Stealing the Countess Read online

  “What the hell was that, McKenzie?” Chief Neville wanted to know.

  “Just giving Heather something to ponder when she goes to bed tonight. And you too, for that matter.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “She’s your friend, isn’t she? So is Voight. So is Maggie. So is Speegle. So is Pilhofer, for that matter. You can’t imagine any of them stealing the Countess Borromeo, can you? You can’t imagine any of them shooting Heavenly. Can you?”

  “No.”

  “No,” I repeated.

  “But you can.”

  “You bet.”

  “Uh-huh. Tell me—why do you think I’ve been putting up with your bullshit for the past three days? So far, though, all you’ve given me is bupkis.”

  Oh, my inner voice said. That’s why the chief all but gave you permission to investigate the theft when you first arrived. Well, I’ll be …

  “I’m working on it,” I said aloud.

  “You can walk back,” he said.

  TWELVE

  Twenty minutes later, I found Jack Westlund sitting in his boat in slip number 76 at the Bayfield Superior Marina. He was sipping Leinie’s from a bottle with his feet propped up on the gunwale. Slip 77 was empty.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he said when he saw me. He was quick to rise and stood next to the hull. “How is she? How’s my girl?”

  Your girl?

  “Heavenly’s all right,” I said. “She wanted to leave the hospital today, but they decided to keep her overnight, make sure she’s good to go.”

  “I was so upset when I heard what happened. In Bayfield, no less. Are you sure she’s all right?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Maybe I should run up to Ashland? Is she accepting visitors?”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  “It’s Heavenly, though, right? You introduced her to me as Heavenly. When Chief Neville came by this morning, though, he was calling her Caroline, and I’m like—is this the same girl we’re talkin’ about?”

  “It’s complicated. Just … her name’s Heavenly.”

  “Who did it? Do you know? I was talking to Neville—that was like three in the A.M., the man wasting no time at all. I told him what happened on Madeline. I hope that was all right.”

  “We’re cool.”

  “It wasn’t them kids, though, what shot her; they never left the island. So I don’t know. Do you know what happened? Who did it, I mean?”

  “Not yet, Jack…”

  “Look at me, no manners at all. Come aboard, come aboard. Can I get you anything? Want a beer?”

  “Yes sir, I do.”

  Westlund opened a Leinie’s and handed it to me. I took a long pull. It went down smoothly. I found a seat and looked out on Lake Superior. There were boats out there, and the ferry, and the island with the sun shining bright and a light breeze from the northwest.

  “I could get used to this,” I said.

  “Nah, not you, McKenzie. Got to have the right attitude to live on a boat, right disposition. Fella like you, I take you out and three days later you’re gonna wanna come back in again. You’re just not the type t’ sit back and let the world go by. You’re one of them people gotta get out and push.”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh, I know so. Been around people and boats my whole life. Seen plenty of ’em what buys a boat thinkin’ they’re gonna live on the lake. They mean it, too; they’re all in. Six months later their boat’s up for sale and they’re lookin’ for a place on shore. Just don’t have the right mindset. Got to where I can pick ’em a mile off.

  “I notice the Heather II is gone,” I said.

  “Herb left this afternoon; don’t know where. Had hisself a late lunch and took off. He does that a lot these days. Troubles at home, I figure. I had plenty in my time, so I know the symptoms.”

  “Tell me something—the night of the concert, you said that Voight woke you up around one o’clock.”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “You said you looked out the window—”

  “Porthole.”

  “You looked out the porthole and saw a woman. You said it was Heather.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see her face?”

  “In the dark, no, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Pretty sure it was her.”

  “Except that it wasn’t her face that you were identifying, it was her size and shape.”

  “I suppose…”

  Confirmation bias, my inner voice said. He expected to see Heather, so he did, yet it could have been anyone.

  “What you thinkin’?” Westlund asked.

  “I don’t know. All the puzzle pieces are spinning around in the air, and I have no idea how they fit together.”

  “You like it, though, don’t ya?”

  “Like what?”

  “Puttin’ them pieces t’gether. It’s like me and boats. It’s what makes ya happy.”

  “Sometimes. Friends getting shot—that takes a lot of the fun out of it. Jack, how far is it from here to Duluth?”

  “Sixty-six miles. Nautical miles.”

  “How long does it take to get there?”

  “Depends. If you’re fuel conscious like me, making eight-ten knots, it takes six-seven hours. If you don’t care how much time and money you spend at the fuel dock, punch it up to twenty knots and you can get there in half the time. ’Course, we’re talkin’ a thirty-footer like mine. Not a sailboat or runabout.”

  “The Heather II is a thirty-footer.”

  Westlund shielded his eyes from the sun with the flat of his hand while he answered.

  “Thirty-one. So?”

  “Do you know what marina Voight uses when he’s in Duluth?”

  “SSL Harbor Basin, I guess. Same as me. Now whaddaya thinkin’?”

  “Just tossing a couple more pieces into the air.”

