Stealing the Countess Page 18

  I could no longer see him.

  There were rocks and brush where the creek flowed and thick forest on both sides—plenty of places to spring from ambush. A narrow trail cut through and around it all. I followed it, advancing cautiously.

  The trail took me beneath the iron bridge. I was no longer able to see the street or any structures. I might as well have been in the Amazon rain forest for all the landmarks I could identify.

  I kept moving.

  There was still a half hour of sunlight left, yet inside the ravine it could have been midnight. I nearly stumbled on a wooden staircase leading to a wooden deck perched on the wall of the ravine that gave tourists a pleasant view of the hiking trail and creek. I climbed the steps, staying low.

  From the deck I examined the creek beneath me and the trail twisting above me as best I could in the dim light. Nothing stirred. I heard nothing, not even the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.

  A thought came to me then that was like a slap across the face. What the hell are you doing chasing this guy through the forest?

  What do you hope to accomplish?

  You don’t know who he is. You don’t know why he’s here, what he’s doing. And if he did shoot Heavenly, what the hell is keeping him from shooting you? Fear of being seen?

  Wise up.

  I eased myself off the platform and cautiously backed down the trail, all the time aware of just how vulnerable I was.

  Finally, I reached the parking lot.

  I wanted to shout something—“Hey, pal, better luck next time” or “I’ll catch ya later”—so the man in the sports coat would know that I wasn’t afraid of him. Really, though, how silly was that?

  Instead, I tucked the Ruger under my shirt and slowly retraced my steps along Washington to Second Street. I looked over my shoulder only a half-dozen times.

  * * *

  The bluegrass band had just completed its second set and was receiving a hearty ovation by the time I returned to Memorial Park. I searched for Maryanne Altavilla, yet could not find her in the departing crowd. I knew she was staying at the Bayfield Inn, though, so I headed in that direction with the idea of returning her handgun.

  My smartphone played “West End Blues” before I reached the entrance. The caller ID read SCHROEDER PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.

  “McKenzie,” I said.

  “McKenzie, Greg Schroeder.”

  I nearly said, “I forgot all about you,” but caught myself. “It’s about time,” I said instead. “How long does it take to check out a lousy fifty-nine names, anyway?”

  “Hey, man, you owe me big for this one.”

  “I thought it was understood that I was only paying your going rate.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “What do you have for me, Greg?”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Why? Is this going to be a long story?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Do me a favor. Just skip to the ending.”

  “I not only know the name of the man who stole the Countess Borromeo, I know where he lives.”

  THIRTEEN

  The door to Heavenly’s hospital room was propped open. I knocked anyway as I stepped past it. Heavenly was sitting up in bed and talking on a cell phone. She was dressed in a hospital gown identical to the one she wore the day before. The sling was different, however. It was a very pale blue and seemed to hold her left arm closer to her body.

  “Someone just came in,” she said. “I need to go … Yes, I’ll call you soon.”

  Heavenly dropped the cell on the bed and swung her legs over the side. She stood gingerly, although if she was experiencing any discomfort, her face didn’t show it.

  “Ordering a pizza?” I asked.

  “My mom. What did you bring me?”

  I set a shopping bag on the bed.

  “Your mother?” I asked.

  “You don’t think I have a mother?”

  “I’ve often wondered.”

  Heavenly opened the bag, dumped the contents on top of the bedspread, and began sorting through them: dress shirt, jeans, socks, boots, and underwear.

  “Her name’s Patricia, Patricia Petryk,” Heavenly said. “She lives in Denver with my aunts Monica and Florence. In my family, they’re known as ‘the Sisters,’ as in you don’t want to mess with the Sisters. They’re the ones who raised me after my father dumped Mom for a younger woman when I was in the eighth grade. I’ve only seen him twice since then, once at his wedding, the second time at his funeral.”

  “I lost my mother when I was in the sixth grade,” I said. “Cancer.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “It’s not?”

  “I bet she didn’t want to leave you.”

  No, my inner voice reminded me. She didn’t.

  “Did you tell your mother that you were shot?” I asked.

  “Lord, no. Only that I fell and broke my collarbone. My mother thinks I work as a freelance security consultant. I try to keep it vague. I’ve practiced conversations in my head where I tell her what I really do, but it always sounds like I’m explaining a joke.” Heavenly held up the lavender bra and panties I had brought; there wasn’t much to them. “Really, McKenzie? This is what you picked?”

  “It was what was on top,” I said.

  Heavenly smiled. It was one of her favorite things to do—embarrass me.

  “I’ll step outside,” I said.

  “No, that’s okay.”

  Heavenly gathered up her clothes and moved into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I gave her a slow twenty count before retrieving her cell phone. It was a flip phone, the kind you can buy at Target for $19.99—not the expensive smartphone I saw her use earlier. I felt a little guilty when I examined her call log, but then she had given me reason to be suspicious of her, hadn’t she?

