Read Death in the Dolomites Online
Authors: David P Wagner
“You did not see her again?”
Commissario Piero Fontana looked across the starched, white tablecloth over tortoiseshell half-glasses. The glasses, Rick had decided, were a major concession for his uncle, a man who prided himself on cheating Father Time. At first it was only for reading. Now he used them in restaurants, not just for the menu but to better enjoy the visual as well as the gustatory aspects of a good meal. Naturally, his glasses were the height of fashion, which in this case meant traditional. As was his suit this day, a double-breasted charcoal gray to go with an off-white shirt and dark blue print tie.
“She left for Milan the next morning, without saying good-bye, but three days later called from Malpensa. I was on the train back to Rome. My guess is she was in the first-class lounge and had just downed a couple of glasses of prosecco while waiting for her flight.”
The policeman looked at his glass. “Prosecco? How ironic.”
Rick shook his head. “I never thought of that. Anyway, she thanked me and apologized for the way she'd slipped out of Campiglio. Then what you'd expect: look me up when you're in the States, that kind of thing.
“Without much conviction.”
Rick shrugged and took a drink of wine.
“And you didn't invite her to Rome?”
“I did not.”
Uncle Piero nodded and rubbed his chin, a sure sign that another question was coming. “Did she drive to Milan? That wouldn't seem like something she would take on, even under normal circumstances.”
Rick smiled. “Only you would think of that small detail, Zio. No, her brother's car was actually owned by the bank, and they later sent someone to get it. She was driven back by Daniele Lotti.”
“Ah. The landlord of the holiday apartment.”
“Ah indeed.”
The commissario tilted his head as he looked at his nephew. “Riccardo, you should take up this Taylor woman's invitation to look her up in America. You could visit her and also drop in on someone else you know well. Erica is still there, is she not?” He paused, enjoying himself. “Has it occurred to you that the two of you could run into each other sometime?”
“It's a big country, Zio. I think I'm safe.”
The second course appeared. It was a cold day for Rome, so they both had chosen a substantial pasta dish to start,
penne all' arrabbiata.
The spicy tomato sauce was tame by New Mexico standards, but this was Rome, not Albuquerque. For the first time in their collective memory, both men also chose the same dish for their
secondo
.
Carpaccio
was as far from a thick steak that a diner could go and still have a meat dish: raw beef sliced paper thin, covered by equally thin shreds of
parmigiano reggiano
, and then very lightly drizzled with olive oil. After a second mutual “
buon appetito
,” they pushed the meat onto their forks and savored its pure taste. It was a few moments before conversation resumed.
“Your friend Flavio. Does he ever come to Rome? I would like to meet him. Not just to thank him for saving the life of my favorite nephew, but he also sounds like a fine young man.”
“He's promised to get to Rome, but I suspect he will be finding more reasons to do business in Milano these days. He and the vice consul hit it off quite well.”
They took more bites of the
carpaccio
and sipped the dark
vino rosso
.
“So this man Muller, he will now build his hotel on the fated land?”
“It's up in the air. The sale was made, but with all the publicity, some environmental groups have noticed its location and decided the land should remain in its natural state. Between legal cases and public pressure, they have blocked the construction. Flavio tells me it could be tied up in litigation for years.”
“A case held up in the Italian legal system for that long?” the policeman deadpanned. “I would be shocked.” He speared some beef with his fork, wrapped it around a sliver of cheese with the help of his knife, and pushed it around the oil. “And about your mayor friend, has the election taken place?”
“He won in a landslide. Taking down a murderer, it appears, never hurts in an election campaign. And his business is booming, thanks to all the news stories. He displays the bear he used on Melograno in a place of honor in his shop window, and he can't carve copies fast enough to meet the demand.”
“You didn't get one?”
“No, but I got a couple of wooden cars for Susana's two boys. Pricey but nice.”
The commissario smiled. “Nothing is too good for one's nephews.
