Stealing the Countess Page 11

  “I didn’t mean it that way. When I saw your name on the caller ID I thought you might have had good news.”

  “Well, news, anyway. Tell me—Midwest Farmers didn’t fire all of its investigators, did it?”

  “Of course not. It still has field agents; it still has a special investigative unit.”

  “Then what is Midwest’s chief investigator doing in Bayfield telling me to go away and not come back?”

  “Maryanne Altavilla is in Bayfield?”

  “She confronted me at the bed-and-breakfast. Threatened to lock me up and throw away the key.”

  “Maryanne knows better than that. I trained her, for God’s sake.”

  “Nonetheless…”

  “Besides, she has people who can do that, do the heavy lifting; people who are good at it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Something must have happened. Maryanne is a busy woman. At least she should be. For her to drop everything and go up there personally—what did you do?”

  “All I’ve done so far is make my presence known to the local cops and a couple of Bayfield bigwigs.”

  I gave him details because I knew he’d want to hear them. He paused long enough before replying that I thought my network might have dropped the call.

  “Heavenly Petryk is in Bayfield, too?” he asked.

  “I thought you’d remember her.”

  “Oh, I remember, all right. What does she know about the theft?”

  “Probably a lot more than we do, but she’s not saying.”

  “That’s our girl.”

  “She doesn’t worry me, though. What worries me is Altavilla. It can’t be the money, can it? Midwest can’t be concerned that if I recover the Countess and corral the thieves, it’ll have to pony up the quarter-mil reward?”

  “No, hell no. These guys are always concerned about the bottom line, but the reward money, it’s insured.”

  “For the record, I purposely leaned on Altavilla, leaned heavily. She didn’t give an inch.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just making an observation.”

  “She’s an amateur. She doesn’t know the job.”

  She’ll learn, my inner voice said.

  “Something else,” Donatucci added. “From what you’re telling me, Maryanne is all but saying that Midwest Farmers and the Peyroux Foundation don’t actually want to recover the Stradivarius.”

  “Seems no one cares. Except the Maestro. And you.”

  “And Heavenly Petryk.”

  “Yeah, her, too.”

  EIGHT

  At one thirty I hopped into my Mustang and maneuvered out of the parking lot of the Queen Anne. I searched for the man in the sports coat yet did not see him. And then I did. Or at least I saw a Toyota attach itself to my rear bumper when I caught Highway 13 and headed out of town. I couldn’t make out the driver’s face, but the car slowed when I slowed and accelerated when I accelerated. I considered briefly how much fun it would be to crank the Mustang all the way to eleven and dare him to keep up before deciding against it. Since I had already told Mr. Sports Coat that I was meeting a man in Red Cliff, there was nothing to gain by leaving him in my dust.

  Red Cliff was only a few miles north of Bayfield. It wasn’t really a town. It was an unincorporated community within the City of Russell—don’t ask me how that worked—and it served as the administrative center for the Red Cliff Band of Lake Superior Chippewa. The tribe owned the Legendary Waters Resort and Casino and the adjacent Buffalo Bay Campground and Marina on the north side of Highway 13; the parking lots of both were jammed with vehicles of every kind. Directly across the highway was the Superior 13; its lot was nearly empty.

  I used my turn signal to inform the car behind me where I was going and turned into the lot. The Toyota kept driving straight, yet not very far. As I was getting out of the Mustang, I noticed that it had doubled back and was parking in the lot across the highway.

  I stepped inside the restaurant. Only five of the thirty tables were occupied, one by a man who was sitting alone. I walked up to it and introduced myself.

  “McKenzie,” the man said. He stood and shook my hand. “I’m Geoff Pascoe.”

  “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “Please, sit.”

  I sat. A waitress was quick to my side. She seemed disappointed when all I ordered was a South Shore Pale Ale.

  “What can I do for you?” Pascoe asked.

  I repeated what I had told him over the phone, that I was searching for Duclos’s missing Stradivarius.

  “I don’t know what I can do to help,” he said.