  At least fifty thousand reasons, my inner voice reminded me.

  I discovered that several calls had been made in the past week, one incoming, four outgoing, all to a single number with a 215 prefix. No other telephone numbers appeared.

  I heard a noise from the bathroom, a cross between a moan and a curse. I dropped the phone back on the bed and went to the window. The fields outside hadn’t changed since the last time I looked at them. I pretended to gaze at them anyway while I pulled out my own smartphone and inputted the 215 number into a reverse phone directory that I had an account with. The information the Web site returned:

  Phone Type—cell phone

  Company—Unknown

  Name—Unknown

  Location—Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Heavenly called to me a few minutes later. “McKenzie.”

  I don’t know why, but I knocked on the bathroom door even as I opened it just far enough to poke my head in. Her back was to me, and she was clutching her shirt to her chest. She stared straight ahead.

  “Help me,” she said.

  “What?”

  Heavenly was wearing jeans and boots; her sling was draped over the sink. Her bra straps were hanging on her shoulders, but the clasp was undone.

  “I can’t move my arm behind my back,” she said. She refused to turn her head to look at me and for the first time since I had known her, she was the one who was embarrassed. “I tried hooking it in front and then turning it around, but I can’t slide my arm through the strap. Could you…”

  I hooked the bra ends together.

  “I have a couple of bras that snap in front,” Heavenly said. “I should have asked you to bring one of those, but I didn’t think.”

  I left without a word, closing the door behind me.

  A couple of minutes later, Heavenly left the bathroom, the sling holding her damaged arm against her torso. I was surprised when she wrapped her good arm around my waist and rested her head against my chest.

  “I’ve teased you so often for so long, and when you had the perfect chance to tease me back, you didn’t take it,” she said.

  “I’m a helluva guy.”


  “One of the very few.”

  “Has it really been as bad as all that, Heavenly?”

  “One of these days I’ll tell you about my father.”

  “You already told me enough.”

  “No, not even close.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Heavenly gathered her few belongings into the wicker bag, including her cell. She took her time.

  “I need to be careful,” Heavenly said. “Dr. Sauer warned me about sudden movements.”

  “I have to say, even shot up you look like a million bucks.”

  “Yeah, green and wrinkled.”

  “No, I mean it. You look like money.”

  “Any woman under the age of forty who stays out of the sun and doesn’t have a weight problem looks like money. Are we going back to Bayfield?”

  “To start with.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I have a plan.”

  “Would you like to share?”

  “Nope.”

  * * *

  I helped Heavenly into the Mustang, tilting the passenger seat forward so that her back was straight. A few minutes later, we were on Highway 13 and approaching Washburn. The windows were down, and the warm summer wind was blowing through her hair. She didn’t seem to mind, even though several times she had to brush it out of her face.

  “Hungry?” I asked. “Thirsty? Do you want to stop?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “Just let me know.”

  Heavenly rummaged through her wicker bag with her right hand while trying mightily to keep her left side immobile. She found a small orange medicine canister and popped the white cap off with her thumb. She shook out two pills and swallowed them. The remaining pills she dumped out the window; they scattered like snowflakes on the pavement behind us.

  “Aren’t you going to need those?” I asked.

  “They make me light-headed. Besides, pain doesn’t hurt.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Patrick Swayze in Road House.”

  “And you believed him?”

  By then we were through Washburn and on the fast track to Bayfield.

  “What’s that smell?” Heavenly asked.

  “Disinfectant.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry about the blood.”

  “That’s okay. She cleaned up real nice.”

  “This is a fabulous car. I like it much better than your old Audi.”

  “Nina gave it to me. For my birthday.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “It is?”

  “Too bad that she feels she needs to buy your affection with expensive gifts.”

  “I’m going to tell her you said that.”

  “Do you tell Nina everything?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I wish I had someone I could tell all my secrets to.”

  “You could tell me.”

  “Hardly.”

  “How ’bout the Sisters?”

  “Them least of all.”

  “By the way, Nina said you’re welcome to stay with us while you recover from your wounds.”

  Heavenly’s head snapped toward me. She stared for a good ten seconds before she replied.

  “That bitch,” she said.

  * * *

  Bayfield came up in a hurry. I slowed and cautiously maneuvered the Mustang along the highway as it angled through town. It was midmorning on a Friday, and the number of tourists on the streets appeared to have doubled; some of them seemed to think that the traffic laws only applied when they were at home. I surprised Heavenly when I didn’t take the turn for the Queen Anne, but instead remained on 13 until it led us out of town.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Duluth.”

  “What about my stuff?”

  “Packed up and stored in the trunk.”

  “And my car?”

  “I called the rental company. They’re sending someone over to pick it up, although they said they’re going to charge Caroline’s credit card extra for the service. By the way, someone broke into your room at the Queen Anne sometime after you were shot, searched it pretty thoroughly. I don’t suppose you know what the burglar was looking for?”

