*     *     *

Katie and David landed in Zurich at eight in the morning and took the train to St. Moritz—they planned to go to Lausanne afterwards—and it was indeed a stunningly beautiful Alpine landscape just beginning to ebb towards springtime, with the mountains yawing away in the distance.
       After two and a half hours, as the train pulled into the  modest St. Moritz station, David saw that its tower clock showed that they had arrived precisely on time. He also noticed a vintage Rolls Royce with a driver in livery and a sign reading “BADRUTTS PALACE.” Katie and David took a far less luxurious taxi to their hotel, the Giardino, with its welcoming arched doorway set in a chalet-like structure. Inside was the very large fireplace, surrounded by green and scarlet sofas, the ceiling beamed. They were cordially greeted by one of the owners, named Greta, who offered them tea in front of the fire while their luggage was taken to their rooms.
       Katie asked her host some idle, tourist questions about restaurants and activities, then told the woman that she was an American journalist doing a story on the town’s social life.
       “It’s winding down now,” said Greta, with barely a trace of an accent, “after a very busy season. We had a large influx of Russians this year”—which she said with an obvious sour look on her face—"and it’s picked up a great deal since 9/11. Of course, our regular guests still came, and a lot of those who have long had homes here stayed for longer than usual.”
       Katie asked, “I understand there are many quite famous names who come year every year?”
       “Oh, yes, indeed. Mostly they stay at Badrutt's (right) or the Grand Hotel or the Kulm, but, as I said, many have homes here.”
       Playing innocent, Katie asked, “Who are some of the celebrated people who have homes here?”
       “Well, they are not all celebrated. Many are very, very wealthy, even aristocratic—the Swedish Royal family comes every year—but they try to stay out of the limelight. Otherwise, this season we have had those models like Kate Moss and Claudia Schiffer, and that American actor  Robert DeNiro. That type of celebrity goes to the bars like the King’s Club or Devil’s Place.”
       David said, “I would have thought the Swedish Royal family had enough snow in their own country.”
       “Oh, I’m sure they do ,” said Greta, “but St. Moritz seems to offer a good deal more to do than Stockholm, and they meet their own kind here, like Alexander and Maxima of the Netherlands, and Prince Edward and the Countess of Wessex from England. We also get people come here just to see where two James Bond movies were filmed.”
       David said, “I know The Spy Who Loved Me shot scenes here.” (left)
       “Yes, and of course, Alfred Hitchcock spent his honeymoon at Badrutt’s.”
       Katie felt she could then ask, “And some fly in on their private planes?”
       “Oh, yes, it’s a small airport, so we don’t have the major carriers come here.”
       “Do you happen to know if the newspaper magnate Angus Pierce comes here often?”
       “Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, he’s been here quite a lot this season, with his son Richard. They have a beautiful house in the Upper Valley of Engadin.”
       “Is that far?”
       “No, no, just about twenty minutes. Why, do you know the Pierces?”
       “Not really,” said Katie. “I thought he might figure into my story about the social life here.”
       “Well, his son is far more social than his father. He comes into town  all the time, goes to the bars and casinos. His father skis the slopes and comes in for parties.”
       “Parties at the hotels?” asked David.
       “No, I think they are usually at private homes.”
       David and Katie looked at each other, comparing mental notes.
       Katie continued to ask some general questions about the social scene in town, then asked to be shown to their rooms, which looked out on the pine-filled mountain lowlands. The rooms were somewhat more modern than they expected but kept within the decorous touches of an Alpine lodge. They decided to have a late lunch downstairs at the hotel’s casual restaurant Stüva, (left) which was very much rustic in décor, with furniture that looked like it came out of a Heidi storybook, with rough wood paneling and slate floor.
       David said, “I am famished after that train ride.”
       “Me, too,” she said. “That mountain air really does have an effect on the appetite, doesn’t it?”
    Katie ordered marinated trout and tagliolini pasta with guanciale bacon; David had beef tartare with a horseradish mayonnaise and the restaurant’s specialty, Wiener schnitzel with lingonberries and fried potatoes. They shared a hazelnut tart with meringue for dessert.
    Over coffee they discussed how best to approach Angus Pierce’s chalet.
    “We can’t exactly show up at his front door,” said Katie.
    “Or sneak in the back,” David replied.
    “I think what we need is an introduction. How about if we try to find Pierce’s son Richard at one of the clubs in town?”
    “Aren’t they all private?”   
    “I’m sure some are, but there would be more action at some of the more public places, don’t you think?”    David laughed. “You’re asking me? The only time I got into any ‛clubs’ was when we got a court order to search some mob hang-out.”
    “Like that, what was it called in The Sopranos?”   
    “Club Bada Bing? I guess so. I hated that show. Bullshit from one episode to another. And, of course, so full of Italian mobster stereotypes it was a freakin’ farce. Tony Soprano wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes in a real mob. Maybe a Jersey mob, but certainly not Brooklyn.”
    Katie said she shared David’s dislike for the TV series and the way it treated Italian-American characters as mindless murderers.   
    “Analyze This, with DeNiro and Billy Crystal, now that was a funny movie. Also a farce but good-natured, y’know?”
    “Right, a parody. Everybody overacting for effect.”
    “Exactly,” said David. “I knew cops who worked on the locations for that movie. DeNiro and Chazz Palminteri were great with the local cops. Crystal was apparently a dickhead.”   
    “Okay, so back on the trail of Richard Pierce: I’m sure Greta can guide us. I think she’s a pretty willing gossip and likes Americans. For now, let’s get some rest and then go party, eh?”
    “Not sure I packed the right party clothes,” said David.
    “We can ask about that, too.”   
    Greta’s suggestions as to the prospects of finding Richard Pierce in town met Katie’s expectations.
       “The King’s  Club is the oldest,” she said. “It’s at Badrutt. The Italians go to the Diamond Club. The Roo Bar is passé and gets foreign tourists. The English favor the Hato.”
       “So, Richard might go to any of those?” asked David.
       “He belongs to some of the private clubs in town, but I know he goes to the Kings Club (left). He has lunch on the mountain at the Corveglia Club, which goes back to the 1930s and is very exclusive. Also, The Dracula, which has been around since the 1970s,  gets a certain kind of, what you call Euro-Trash? It was opened by that fashion photographer Gunter Sachs. He married Brigitte Bardot, you know. His son Rolf now runs it.”
       “Any chance of getting into any of the private ones?” asked Katie.
       “I could probably get you into the Corveglia for lunch. But since you are a journalist doing a story on the social scene here, you should speak to a local journalist here who covers that. Her name is Alessandra Baldassari— she’s Italian Swiss—and works for The Local.”
       “The English language paper?” asked Katie.
       “Yes, she covers  the St. Moritz social scene for them. She claims she has some aristocratic blood in her and acts like it, but she is very good at what she does. I’ll call her for you. I’m sure she’d want to meet you.”
       Katie and David expressed their gratitude and asked when Greta might be able to contact Baldassari.                   “First thing in the morning. Well, maybe late morning. Alessandra stays out late and wakes up late.”