  “How much time did you spend with Duclos?”

  “Hours. We met at Pier Plaza around three, talked about what he had in mind, rehearsed, but not very much, I was surprised by that, did a sound check—I was using an electronic keyboard, the gazebo wasn’t big enough for anything else—and then we got out of Dodge.”

  “What do you mean, got out of Dodge?”

  “The Maestro didn’t want to hang around waiting for the concert to begin. I think he was nervous, which kind of surprised me, so we took off.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Here.”

  “Here? Superior 13?”

  “I don’t think the Maestro cared where we went just as long as we left Bayfield. We hopped into a car and ended up here.”

  “Whose car?”

  “The Maestro had a rental.”

  “So he drove—”

  “No, no. Zofia McLean was behind the wheel. What happened, the Maestro announced that he wanted to get away for a while. Suggestions were made, but he said, ‘Let’s just drive.’ Apparently, he liked to take little walks before a performance, to clear his head, he said, except in Bayfield, where everyone knew him and would be happy to stop him on the street and beg for a selfie, that wasn’t an option, so we decided to take a drive. Zofia’s car was parked near the tourism bureau, and traffic the way it was, Bayfield was filling up nicely by then, we decided not to take my car and get stuck later, so we walked up to the Queen Anne Bed and Breakfast and used the Maestro’s rental. Zofia drove. She insisted. We left town, just cruising along the highway, and the Maestro said let’s stop here for a quick bite. That’s when I started getting nervous. I couldn’t eat. The Maestro, though, had a cheeseburger topped with coleslaw and hot sauce. I guess I expected him to be different than he was.”

  “How was he?”

  “Like an average guy who just happened to be a great violinist. You know what we talked about? Baseball. He talked about Paul Molitor, who grew up in St. Paul but played eighteen years in Milwaukee and Toronto before finishing his career in Minnesota and later being named manager for the Twins. That appealed to him, the idea of a man going home after making a Hall of Fame career for himself somewhere else. He liked that.

  “Zofia, of course, kept staring at her watch. I think if she had her way, she would have chained the Maestro to the gazebo. She nearly freaked out when Heather said—”

  “Heather Voight?”

  “Yes. She owns the place. This restaurant. Opened it about a year ago. She came out from somewhere and saw the Maestro and said she was just about to drive to Bayfield to listen to him play. Maestro said he’d be happy to ride with her. Zofia wasn’t going to let that happen, though. By then she was a nervous wreck. So was I. So was Heather, I think. The only one who was calm was the Maestro. He was having a wonderful time. I think it was the cheeseburger.”

  “Where was the Stradivarius during all of this?”

  “Locked inside the rental.”

  Jeezus.

  “What happened after that?” I asked.

  “We went back to Bayfield, parked in the lot at the Queen Anne, which turned out to be a smart move because the city was packed by then, not an empty space anywhere. We walked down to Memorial Park, went into the gazebo, and the Maestro, he didn’t say a word, he pulled out the Strad and started playing Locatelli’s Caprice in D Major, whic
h is one of the hardest solos ever written, we’re talking three minutes of pure hell for a violinist, and he does it perfectly and people applaud, but there’s no way they could appreciate what he had just accomplished. I could, though. It was magnificent. After that we just played—Bach’s Sonata for Solo Violin no. 1 with Busoni’s keyboard arrangement, The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams, the Violin Concerto by Sibelius, Vivaldi’s Concerto no. 2 in G Minor, Johann Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Two hours we played without a break, and finally, we just stepped out of the gazebo. The crowd demanded an encore, so the Maestro went back by himself. Do you know what he played? ‘Eleanor Rigby,’ by the Beatles, at twice the pace of the original composition, and he finished with, are you ready?” Pascoe beat a rhythm on the tabletop. “Shave and a haircut, two bits. The place went wild. It was the most fun I ever had as a professional musician. I learned more in those two hours with the Maestro than I had in six years at the University of Minnesota–Duluth. It was wonderful.”

  “And then?”

