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

but decided this wasn’t the time to be talking about them with the sister of a murder victim. Light talk was what was in order now, but what? He picked up the bottle and poured her more wine without being asked. Then he topped off his own glass. “Have you been to Rome, Cat?”

“Years ago. I was in junior high and Cam was in high school. The required trip to the continent with my parents—London, Paris, Rome, Venice.”

“The grand tour.”

“I guess so. My father was constantly lecturing us on how important it was to be exposed to it all. Part of our education. Unlike Cam, I was too young to appreciate it. It was on that trip that he caught the bug for Italy, as he used to say.”

“Do you remember where you stayed in Rome?”

She closed her eyes tightly. “Hmm. I remember it was near the top of the Spanish Steps.”

“The Hassler.”

“That sounds right. I remember walking down the steps and getting in a carriage to take us around the city. The horse was cute. The rest of it was just looking at old stuff.”

“There’s a lot of old stuff in Rome.”

“And I think we saw it all.”

He decided this wasn’t going anywhere. “What’s for dinner? I must admit that all the excitement has given me an appetite.”

She bounced to her feet, almost spilling her glass. “Me too. And I didn’t even put out any peanuts.” He almost said that she needed Maria around to remember such things, but decided against it. They walked into the kitchen, Rick still the keeper of the bottle, now less than half full.

Cat gestured for Rick to sit. “I went down to the deli and got anything that looked good and didn’t require cooking. So I’m afraid everything will be cold. Like a picnic.”

“Sounds fine to me. The wine will keep us warm.” He took another swig of the prosecco, which was excellent. Cam Taylor, it seemed, had known his wines.

“They don’t call it a deli, do they?”

“No, it would be a salumaio. But essentially the same thing.”

“They don’t have delis like this back home, Rick.” She went to the small refrigerator and took out two trays, one in each hand, and placed them on the table. Each was wrapped in paper and tied with a string. She took a knife from one of the drawers, cut the string and removed the paper, revealing two cardboard trays of sliced meats, which she pushed to the middle of the table. “I don’t know what they are, I just pointed and he sliced. Maybe you can tell me the names.”

“Sure. This one here—”

“Wait a minute, Rick, let me get the rest.” She drained her glass and placed it in front of Rick. While he dutifully filled it, she went back to the refrigerator and returned with two more trays that were again unwrapped and pushed into place. One was filled with various cheeses, the other held small bowls, each filled with a different item. She held up one finger and made a final run to the refrigerator, coming back with a larger bowl containing four thin artichokes in oil.

“I guess you didn’t tell this guy there would be only two of us. Or have you invited the Italian army to join us?”

“I may have gotten a little carried away. Oh, one more thing.” She went to the counter and found a long loaf of crusty bread. “I should slice this.”

“No need, Cat, we’ll just snap it off as we need it. That’s what is meant when they talk about breaking bread with someone.”

She pulled a few forks and spoons from a drawer, put them down on the trays, and sat across from Rick. “Okay, Rick, I’m ready for my vocabulary lesson. Not that I’ll remember any of it.” As if to make her point she took another pull of her prosecco. Rick picked up a fork to use as a pointer.

“Let’s start with the salumi, the cold cuts. This is prosciutto crudo, cured ham, sliced thin, as you can see. Next, bresaola, cured beef that’s a specialty of Lombardy. Then speck, a cured ham from the Alps—you’ll love it—and, finally, a cotto salami. You can get it in the States.” He moved to the bowls. “All right, here’s pâté, no Italian word for it. Not sure what kind this is but I’m guessing some kind of game or fowl, like rabbit or duck. And this, with the shrimp in the gelatin on top, is insalata russa.”

“Russian salad?”

“Brava, Cat. As you’ll see when you get under the gelatin, it has a mixture of potatoes, carrots, peas, and a lot of mayonnaise. Next to it is a rice salad, with pieces of cheese and ham mixed through it, and here is finocchio, fennel, in oil. And, finally, in this bowl,” he waved the fork with a flourish, “is carciofi alla romana, roman-style artichokes, cooked and served in oil. Probably not as good as you can get in Rome, but they look passable.”

“Before you move on to the cheeses, Rick, we’d better open another bottle. There’s one in the refrigerator.”

Rick did as he was told, filling the glasses before returning to his chair and again picking up the fork. “All right. Your trusty salumaio has given us a good selection of cheese. This one, however, should really be over with the antipasto tray, mozzarella di bufala. If it’s the real stuff, and only by tasting will we know, it has come from water buffalo near Naples. These other four are more desert cheeses. This one shaped like a log is caprino, a soft goat cheese. I think this next one is an asiago, which comes from around a town of the same name not too far from here. Here’s some gorgonzola, Italy’s blue cheese and a Milanese specialty. And this last one, I’m guessing, is a pecorino, hard goat cheese. But I’ll have to taste it to be sure.” He put down the fork and spread out his