Stealing the Countess Read online

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “He spent a lot of money buying the property and restoring it, converting it into a B&B. I heard that even though he’s mostly full up the year ’round, he’s still having trouble paying his notes.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “He’s not the only one with money troubles. Take that whore Heather Voight.”

  “Is Heather a whore?”

  “She’s married and she’s sleeping with a man who’s thirty-five years younger than she is. What would you call her?”

  “Troubled?”

  “Yes, she’s troubled all right.”

  “Why would your son be protecting her?”

  “Guess.”

  “I mean, what is he protecting her from?”

  “You, you numbskull.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re here to buy the Stradivarius from the thieves. Everyone in town knows that; it’s all we’re talking about. Well, who do you think has it?”

  “You tell me.”

  “The violin case was found outside Heather’s front door.”

  “That doesn’t mean she took it.”

  “McKenzie, she needs money. She did very well for herself, but then she got greedy. She built a restaurant in Washburn, a town that’s four times as big as Bayfield but only half as busy. If that wasn’t enough, she also opened one in Red Cliff in direct competition with the casino.”

  “I was over there earlier.”

  “Did you see many people?”

  “No.”

  “Now she needs money.”

  “Do you really think she stole her ex-boyfriend’s violin to get it?”

  “Who said she stole it? Who said she’s Paul’s ex-girlfriend? Her being here and him being there doesn’t make them ex-anything. It just means they can’t spend as much time together as they would like, that’s all.”

  “But?”

  “But what?”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Think about it. She needs money; she calls her longtime lover. Paul arrives outta the blue and arranges for Heather to steal his violin. A couple days later he arranges to buy it back from her.”

  “I am definitely going to take your tour, Maggie. You’re a terrific storyteller.”

  “Is it a story?”

  “Unless you have evidence—look. If Heather needed money, Duclos could have just given it to her. Or at least he could have arranged a low-interest loan.”

  “Do you think his wife, Renée Peyroux—do you think she would have let him?”

  “I met her.”

  “And?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “If Heather had the violin, she would have made a deal by now. She’s had the perfect opportunity.”

  “Except then she’d have to admit that she and Paul were in on it, together. That’s not going to happen. If they had wanted you to know what they were doing, they would have told you from the very beginning. Wouldn’t they? No. The whore’ll be using someone as a what-do-you-call-it, a go-between.”

  “Who would that be, I wonder? Her husband?”

  “Herb? That poor man? I doubt it.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Just as long as it isn’t Brian I don’t care.”

  As if on cue, my smartphone made the metallic pinging sound associated with navy ships and sonar, alerting me that I had a notification. I excused myself and checked. There was a message in my e-mail from Curtis Shanklin with the subject line URGENT.

  * * *

  Heavenly was with me in the Peacock Chamber, examining the photograph that filled the screen of my laptop.

  “What does that look like to you?” I asked.

  “It looks like a pic of a violin lying on top of the front page of today’s Ashland Daily Press.”

  I used the touchpad to enlarge the photo. Harry Potter’s lightning bolt was scratched into the wood exactly where Duclos had told me it would be.

  “It’s the Countess Borromeo,” I said.

  “Yes, but is it the Countess Borromeo and not just an image he picked up off the Internet and Photoshopped?”

  I manipulated the laptop so it would take me back to Shanklin’s e-mail message:

  Take the 9 PM ferry to Madeline Island. Drive Old Fort Road east until it turns north and becomes Casper Road. You’ll find a spur that leads directly to a deserted beach near Grants Point. Stay on the spur until you can’t drive any further. It’s a short walk to the beach. Bring the money. Come alone. We’ll be watching. Any shenanigans and the Countess Borromeo goes into the lake.

  “Shenanigans,” I said.

  “He teaches English.”

  “Still…”

  “It’s a trap.”

  “What a suspicious nature you have.”

  “They don’t have the Countess. They’re just trying to rip you off.”

  “On the other hand, if they do have the violin … What are you doing later tonight?”

  “McKenzie, it’s a trap.”

  “Yes, well, there are traps and then there are traps.”

  * * *

  I had dinner alone at Hill House; I even wore a black sports jacket to impress the hostess. This time I started with crostini with smoked salmon and then moved on to grilled whitefish Alfredo over linguini, the whitefish fresh from Lake Superior. It was excellent, yet I have to admit that there was a tightness in my stomach that kept me from fully enjoying it, not to mention the discomfort of the 9 mm SIG Sauer pressed between the small of my back and the chair.

  I had hoped to meet Heather Voight, except her waitstaff told me that she hadn’t been in all day. Just as well. What was I going to say to her? Please, if you have the Stradivarius, let’s make a deal right now; don’t make me go to Madeline Island where I might get shot?

  After I finished dinner I wandered around town, killing time. I found myself at the marina looking for Jack Westlund’s boat. It wasn’t in its slip. Neither was the Heather II.

  At eight twenty by my watch, I drifted back to the Queen Anne. I went to my room. A few moments later, I left the B&B with a small suitcase. I had filled it with books from the Peacock Chamber’s collection so it would look like I was carrying twenty-three pounds of cash.