  “And then party city. We went to the Hill House. ’Course, it was the Maestro’s show, but everyone was congratulating me, too. Zofia was as happy as I had ever seen her. Celebrating way too much.”

  “What about Duclos?”

  “He wasn’t drinking. He held a glass in his hand all night, but I don’t think he took more than a sip or two. He’s a professional, after all, and this kind of party—it was new to me but not to him.”

  “The Maestro left early,” I said.

  “Yes, he did. Zofia volunteered to walk him back to the Queen Anne, only he turned her down, which worked out fine for me.”

  “In what way?”

  “I got to take her home. After the Maestro left, the party broke up, and Zofia and I decided that she was too drunk to drive, so…”

  “Ahh.”

  “That’s when I saw him.”

  “Saw who?”

  “The Maestro.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “When I was taking Zofia home, I saw him in his rental waiting at the light on Highway 13 and Sixth Street.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “When was this?”

  “Eleven thirty, eleven forty-five.”

  “Where was he going?”

  “I have no idea. I knew what he was doing, though.”

  “What?”

  “McKenzie, what you need to know, no one gets more pussy than musicians, not even professional athletes.”

  * * *

  I searched for the man in the sports coat when I left Superior 13, yet couldn’t find him or the Toyota. Eventually, I returned to the Queen Anne. I carefully parked the Mustang and slowly walked inside.

  Connor was vacuuming the parlor. I attracted his attention, and he turned off the machine.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I asked.

  The way he hemmed and hawed, he clearly didn’t want to commit without additional information.

  “Tell me where can I find the Ghost Lady.”

  * * *

  According to the flyer Connor gave me, “Ghost Lady” wasn’t just a nickname—it was the title that the woman I knew as Maggie gave herself. She conducted two rotating spirit tours, one on the east side and the other on the west side of the city. You’d think a place that small wouldn’t have enough ghosts to go around, but what did I know? The Ghost Lady operated out of the Bayfield Heritage Center on Broad Street across from the Bayfield Carnegie Public Library. Both were only a couple of blocks away. Then again, everything in Bayfield was only a couple of blocks away.

  I walked up there. It was near the Heritage Center that I found the park built on the side of the hill where I had last seen the Ghost Lady. It was mostly a heavily wooded ravine with about a mile and a half of hiking trails, yet it had a far-from-civilization vibe to it. A long, high iron bridge spanned what seemed to me like a harmless creek at the bottom of a deep gorge that trickled into Lake Superior. Except a sign told me that during the spring thaw, the creek became a monstrous river that would wash away anything in reach if not for the city’s flooding protocols. In July of ’42, in fact, eight inches of rain fell during a twenty-four hour period, causing water to crash out of the hills and fill the creek, creating an immense flood that surged through the heart of downtown Bayfield, burying it under tons of sand, rock, mud, and broken buildings. The half-buried car in front of the Heritage Center served as testament to the event.

  I was contemplating the black-and-white photographs that made me glad I hadn’t been there on the day the rain fell when a car pulled into the small parking lot. Officer Pilhofer hopped out. He was dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt designed to let everyone know that he worked out. There wasn’t a badge in sight.

  “What did I tell you?” he asked.

  He moved swiftly across the lot; gravel crunched beneath his boots. The scowl on his face betrayed his intentions.

  “You’re making a mistake, Officer,” I said.

  He didn’t believe me. He came in close and grabbed a fistful of my polo shirt just under my chin. He stabbed a finger at my face.

  “I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave, didn’t I?”

  Well, no, my inner voice said. You didn’t.

  I didn’t argue the point, though. Instead, I seized his hand with mine and began to push upward on his elbow. I pulled his hand down even as I kept pushing, causing him to arch his spine. He tried to resist; except gravity was working against him. I applied more pressure and flipped him onto his back. I kept pushing his elbow until it was flat against his face. The pain in his shoulder joint made him writhe against the gravel, yet he refused to cry out.

  Good for him.

