’s wrong? From your voice it sounded like there’s some crisis.”

“Did I give that impression? Come sit down, I’ll tell you.” Rick stamped the caked snow from his boots onto the door mat, shed his hat and jacket, and followed her into the living room. A book lay open next to the chair where she was sitting down. He took the place opposite her.

“It’s that woman.”

He frowned. “What woman?” Had Gina Cortese contacted Cat? Made some kind of threat?

“That woman from the consulate. She’s driving me crazy.”

Rick couldn’t decide whether