  I went to the Mustang. It had Intelligent Access, meaning its sensors could read the key fob I carried from three feet away, allowing me to unlock the door at a touch and start the engine with the push of a button. I opened the door, slid inside, pretended to adjust my rearview mirror, started the car, and left the parking lot. It took all of three minutes to drive to the landing for the Madeline Island ferry, another three to pay my passage, and thirty seconds more to maneuver into line.

  The large boat had left its berth on the island and was now making its way across the expanse of water toward Bayfield; I could see the setting sun reflecting off its hull. The damn thing seemed to take forever.

  I had music loaded into the Mustang’s system and turned it on. The shuffle function selected Sarah Vaughan’s cover of “Black Coffee.” I switched it off thirty seconds in—something I had never done before, quit Sarah in midsong.

  At eight fifty, the ferry arrived. It dropped its massive iron ramp. Two college kids dressed in blue knit polo shirts stood on either side, directing traffic. First the pedestrians were allowed to disembark, followed by a dozen vehicles. Once that was accomplished, tourists who were on foot climbed the ramp and made their way up a gangway to an elevated passenger lounge. Vehicles then entered one at a time, parking bumper-to-bumper on the deck. Finally, the ramp was raised and the ferry pulled away from the dock. It was 9:00 P.M. exactly. The sun was just a sliver of orange light on the horizon.

  I left the Mustang and managed to squeeze past the parked vehicles to the gangway. I climbed it to the passenger lounge and leaned against the railing. The lights of Bayfield were slowly receding in the distance while those on Madeline Island were becoming brighter. I spent most of my time, however, stud
ying the people in the lounge and the drivers and passengers who had remained in their vehicles. Shanklin had two accomplices that I knew of, the young men Ellis had mentioned at the Lakeside Tavern the night before. That didn’t mean he didn’t have others. Like the two young women dressed for clubbing who were sitting near the stern.

  Get out of your head, my inner voice said, a task more easily said than done.

  There was a white, thirty-inch round ring buoy and safety rope hanging from the wall of the lounge with the name NICHEVO II painted in red block letters.

  I caught the attention of one of the college kids dressed in blue.

  “What does Nichevo mean?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “You don’t know?” I said.

  “No, that’s what it means.” He shrugged again. “Nichevo is a difficult word to translate into English. Basically, it means okay, pretty well, not too bad. How was your dinner?” He shrugged again. “Meh. Nichevo.”

  “That’s the worst name for a boat I’ve ever heard.”

  “It’s Russian,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  At nine twenty, the Nichevo II docked on Madeline Island. Mine was the fifth car off the ferry. I switched on my headlights and followed the driveway onto Colonel Woods Avenue, hung a left at Ninth Street, and turned right again on Old Fort Road. The road took me past Captain Bob’s Marina, Madeline Island Yacht Club, the golf course, and the Ojibwe National Prayer Pole and Memorial Park. There were very few lights to be seen beyond.

  Less than five minutes later, I found the spur off Casper Road that Shanklin had written about. I was alarmed by how quickly the trip went; I thought I would have more time to prepare.

  The spur was flanked by trees and shrubs made ominous by the lack of illumination, and I thought, That’s where I would be if I were planning an ambush. I followed the spur, yet was forced to stop after only fifty feet. My headlights scanned the sand beach beyond. It was empty.

  I prepared the Mustang before turning it off. The windows were down, and I could hear night sounds—crickets, gentle waves lapping the shoreline. Finally, I opened the door. I pulled the suitcase out with my right hand while fondling the key fob in my left. I closed the car door with my hip.

  I walked to the center of the beach. Lake Superior was a black void punctuated by tiny lights; they could have been stars except some of them were moving.

  “That’s far enough.”

  I recognized Shanklin’s voice and turned toward it. He stepped away from the shadow of the trees onto the beach. The moon wasn’t yet high in the sky, nor were the stars as bright as they soon would be, yet I could make him out clearly. He was carrying a gun.

  “Did you bring the money?” he asked.

  “Did you bring the violin?”

  “I must have forgotten it.”

  “Why am I here, then, I wonder?”

  “You’re here to give me $250,000.”

  Shanklin raised his gun and pointed it at me. At the same time, his two accomplices stepped out of the woods, one on each side of the Mustang. I couldn’t see if they were armed or not.

  “Give it to me,” Shanklin said.

  I heaved the suitcase toward him. It landed with a muffled thud on the sand near his feet. Shanklin’s friends were so appreciative of the gesture that they moved forward until they were standing in front of the Mustang.

  Shanklin lowered his gun and bent toward the suitcase, yet stopped before his hands reached the handle. He slowly straightened up.

  “It’s empty, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Not at all. There’s some really fine literature in that suitcase. Moby-Dick. Pride and Prejudice.”

  He raised his gun.

  I pressed the button on my key fob.

  A piercing wail was emitted from the Mustang; its lights began flashing.

  Shanklin and his friends were clearly visible now; all three pivoted toward the car.

