“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.”
Author’s Note
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
