Chapter 17
WEDNESDAY MORNING
It turned out to be a most enjoyable morning – for me, but probably not for Anna. The Viviani family’s private ski lift was still functioning, and Paolo explained its history.
‘We’re not sure, but we think this is over a hundred years old.
It was originally steam-powered and we think it was developed for the cowherds who brought their animals up here from the flatlands of Piedmont every spring.
The grass under our feet is really lush in the summer months and the milk, cream and cheese from up here is highly prized.
The lift was put in to transport supplies up to the cowherds and to bring the milk churns down to Pian delle Marmotte, from where they could be transported onward by cart into the main valley and beyond.
We replaced the steam engine with diesel a few years ago and got it running again. ’
The lift consisted of a single steel cable that climbed from the base of the slope towards the waterfall and the cliffs, where it curled around a giant pulley wheel before heading back down again to a similar wheel connected to the power mechanism at the bottom.
Paolo showed me how a trolley could be clipped onto it so that the milk churns could be carried, and then pointed out the alterations they had made, basically adding a number of hanging ropes attached to the cable that could be grabbed by skiers or snowboarders to tow them up the mountain.
The diesel engine coughed some unpleasant blue smoke into the crystal-clear sky when Paolo first fired it up, but it then settled down to a regular hum.
Winston demonstrated that he wasn’t as stupid as Paolo had said.
He was obviously familiar with the lift and he jumped willingly onto the milk-churn trolley, where he sat regally as the cable carried him up the hill.
Oscar took a bit of convincing, but soon he, too, was happily hitching a lift up the slope and then galloping downhill and sliding down the steep bits on his front or on his back, legs in the air, his tail wagging furiously.
The lift was probably only three hundred metres long, but it went up quite steeply and I had some nice easy runs back down through the powder snow, enjoying the feel of this year’s latest design skis, fresh from the factory.
It wasn’t demanding skiing, and it was highly enjoyable, particularly for people like me who hadn’t skied for a few years.
I found it a most pleasant way of spending the morning in the winter sunshine – although the same couldn’t be said for Anna.
It took me all my powers of persuasion to get her to use the ski lift, and she did a great job of getting almost all the way up before falling off sideways into the deep snow.
I had been following close behind, offering encouragement, so I let go of my rope and the two of us ended up thrashing about in deep snow for a few minutes until I managed to get us both vertical again.
In the meantime, Oscar and Winston arrived and decided that jumping all over us was a wonderful game.
It took me the best part of half an hour to shepherd Anna safely down to the bottom again and it came as no surprise to find that, when she got there, the first thing she did was to take her skis off and declare herself more than happy to be a spectator from now on.
I tried persuading her to try again, but she had made up her mind that she had had enough of reliving the snowplough days of her youth and was fully occupied shaking snow out of her jacket.
I left her drying out in the sun with a cappuccino and let the lift take me back to the top time and time again.
Orlando, Fiona, Valentina and Calogero Naselli appeared to be having a whale of a time on their snowboards, and Umberto turned out to be very proficient on skis for a septuagenarian.
Selena was a classy skier, with a lot more style than I could ever aspire to, and I was pleased to see all of them looking and sounding more cheerful.
At lunchtime, Oscar and I went back down to the terrace, where I found Anna chatting to Gloria, who had also abstained from skiing.
Sitting a bit further along from them was Cinzia, her head buried in a book.
I did a quick headcount and realised that the only people missing were Ingrid and William.
I could well imagine him in the lounge as usual, engrossed in his laptop, but Ingrid’s whereabouts were unknown.
One thing was for sure: she hadn’t been able to drive off down the snowy track in her Ferrari, so presumably, she was around here somewhere.
As it happened, I ran into her almost immediately.
I took Oscar upstairs for his lunch and bumped into Ingrid coming up the stairs as I was on my way back down again.
As almost everybody else was outside, I decided to take the opportunity to try to get her to answer a few questions.
My first problem was getting her to talk to me, so I started diplomatically.
‘Not skiing, Ingrid?’
She shook her head, and it looked as though she wasn’t going to stop, but then Oscar, who’s a far better diplomat than I’ll ever be, moved in.
He stepped in front of her, forcing her to a halt, and leant against her legs, staring up at her with all his Labrador charm, and even hard-nosed Ingrid couldn’t resist those soulful brown eyes.
She leant down to ruffle his ears, and I took my opportunity.