Il
carpaccio
? You enjoyed it?”
Rick's plate was already bare. “Excellent. I must have it again sometime.”
His uncle looked at his wineglass as if searching for something in its darkness. “Riccardo, as you know well, I have always regretted that you did not go into police work. You have the mind, and the patience, to become one of the best.” He saw that Rick was about to speak and held up his hand, a glint of gold cuff link peeking out from the coat sleeve. “But this time, I was fearful of your safety. I never would have forgiven myself should some harm have come to you.”
Rick watched his uncle drain his glass. It was a different side to a man who was always relaxed when around his nephew but now carefully chose his words. Or had he rehearsed them beforehand? The mood passed quickly.
“And now, my dear Riccardo, what is on your calendar? Some visiting monolingual dignitary to accompany around Rome perhaps? Or one of those international seminars?”
“There are a few professional conferences in the north that I may be working. Nothing firm yet.”
“Nothing in southern Italy? Your work never seems to send you there.”
“With the Mafia and the Camorra? Much too dangerous, Zio.”
While the characters and story of this book are completely fictitious, the town of Campiglio is not, though its full name on the map and in Italy tourism books is Madonna di Campiglio. It is one of numerous delightful ski towns scattered around the Italian Alps, but a special one for my family since we spent many pleasant days there. I have tried to portray the town with reasonable accuracy, but for plot logistics have taken some liberties with locations and other specifics. For example, the two-gondola cable system featured in the first chapter was long ago replaced with efficient multiple cars. Also, while the town has a magical main square, the businesses put on it, and on other streets, may not correspond with reality.
The hotel in which the book's characters are lodged is modeled on an establishment that was always our base in Madonna di Campiglio, the Hotel Erika. It is named for its founder, a special woman who passed away too young, but whose work has been carried on by her family. Besides offering a warm and welcoming atmosphere, the Hotel Erika has a menu for its guests that is as good as you will find anywhere in the Dolomites.
One of the delights of traveling around Italy is stumbling on some amazing work of art or architecture not found in the standard guide books. The tenth-century church of San Vigilio, whose frescoes and interior are described on these pages, was one of them for us. Its
Dansa Macabra
, painted in 1539 by Simone Baschenis, is considered a masterpiece, and if you see it in person, or even bring it up on your computer screen, you will agree. (You can see photographs of the church on my website, www.davidpwagnerauthor.com.) Please note, however, that I have taken one major liberty with the church of San Vigilio, in that I moved it to Campiglio from somewhere else. In reality it is located in the town of Pinzolo, about a dozen kilometers down the valley from Madonna di Campiglio, reached by a winding and scenic road.
Trento, where Rick's buddy Flavio lives, is the capital of Trentino-Alto Adige, one of Italy's autonomous regions, where German is an official language with Italian. It is most famous outside of Italy as the site of the Council of Trent which met off and on between 1545 and 1563. Trento is a city worth visiting, not just to see the cathedral where the council took place, but to take in the rest of its medieval historical center, including the ancient Castello del Buonconsiglio, a fascinating museum.
The Dolomites do not draw foreign visitors in the same numbers as other Italian regions, which is unfortunate. It is hard to match the combination of breathtaking alpine scenery, interesting history, and the charm of towns like Madonna di Campiglio which sparkle like gems among the valleys and peaks. And there's also the food, of course.
***
Besides my wonderful wife, who constantly gave me support and suggestions with this book, I would like to thank my son Max for lending his expertise on heavy machinery, Jeeps, and firearms. I hope I have written accurately. Also a thank you to Roman Rede, who shared his experience as a firefighter to set me straight on the fine art of carrying dead weight. And
tante grazie
to my good friend in Rome, Guido Garavoglia, for checking details about things Italian that may have become fuzzy in my memory. Finally,
un abrazo
with deep gratitude to Bill Oglesby for his help and encouragement throughout the writing process.
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