  I reached behind my back and pulled the SIG Sauer out from beneath my sports coat.

  I went into a Weaver stance, the gun sighted on Shanklin’s core.

  He turned toward me; his piece was pointed at the sand.

  If he raised it I would kill him.

  I was about to tell him so when three shots rang out; volcanoes of sand erupted in front of Shanklin’s two accomplices.

  “Don’t anyone move,” Heavenly said.

  She also walked out of the shadow of the woods. She was wearing a bikini beneath a filmy cover-up that hung open and a floppy hat. Her hands were gripping what looked to me like a small Colt.

  “Drop your gun,” I told Shanklin.

  “Caroline?” he said.

  “Drop the damn gun.”

  Shanklin let it slip from his fingers into the sand.

  “Caroline, is that you?” he asked.

  Heavenly stepped into the light. She was aiming her Colt more or less at the two accomplices. Neither of them was armed, which seemed inexplicable to me. My SIG was trained on Shanklin. We were standing only feet apart.

  “Do you mind?” she said. “The noise.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  I used the key fob to turn off the Mustang’s alarm system. The silence that followed seemed almost louder than the siren had been.

  “I like your outfit,” I said.

  “It’s my disguise.”

  “Yeah, nobody will notice you dressed like that.”

  “I was pretending to be a girl walking on the beach.”

  “Caroline,” Shanklin said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Watching you go bad, apparently.”

  “But…”

  “But what? You’re a junior high school teacher, for God’s sake. What were you thinking?”

  “On your knees, all three of you,” I said. “Hands behind your heads.”

  All three did exactly what I told them without argument.

  “Now what?” Heavenly asked.

  “Where’s the violin?” I asked.

  No one answered.

  “Shanklin, where the fuck is the violin?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you have it?”

  “No, no—I don’t.”

  “Told you,” Heavenly said.

  “Who stole it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  “Then why did you bring me out here?”

  “I thought … we thought…”

  “What did you think?”

  “We thought it would be easy money. Ellis told us who you were and what you were doing, and we thought—”

  “Who’s Ellis?” Heavenly asked.

  “Waitress at Lakeside Tavern,” I said. “Was she in on it? Shanklin. Was she involved?”

  “No, no, she just told us, and we thought—”

  “It would be easy money—and fun, too, I bet.”

  “Do you know how much a teacher makes in California?”

  “Probably as much as a cop.”

  “Should we shoot them?” Heavenly asked.

  “No, please, please, Caroline.”

  This time it was one of the accomplices speaking. I didn’t know his name and I didn’t care to learn it.

  “Well?” Heavenly said.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Please, don’t kill us,” Shanklin said.

  “Why not? That’s clearly what you intended to do to me.”

  “Caroline. Please. Tell him.”

  “Not my job,” Heavenly said.

  She spun toward the lake, whipped off her hat, and waved it back and forth. The lights of a boat flicked on, and I heard the low moan of its engine coming to life. Almost immediately, the lights began moving forward across the lake. Soon I discerned the shape of the boat. It drifted gently toward the beach until its bow scraped the sand a few yards out.

  “My ride,” Heavenly said.

  “You kids all right?” Jack Westlund asked.

  “Just great, Mr. Westlund,” I said. �
��Thank you.”

  “Need any help?”

  “Stay where you are.”

  “Are you ready?” Heavenly asked.

  “Cover me.”

  I moved cautiously toward Shanklin. He crawled away from me on his knees as I approached, his heads still behind his head. I picked up his gun and heaved it into Lake Superior. I bent down and retrieved my suitcase. I decided the books were just too damn good to leave behind. Afterward, I carefully maneuvered around the trio until I was behind them and standing next to the Mustang.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Heavenly lowered her Colt and crossed the sand. She was splashing through the water when Shanklin called to her.

  “Caroline?”

  “Shut up, Curtis.”

  Westlund lowered a ladder, and Heavenly climbed aboard.

  “I’ll be buying the drinks later,” I said.

  “Got that right you will,” Westlund said.

  He put his engines in reverse, and the boat slid off the sand. A few moments later, it was crossing Lake Superior at high speed toward the lights of Bayfield.

  The trio turned on their knees in the sand to face me.

  “I have no idea what to say to you guys,” I said. “Except, if I see you again, I’ll blow your brains out.”

  Probably that wasn’t true, I told myself. They didn’t know that, though.

  I climbed into the Mustang, backed down the spur, caught Old Fort Road again, and drove back to the landing.

  NINE

  I had to wait nearly a half hour for the Nichevo II to return to Madeline Island and another twenty minutes for it to make the crossing to Bayfield. Westlund and Heavenly were waiting for me when I arrived. Heavenly had changed into boots, jeans, and a soft blue V-neck sweater.

  “I begged her not to do it,” Westlund said.

  I would have liked to see more of the bikini myself, but Heavenly had tucked it and the filmy cover-up into a large wicker bag. After I drove off the ferry’s iron ramp, she tossed the bag and the floppy hat into the backseat of my Mustang and climbed in after it. Westlund sat next to me.