‘Can I ask you something, Ingrid?’ She gave a hint of a nod, her attention still on Oscar, so I went on.
‘I’ve been speaking to the police in the Aosta Valley, and they’ve been telling me about your husband’s accident.
You may know that Bartolomeo brought me here because he was afraid that your husband had been killed and that he would be next. What’s your feeling about that?’
I had to wait a few seconds for her reply but I was pleasantly surprised to hear her sounding, if not warm and friendly, at least polite.
‘I gather you’re a private investigator.
Bartolomeo told me he was going to get somebody to investigate Vincenzo’s death, but I told him he was wasting his time and money.
’ She straightened up and rested against the banister rail.
‘I told Vincenzo time and time again that one of his old cars would be the death of him and I was right. He did all the maintenance himself and he reckoned he knew better than any garage.’ She looked up and caught my eye for a moment, and for the first time, I spotted what might have been emotion on her face. ‘But he didn’t, did he?’
‘So if Vincenzo’s death was so obviously an accident waiting to happen, what’s your take on why Bartolomeo appears to have gone off the rails after it?
When I saw him on Monday night, he sounded completely convinced that it had been murder and that he was going to be next. Why do you think that might have been?’
She answered readily enough, but it didn’t help much.
‘I’ve been asking myself the same thing for weeks.
He and Vincenzo were very close. All I can tell you is that he refused to believe that Vincenzo’s death was an accident, and the whole paranoia thing developed from there. He convinced himself he would be next.’
I was interested to hear her use the same word that Selena had used to describe Bartolomeo’s state of mind. I did my best to tread carefully. ‘Did he think he would be next because somebody was out to get at the company? Are you sure you can’t think of anybody?’
She hesitated, and I could see conflict on her face.
Finally, she came to a decision and lowered her voice.
‘To be totally honest, I think he believed that I’d killed my husband and that I now wanted to kill him as well.
’ Seeing the expression on my face, she elaborated.
‘You’ve heard that he started drinking heavily over the last few weeks, haven’t you?
Well, two weeks ago, he came around to my house in Turin late one night.
He was so drunk, he could hardly talk and he just stood on the doorstep, swaying from side to side, and pointed his finger at me, saying, “You won’t kill me like you did Vincenzo.
” For a moment, I thought he was going to barge his way in and attack me, but he was so drunk, he tripped over his feet on the steps and I had time to slam the door in his face. ’
She sounded quite convincing, but there was one big question mark that remained, so I raised it with her. ‘If you thought you might be in danger from him, why on earth did you come here this week?’
Her expression hardened. ‘Money.’ She paused for a second or two, but I didn’t press her.
‘I came here because I wanted him to buy me out. Vincenzo’s death meant that I inherited his share of the business, but the last thing I wanted was to be involved in any way with Bartolomeo.
As far as I’m concerned, the sooner I get out of Italy and back to France, the better.
It was my intention to sit down with him and agree terms on Monday or Tuesday.
’ She shrugged. ‘Now, of course, he’s dead, so it means I get to do all that with Orlando.
In fact, Bartolomeo’s death has actually been quite a relief for me.
I get on well with Orlando and I trust him. ’
I reflected on what she had just said. If she was telling the truth about her intention to take the money and run, then the idea of her being involved in Bartolomeo’s death made no sense.
She would have received her payout whether he was alive or dead.
It would appear that Bartolomeo’s paranoia had unjustly transformed her into a potential killer.
Did I believe her? The answer to that was that I probably did, but I wasn’t totally crossing her off my list of suspects for now.
She gave Oscar a final pat and headed off upstairs, while I went outside to try Marina’s barbeque.
It was amazing. We were offered succulent pieces of steak, sausages, burgers and those wonderful little lamb cutlets that the Italians call scottaditta – literally ‘burn your fingers’ as you eat them with your hands.
There was also fett’unta, ‘greasy slices’ of toasted bread, rubbed with garlic and dowsed with olive oil, and a massive pile of roast potatoes with rosemary alongside a mixed salad as accompaniment.
Sitting outside in the sunshine with a cold beer, I really felt as if I was on holiday for the first time this week.
At my feet, Oscar, having done a circuit of the others, wearing his pathetic, They don’t feed me, I’m starving expression, was stretched out on the snow with a satisfied look on his face.
As well as a talented diplomat, Oscar is also a thespian genius.