Black Run by Antonio Manzini Page B

counter, with shelves for bottles made from the traditional straw drying racks used in those valleys. Everything, from large to small, clearly stated: This renovation was hugely expensive!
    And the result was spectacular.
    The mistress of the house returned with a bottle of juniper berry grappa and two glasses. “But is it true that the police never drink when they’re on duty?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” Rocco said as he poured himself a glass of the liquor. Pierron, on the other hand, turned down the offer.
    Luigi had lingered, standing, by the window, like a faithful servant. He was rolling a second cigarette and was running his tongue down the edge to seal it. Rocco looked at him. “Listen, Luigi, do you mind taking a walk? We have some things to talk about that are strictly between us.”
    Luigi drank the grappa down with a jolt and left the chalet, striding briskly.
    â€œThis place is fantastic,” said Rocco, taking in the great room at a glance.
    â€œThanks,” Luisa replied. “Upstairs there are six bedrooms, and the restaurant’s through that door. I’ll show it to you later—it’s a nice dining room, especially because it has a plate-glass window that directly overlooks the valley.”
    â€œIt’s enormous,” Rocco noted. “A person would hardly think that up in the mountains . . .”
    â€œThis used to be the school. Until the war. Then the people abandoned Cuneaz, they moved down to Champoluc, and then . . .”

    â€œDid you buy it?”
    â€œMe? No,” Luisa replied with a smile. “It belonged to my grandparents. Let’s just say that it was a hovel; they used it as a stall. Hold on.” She got up, went to the facing wall, pulled down a black-and-white photograph that was hanging there, and brought it back to the deputy police chief. “You see? That’s how it was before we did the work.”
    Rocco looked at the picture. A broken-down stone-and-timber hovel, vomiting straw out of the unglazed windows.
    â€œWell, it’s unrecognizable. I can’t imagine how much money you spent.”
    Luisa grimaced. “Don’t even mention it. Anyway, it was around four hundred thousand.”
    The deputy police chief whistled like a teakettle.
    â€œLook, before you ask, I’ll tell you myself. Anyway, everyone in town already knows. It was Leone’s money. It’s all due to him that the place looks the way it does.” Her chin began to quiver, her epiglottis emitted a rattle, and a fountain of tears poured out of Luisa Pec’s pretty blue eyes. Italo immediately lunged forward and offered her a handkerchief.
    â€œSorry . . . forgive me.”
    â€œNo, we owe you the apology. Unfortunately, this is the horrible work I do. I’m worse than a vulture. Oh, well . . .” and, with a smile, Rocco tossed back his glass of juniper berry grappa.
    It was good. It slid like a caress down to his stomach and his icy feet.
    â€œLuisa, I have to ask you something. Did Leone ever have problems with, let’s say, people from down south?”
    Luisa sniffed, dried her tears, and handed the handkerchief back to Pierron. “What do you mean, ‘problems’?”

    â€œDid he or his family, as far as you know, ever have any unclear dealings with Sicily? I’m talking about organized crime.”
    Luisa Pec turned red. Her eyes opened wide. “Ma . . . Mafia?”
    â€œYou can call it that.”
    â€œLeone? No, oh my God, no. His family makes wine. They’ve been in the wine business for a hundred years. A solid company. You see? That’s theirs,” she said, turning slightly to point to a wine rack full of bottles with a distinctive label. “Nice people. Never fought with them once.”
    â€œAre you certain? Did he ever seem worried about anything? Ever get any mysterious phone calls?”
    â€œNo. I swear he didn’t.” Then a shadow passed over Luisa