  Heavenly gave me a hard look. I pretended that I didn’t know why.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You’ll want to go through your stuff when we reach Duluth to see if anything is missing.”

  Eventually, she settled back against the seat.

  “You were right,” she said. “I shouldn’t have thrown away the pain pills.”

  * * *

  I pulled into the parking lot of the same hotel where I usually stayed during the Bayfront Blues Festival. When I opened the trunk of the Mustang to retrieve the luggage, Heavenly reached in, pulled out the nylon carry-on bag, and stepped back as if she expected me to take it from her. I pretended not to notice. Instead, I heaved out her two suitcases and my own satchel, which I was able to carry by a strap hanging from my shoulder. I set one of the suitcases down in order to close the trunk and carried all three bags into the hotel. Both of Heavenly’s suitcases were heavier than mine.

  “If you weren’t hurt, I’d make you carry your own luggage,” I told her.

  Heavenly didn’t answer, probably because she knew that even if she hadn’t been shot, the way my father raised me, yeah, I’d probably carry her bags anyway. Hell, I still carried Nina’s bags, and I’ve known her for over six years; still opened car doors for her, too.

  Although we were clearly together, neither the desk clerk nor Heavenly batted so much as an eyelash when I rented two rooms adjacent to each other—one of them under the name Caroline Kaminsky.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” Heavenly told me. By then we were alone on the elevator and heading up; I could see her reflection in the polished door as I faced forward.

  “I didn’t want to presume,” I said. “In Bayfield I introduced you as Heavenly. That might have been a mistake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The person who shot you, sweetie—was it because he thought you were Heavenly or because he thought you were Caroline? I don’t know. Do you?”

  “I still believe whoever it was was actually trying to kill you, and I just happened to get in the way.”

  No you don’t, my inner voice said.

  “Besides,” she added, “the only person who knew me as Heavenly was Jack Westlund, and he was with us, or at least me, from the time you introduced us at the marina until right before the shooting.”

  “Maryanne Altavilla knew.”

  “Only after Jack introduced me. And that’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “It wasn’t necessary to get two rooms.”

  I let the innuendo slide.

  A few moments later, I opened Heavenly’s door and tossed the suitcases on the bed. It took some effort. I spoke to her over my shoulder as I headed for the exit.

  “When you’re finished, knock on the wall and I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “McKenzie, why are we here?”

  “To see a man.”

  “What man?”

  “Good question,” I said.

  And yet I didn’t answer it.

  * * *

  It didn’t take long to unpack. I had only a few clean things left, and the rest of my belongings I left in the satchel, including the nine-millimeter Ruger that Maryanne Altavilla had lent me—I never did return it after I received Greg Schroeder’s phone call.

  My smartphone played “West End Blues,” and my first thought was that Heavenly was calling, although, in retrospect, no woman unpacks that fast. Besides, she would have wanted to make sure the $50,000 was still intact.

  “McKenzie,” I said.

  “Where are you?” Vincent Donatucci asked.

  “In Duluth. Why do you ask?”

  “What are you doing in Duluth?”

  “The same thing I was doing in Bayfield, chasing the Coun
tess Borromeo. Again, why do you ask?”

  “I just heard that Maryanne had returned to the office; I still have friends over there. I tried to reach you at the Queen Anne, but the man said you had checked out after breakfast this morning along with Caroline Kaminsky. So she’s not dead?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course not,” Donatucci repeated. “Only the good die young. Which means Heavenly Petryk should live forever.”

  “Her and all the rest of us.”

  “Is she with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, no, no, McKenzie. She’s there to steal the Countess.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s why she was in Bayfield, to steal the Countess.”

  “I know.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “Keeping my enemies close—think of it that way. Look, if Heavenly gets her hands on the Countess before we do, I’ll buy it from her for the $250,000—which is what we intended to do all along.”

  “How do we know she doesn’t already have it?”

  “If she did, she would have taken the deal the first time I offered.”

  “Unless there’s someone else who’s offering more.”

  “In which case, she’d be long gone by now.”

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like you being in Duluth, either. McKenzie, the violin is in Bayfield. It must be.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “I’m here to speak to Trevor Ruland.”

  There was a long pause before Donatucci spoke again.

  “How do I know that name?”

  “You helped put him in jail about ten years ago.”

  “I did?”

  “He stole a $70,000 vase from an art gallery in Omaha.”

  “That’s right—Trevor Ruland. Very grandiose, thought he was Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief. He stole the vase and tried to sell it back to the gallery for $25,000. Midwest Farmers insured the vase; I played the go-between. He arranged to meet me in the most expensive restaurant in town—the man wore a tuxedo, I’m not joking you. I gave him the cash, he gave me the vase, and the Omaha Police Department arrived to take him away. He did five years for receiving stolen property.”

  “Ruland said at trial that you behaved unprofessionally by calling the police. He said that was against the rules.”