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

He looked up to get an indication as to which fork to take, but Bruno was adjusting his bindings. Just as well, Rick needed a few seconds to catch his breath after that last stretch. He leaned on his poles and looked at the precipice below. It reminded him of some of the cliffs he’d maneuvered under Sandia Peak east of Albuquerque, but his climbs and descents were never in the winter when snow and ice made it too dangerous. Out of habit he started to pick out a possible descent route, noting where there was vegetation or rock formations to offer a handhold.

As he peered down, Bruno slammed into him.

The blow caught Rick in the shoulder, causing him to flip toward the edge, landing on his side. Instinctively he rolled onto his stomach and spread out his body, getting as close to the ground as possible. One of his skis had popped off and lay a few feet from his head. The tip of the other, still on his boot, balanced over the ledge. The two ski poles were still looped around his wrists, but one was trapped under his body. He lifted his head and saw Bruno towering above him, his ski pole extending in Rick’s direction.

“Jesus, Bruno, you could have killed me.” He took his gloved hand out of its pole strap and reached up to grasp the extended lifeline. As he stretched his hand, Rick saw a strange smile on the man’s face.

Bauer slapped Rick’s arm with the pole and then drove it into his side like a spear. With his free hand, Rick grasped the pole, struggling to force it away from his body, but he felt himself slowly sliding toward the edge. He untangled his other hand from the strap of the pinned pole and raked the snow, hoping for a rock or bush buried underneath that he could grasp to stall his slide. His gloved fingers found a loose stone about the size of a softball. It’s a weapon, Rick thought, as he stretched his fingers to grasp it.

Bruno saw what was happening and raised his other ski pole to strike. Rick cringed and braced for the blow, but instead of the pole coming down on his hand, Bruno’s body pitched over him toward the cliff. Rick ducked and Bruno’s shoulder crashed into the snow just beyond Rick’s head. It was Bruno’s turn to grasp at anything that would stop his fall, but he found nothing but loose snow and air. His heavy boots and skis pulled him into the abyss.

Rick crawled and slid to the edge and looked down to see Bruno’s unconscious body about thirty feet down, caught on a rocky ledge. The position of his legs indicated that something had broken in the fall, but he appeared still to be alive. As Rick watched, a gust of wind drew snow from the rocks and sprinkled it on the man’s upturned face. Rick took a deep breath and rolled back over.

“I guess I’m going to owe you big-time for this, Flavio.”

“For the rest…of your…life.” His friend was gasping after the exertion of his descent. “I won’t let you forget it.” After a few seconds his breaths came easier. “I thought he might take you down here. We used to ski this trail when I was a kid. When somebody took a dive off this cliff, they blocked it off.”

Rick gathered his equipment and got to his feet. “How did you know Bruno was going to try something? I was rushing to get down to talk to Melograno with Luca. I didn’t think Bruno was involved in this at all. To begin with, he didn’t strike me as having the brains to pull it off.”

“And you’re right on the mark. It was John Smith’s skis that tipped me off.”

Rick looked up from examining the small, round tear in his ski coat made by Bruno’s pole. “Non capisco.”

“Bruno rented John a beautiful pair of Kolmartz skis.”

Rick shook his head. How could the guy be so stupid, or greedy, to rent out the dead man’s skis? His mind flashed back to the investigation. Didn’t Bruno have something of an alibi for the morning of the disappearance? And there was still something strange about Melograno in all this. They looked up to see two blue-clad members of the ski patrol descending the trail toward them.

“They must have seen me turn into this trail,” Flavio said, leaning on his poles. “Let me talk to them and then I’ll get you down to the hotel. Without any more accidents.”

***

The toe of Rick’s cowboy boot disappeared when he stepped out of the hotel door. In the lobby he’d seen the owner’s teenage son pulling out a shovel and heard his grousing about fighting a losing battle. The kid was right, but it was a beautiful snowfall, and its powder would make Cat’s final run of the day a pleasant one. His boots crunched in the snow as he walked down the hill to the station, past the churchyard, as he ran what just happened through his head. There was the phone call from the banker, after which Rick thought he had everything figured out. Unfortunately Bruno’s attempt on his life knocked his theory into a cocked hat. Unable to help himself, Rick tried to think of an easy translation of “knocked into a cocked hat,” but was unsuccessful.

At the police station the man at the desk said that Inspector Albani had not returned from Pinzolo, but then Rick remembered that they were to meet at Melograno’s office. He thanked the sergeant and stepped back out into the snow. Two minutes later he was on the sidewalk opposite Melograno’s building. No sign of Luca. As he began to cross, a Land Rover coming up the street stopped and the driver rolled down the passenger-side window.

“Salve, Montoya,” the driver called. “Are you looking for Umberto?”

Rick grabbed his hat, which was