  * * *

  I had a second Leinie’s and a couple of brats that Westlund cooked on a small propane grill. And another Leinie’s. He regaled me with tales of his life and times on Lake Superior; places he’d gone, people he’d met, storms he rode out bouncing like a bobber on the angry water. I told him he was wrong, that I would like life on a boat just fine, yet I knew it was untrue. I had a handsome lake home in northern Minnesota where I spent a grand total of twenty days a year, if that. A boat like his would have been just another colossal waste of money.

  At about six thirty, he announced that I didn’t need to go home, but I couldn’t stay there. He was going ashore.

  “Gonna scoot up to Ashland and visit my girl,” he said.

  I told him the next time I’d get the beers. He thought that was a good idea.

  We left the marina together. He went left toward the parking lot where he kept his car. I went right toward Memorial Park. It was Thursday. A bluegrass band was setting up in the gazebo for another Concert in the Park. Zofia McLean was there, and I gave her a wave. She must not have noticed, because she didn’t wave back.

  I sat on a metal bench facing Lake Superior and pulled out my smartphone.

  “It’s about time you called,” Nina said. “I would have called you, only I didn’t want your cell to ring in the middle of a gunfight.”

  “About that.”

  I told her everything, starting with the shooting last night and filling in the details around it. She seemed genuinely concerned about Heavenly’s health and well-being.

  “What is she going to do when she gets out of the hospital?” Nina asked. “Does she have family that can take care of her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How come we don’t know if Heavenly has family?”

  “She’s a secretive girl.”

  “I suppose she could stay with us for a while. Erica and a couple of her college friends are off to Wyoming to hike mountains; one of them has a place out there, I guess. So that leaves the guest room free.”

  “You’re aware that Heavenly thinks you
hate her, right?”

  “Of course she does. Every time we meet we snipe at each other. The only reason she hits on you is to annoy me.”

  “I thought it was because I’m such a fine figure of a man.”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  Damn.

  “She makes you so angry,” I said.

  “That’s because … How do I explain this? Heavenly is doing all the things I wish I had done when I was her age, at least to a point. McKenzie, I married at twenty-one, less than a month after I graduated from college, and spent the next five years being both abused and cheated on. When I was Heavenly’s age—she’s what, twenty-eight now?—I was busy raising a six-year-old daughter, fending off a deadbeat ex-husband, and working day and night trying to build my club into something to be proud of. I never had the chance to be irresponsible, to go off on whatever adventure appealed to me at the moment, to have … experiences. I’m forty-three, McKenzie, and I have no memory of being twenty-three. Please, don’t get me wrong. I’m really happy the way things turned out; the way Rickie turned out. Only, every time I see Heavenly, I’m left wondering about all the stuff I missed out on.”

  “Like getting shot?”

  “I nearly did get shot. Remember that one time—”

  “I remember.”

  “’Course, Heavenly’s so … what’s the word?”

  “Dishonest?”

  “Untrustworthy. She has the morals of a … Name something that has no morals.”

  “A United States congressman?”

  “No, God, not that bad. Anyway, I guess I’m a little jealous of her even though I wish she were a better person.”

  “People look at my new Mustang and they think I’m the one who’s having a midlife crisis. Nina, this might come as a shock, but last night while she was bleeding all over my car, Heavenly told me that she was jealous of you, jealous of your perfect life.”

  She paused for a ten-count and said, “That bitch.”

  “Nina?”

  “Bring her home, McKenzie. I’ll lock up the good silverware.”

  * * *

  The bluegrass band played two tunes back-to-back before addressing their audience. They thanked everyone for coming out, praised Bayfield for its kindness and beauty, and declared that they had CDs for sale that they would be happy to autograph during intermission. The banjo player held up his instrument and announced, “Deering Goodtime banjo. I bought it for five ninety-nine at a music store in Nashville.” While he liked it, he doubted that it was worth stealing, unlike the Stradivarius that disappeared last week, although there were plenty who would be happy to smash it over his head once they heard him play. Zofia cringed, half the audience laughed, and the rest glanced at one another and said, “Huh?”

  The band launched into a robust cover of the old Doyle Lawson tune “Rosine.”

  Maryanne Altavilla sat on the bench next to me.

  “I hate bluegrass,” she said.

  “There isn’t any music that I hate,” I said. “There’s stuff I don’t particularly care for, don’t listen to, but there’s nothing I hate.”

  “How very mature of you.”

  “I like to think so.”

  We listened to a couple of choruses while I waited for Altavilla to get to the point. She finally did at the same moment the banjo player launched into an extended solo.

  “It occurs to me, Mr. McKenzie, that you’re no closer to finding the Countess Borromeo now than when you started.”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to find the Countess.”

  “Midwest Farmers Insurance Group doesn’t want it found. I, on the other hand, would be delighted if you came up with it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I had thought that Heavenly Petryk might have it, or at least knew where it was. The shooting last night left me confused. Are you confused, McKenzie?”

  “Thoroughly.”

  “When she’s discharged from the hospital tomorrow, are you going to take Heavenly back to St. Paul?”

  “I don’t live in St. Paul anymore. I moved to Minneapolis in January.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Sonuvabitch. It was you.”

  “What was me?”

  “You’re the one who sent the invitation.”

  “What invitation?”