  I was contemplating what to do next when I heard a woman’s voice behind me.

  “Stop it, stop it,” she called.

  At the same time, a sharp object was jabbed into my side—once, twice, three times in quick succession. The pain wasn’t great, but still … I released Pilhofer and turned to face the threat. I was hit twice more in the center of my chest. I brought my hands and arms up in self-defense and stepped backward.

  “Stop it now, just stop it, do you hear me?” the voice said.

  It belonged to a woman dressed in a black cloak, the hood pulled over her head, a lantern standing upright on the ground next to her. She was waving a staff fitted with a large crystal at my face.

  My first thought—is that thing loaded?

  “Lady…” I said.

  “You don’t talk.”

  “Ma?” Pilhofer said.

  Ma?

  “Are you all right?” the Ghost Lady asked.

  “Ma, what are you doing here?”

  “I was walking to the center. I saw what he did.”

  “He was assaulting me,” I said.

  “He’s a police officer.”

  “Not today.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ma, cut it out,” Pilhofer said.

  He was on his feet now, brushing off the dirt and gravel dust.

  “What does he mean you’re not a police officer? Of course you are.”

  “It’s a personal matter.”

  “Lady, could you put the stick down?” I asked.

  The Ghost Lady replied by waving it at my face some more.

  “You don’t talk,” she said. “Brian … Brian, what’s going on here?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all,” he said.

  “It certainly was something.”

  “He wants me out of the way,” I said. “He’s protecting someone.”

  “Who? Who are you protecting? Why?”

  “It’s none of your business,” Pilhofer said.

  “It’s Heather, isn’t it? What did she do?”

  “She didn’t do anything.”

  “I told you to stay away from her. She’s old enough to be—she’s older than I am. And she’s married.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Brian?”
<
br />   “I need to go to work.”

  Pilhofer crossed the parking lot to his car. The Ghost Lady called after him.

  “Please, be careful,” she said.

  He started up his car and drove away. The Ghost Lady turned to look at me, the business end of her staff still aimed at my face.

  “Nice kid,” I said. “You must be very proud.”

  “Who are you? Talk fast.”

  “Could you please lower the stick?”

  “It’s not a stick. It’s a staff used for circle casting, summoning, opening portals, and long-range energy magic.”

  “For whacking people upside the head, too, I guess. Ma’am, please. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m one of the good guys.”

  “So is Brian.”

  “Probably, but he’s going about it all wrong. Can we”—I reached out, rested a hand on top of the staff, and gently lowered it until the crystal was pointed at the ground—“talk?”

  “Talk about what? Who are you?”

  “My name is McKenzie. I was sent here by Paul Duclos to try and find his missing Stradivarius.”

  “Oh, that. I’ve been wanting to use the burglary in my tours, except I don’t have much of a story to tell yet.”

  “Maybe we can help each other out. Mrs. Pilhofer? May I call you Maggie?”

  The Ghost Lady pulled back the hood, revealing copper hair and green eyes in a round face. She directed me to a bench at the edge of the park next to a locked stone cellar built into the side of the hill. According to a sign, William Knight built the cellar using field stones in 1920 to store the apples that came from his many orchards; it was his large and ancient house that hovered above the park from the top of the hill. It was haunted, the Ghost Lady informed me.

  “I don’t just talk about ghosts, though,” Maggie said. “I like to work in some of the history of Bayfield, too.”

  “Like with the Queen Anne?”

  “Exactly like that. Peter Rasmussen originally built the house over a hundred and thirty-five years ago. He lived there with his wife and eight children; he was one of the people who built Bayfield. When Peter died, the house went to his eldest son, along with everything else, which is how things worked back then. This started a violent feud that lasted more or less until the family’s businesses collapsed. The brownstone quarry, commercial fishing, the lumber mill, the hotels—they made a lot of money, but when they went away the family went with them. The Queen Anne had at least a half-dozen owners before Connor finally acquired it. In case he didn’t tell you, he’s Peter’s great-great-grandson. I hope he makes a go of it.”