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

him to be good rather than to be careful. He looked around for Luca, and when he didn’t see him, started walking toward the chocolate shop. Halfway there Luca came out of its door, a small sack in his hands. When he saw Rick, he quickly slipped it into his coat pocket.

“La bella Signora Taylor?”

“No, it was Commissario Fontana. You must try to keep my name out of your reports.”

“That is not easy to do, my American friend. You keep getting yourself involved.” He glanced up and tugged at the cap of his hat. It was not snowing, but the sky gave the impression it was going to try to sometime soon. “When you ski today, make a point of staying out of trouble. Then your uncle will have nothing to cause him any worry.”

“I’ll do my best, Luca.”

The morning group of pensioners was sitting in silence today. They watched intently as a yellow front loader, its cab marked with the seal of the town, moved slowly around one end of the piazza. It was equipped with a deep bucket that dug into the small mountain of snow before backing up and raising its load to a waiting truck. The vehicle beeped when it was put in reverse, but another man, perhaps the driver of the parked truck, stood by to keep pedestrians out of harm’s way. As Rick and Luca walked by the bench, the old men began to discuss how many runs it would take to get rid of the accumulated snow. Hands waved and voices raised, a clear indication that the snow removal was the most interesting event of recent days on the square.

“They’ll be talking about that into next week,” said Luca as they rounded the corner and started down Campiglio’s main shopping street, which was beginning to come to life. Some shopkeepers were removing the locks that held their protective saracinesche to the sidewalk and rolling them up and out of sight with a metallic crash. Others brushed the sidewalk in front of their stores. All studied the sky, as if it would give a clue as to how business would be on this day.

Mitzi’s bakery had been open since before dawn for the workers who needed a shot of coffee and something sweet before heading to their posts on the mountain. One man stood at the bar dressed in the heavy blue overalls of the corporation that ran all the trails and lifts. He watched Rick and Luca approach the bar, looked around as if to check who might be listening, and turned his attention to Luca.

“Are you the policeman?” The man’s stubbled beard matched his baggy eyes, and his words had the guttural accent of the mountains.

Luca was shaking the snow from his hat. “I think you know the answer, Signore. Everyone in Campiglio seems to know who I am. And who are you?”

“I work with Guido Pittini. Have you discovered who stabbed him?” He kept his eyes on the inspector, as if Rick were invisible.

“If we had, I’m sure the word would already be around town. Do you have any theories?”

The man was about to speak when Mitzi came through the door behind the counter. He looked at her, gave Luca a hard stare, and threw down what was left in his cup. “No. No I don’t.” He walked quickly to the door and was gone.

“Buon giorno, Ispettore, Signor Montoya,” said Mitzi as they all watched the man disappear from view. “I see you met Rino.” She picked up the empty cup and placed it in the sink behind the counter.

“We were having a nice chat, Signora Muller. How are you this morning?”

“As well as can be expected with all the violence going on in Campiglio these days. But it doesn’t appear to be having a negative effect on business. And what can I get for you gentlemen?”

“Cappuccino for me, please,” answered Rick.

“Lo stesso, per favore. And while you’re making them, we’ll choose something to go with it.”

While Rick and Luca perused the selection, Mitzi banged at the espresso machine. As was normal in bakeries, on top of the counter was a plastic case with a hinged front, allowing clients to get their own pastries. This one had a small heating element, so that each pastry felt like it had just come out of the oven. Rick took a paper napkin from the fanned stack next to it and immediately chose a chocolate-filled croissant. Luca took longer to decide, and perhaps thinking of the chocolates in his pocket, went with a plain brioche brushed with a thin, sugary glaze. When each took their first bite, Mitzi was bringing their cappuccini to saucers already in place. She placed a large sugar bowl between them and pushed its two spoon handles in their respective directions. After a sip of coffee, Rick was the first to speak.

“This is excellent, Signora. I expect that you supply the pastries for your husband’s hotel?”

She wiped her hands on her apron and nodded. “I supply pastries, as well as bread, to several hotels and restaurants in Campiglio. It is the largest part of the business. My son is out delivering bread now.” She crossed her arms across her ample chest and looked from one man to the other. “Do you really suspect my husband in this investigation?”

Luca choked slightly on his brioche but quickly regained his voice. “We are questioning everyone who could have had any connection with the murdered man, Signora. That is normal procedure in these cases.”

“And you won’t tell me who is suspect and who is not.”

As she spoke, Rick studied her round face and decided there was more to Auntie Mitzi than her motherly smile and almond cookies. Perhaps she could be an effective mayor if she managed to beat Grandi, though if Flavio were to be believed, her victory was unlikely. “You know this town as well as anyone, Signora. Where do you think the inspector should be concentrating his efforts?”

She turned on the