  “The one enticing me to search for the Stradivarius by telling me not to.”

  “Are you susceptible to that sort of artifice? I would never have guessed.”

  “Maryanne—it seems that there’s a great deal more to you than meets the eye.”

  “There’s a great deal more to everyone than meets the eye.”

  “Does Midwest know you’re in Bayfield?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Vincent Donatucci knows.”

  “How?”

  “I told him.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t spoken to Mr. Donatucci since he left the company; since they escorted him from the building. It broke my heart when they did that.”

  “Why did they?”

  “He became … violent when they told him they were going to make him a part-time consultant.”

  “Consultant?”

  “As far as he was concerned, it was the same thing as being let go, as being … marginalized. I assured him that it was untrue. I told him how much I required his expertise.” Tears formed in Maryanne’s eyes, yet she refused to let them fall, brushing them away with a knuckle instead. For a moment, I actually liked her. “He had done so much for me; recognized my abilities, allowed me to utilize them—I studied his work for the past ten-twelve years. Read every one of his files, including those about you.”

  “Now you want to recover the Stradivarius,” I said. “Just to prove to one and all that you can do it. Meanwhile, Donatucci wants to do the same thing just to prove that he can do it. Both of you decided to use me. How wonderful. Yet Midwest Farmers doesn’t want either of you to find the violin. Why is that, Maryanne?”

  “McKenzie, there’s a man about your age, height, and coloring wearing a dark blue sportcoat. He’s standing across the street next to the Coca-Cola machine by the rear entrance to the Pier Plaza Restaurant. He’s eating a double-scoop ice cream cone. The top scoop of ice cream slipped off the cone, but he caught it with his bare hand and placed it back on top. He would like to wipe the ice cream off his bare hand. Unfortunately, the only napkin he has is wrapped around the bottom of the cone. When he’s not worrying about his ice cream, he’s watching you. He’s been watching you for the past forty-five minutes.”

  The band finished a song, and the audience offered a polite ovation. I turned my head while they applauded as if I were looking over the crowd. That’s when I saw him, exactly where Maryanne said I would. I slowly directed my gaze back toward the gazebo.

  “You impress me, young lady,” I said.

  “Do I? That wasn’t my intention.”

  “No. Your intention was to change the subject. Who is he?”

  “I was going to ask you.”

  “He’s been following me since I arrived in Bayfield.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s about time I asked him.”

  “Forgive me if I sound like an alarmist, Mr. McKenzie. However, it is certainly possible that he’s the one who shot Ms. Petryk.”

  “The thought had occurred to me as well. Maryanne, the local constable has confiscated my gun. Tell me—are you carrying?”

  She shifted her large black bag so that it was between us and opened the top flap. I could see the butt of a handgun inside.

  “May I?” I asked.

  “Nine-millimeter Ruger, seven rounds in the magazine and one in the throat. I want it back.”

  * * *

  I pulled the shirt out of my jeans and waited. The band finished its set and promised to return following a short break—and don’t forget those CDs. People around me stood and stretched. I reac
hed in the bag, secured Maryanne’s Ruger, and quickly tucked it into the waistband of my jeans beneath the shirt. I stood and strolled swiftly in the opposite direction of Pier Plaza. I didn’t look back to see if the man in the sports coat was watching or not.

  I walked along the sidewalk to Manypenny, hung a right and then another on South First Street, moving with purpose. I reached Rittenhouse Avenue and slowed. My hand went to my stomach. I patted the handgun beneath my shirt and turned right again. I took a dozen steps toward the Pier Plaza before I realized that the man in the sports coat had disappeared. I stopped and searched the avenue for him.

  There, my inner voice said.

  The man in the sports coat was still on Rittenhouse, but he was heading away from the lake, moving at a brisk pace. He was no longer holding his ice cream cone. I followed.

  He took us past Greunke’s First Street Inn, Big Water Coffee Roasters, and Brownstone Centre Gallery and Gift Shops before heading east on Second Street. I matched his speed while remaining at a discreet distance. Not once did he look behind him.

  We soon left the downtown area and became surrounded by residential housing. My first thought was that he didn’t know I was following and would soon lead me to where he was staying. That changed, though, when he angled north on Washington Avenue and headed toward the Iron Bridge Hiking and Nature Trail.

  In the back of my mind I could hear my father telling stories about fighting in bitter cold with the 1st Marines at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea. He had been outraged that the newspapers back home called it a “retreat.”

  We weren’t retreating, he said. We were finding a better place to fight.

  I pulled the Ruger out from beneath my shirt and thumbed off the safety.

  “Wait,” I said.

  The man reached under his sports coat and brought out his own handgun. I was desperate for him to turn and shoot at me so I could shoot back. He didn’t. Instead, he started running.

  I gave chase, carrying the Ruger with both hands. It was lighter than I was used to; I doubt it weighed much more than a can of chunky chicken noodle soup—not that I eat that stuff.

  The man in the sports coat turned into the parking lot, dashed across it, scrambled over the hardpack, rocks, and brush, and disappeared into the ravine. I closed the distance between us, yet deliberately slowed when I reached the edge.