Stealing the Countess Read online

  “I remember that.”

  “The Duluth cops suspect that Ruland has been involved in some petty thefts since he was released from prison, but he hasn’t been busted yet—a wannabe gangster pretending he’s living in an Ocean’s Eleven world.”

  “That sounds right.”

  “However—he did stay at the Queen Anne three days before the Stradivarius was taken; actually had the same room as Paul Duclos.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I had a detective I know do a background check on everyone who stayed at the B&B up to two weeks before the theft. His name popped up; my guy gave me the details last night.”

  “Ruland used his real name?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  Again Donatucci paused before responding.

  “The quality of criminals we get these days,” he said.

  “Let me guess—when you were young, they always walked five miles through blinding blizzards to reach their victims, and always uphill.”

  “You’re not funny, McKenzie.”

  I thought it was funny, my inner voice said.

  “McKenzie, he’s just as liable to try to steal the Countess from you as Petryk is,” Donatucci said.

  “We’ll see.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see—you’re awfully cavalier about all this.”

  “No. I stopped being cavalier when someone put a round in Heavenly’s shoulder.”

  “What’s your play?”

  “I’m going to buy him drinks, talk it over. I called him last night to set it up.”

  “Why would he agree to meet with you?”

  “I told Ruland that I’m representing the Midwest Farmers Insurance Group and I’m interested in hearing his theories concerning the theft of the Stradivarius. He said he’d be happy to discuss the matter—hypothetically, of course.”

  “When?”

  “He’ll contact me in a few hours.”

  “It couldn’t possibly be this easy.”

  “Oh, I agree. I absolutely agree with that.”

  * * *

  Minnesota Point was a narrow, seven-mile-long sand spit that separated Lake Superior from both Superior Bay and St. Louis Bay, as well as the Duluth Harbor Basin, where all the great ships and freighters were loaded and unloaded. To allow the substantial shipping traffic to move easily from one side to the other, a huge canal, called Superior Entry, was dug through the spit. Technically, this turned it into an island that was connected to the mainland only by the Aerial Lift Bridge.

  The bridge was up when we arrived, and we had to wait nearly fifteen minutes as a giant freighter negotiated the canal. We weren’t alone. Canal Park, on the Duluth side of the bridge, was the city’s answer to Bayfield multiplied by about twenty. It was easily the most-visited tourist attraction in the area, what with its shops, restaurants, inns, and motels, plus an aquarium, marine museum, movie theaters, and a convention center where both the Duluth Superior Orchestra and the University of Minnesota–Duluth hockey team played.

  “Where are we going?” Heavenly asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  “What does that mean? You haven’t answered a single question I’ve asked since we left the hospital. If you don’t start coming clean…”

  “You first.”

  “I should just get out of the car and walk back to the hotel. Make my own arrangements.”

  “You can do that. By the way, you owe me money from both the hospital and the Queen Anne.”

  “You’ll get it. Dammit, McKenzie, where are we going?”

  By then the lift bridge had settled back into place, and I was able to proceed across the canal and up the point. I drove less than a mile before I reached the parking lot of SSL Harbor Basin Marina. I found an empty space for the Mustang and shut her down.

  “Coming?” I asked.

  “To do what?”

  “Talk to a man about a boat.”

  “Seriously? Is that why we’re in Duluth?”

  “One of the reasons.”

  “I’ll stay here, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Good idea. Call your mom. Tell her what a wonderful time you’re having.”

  A couple of minutes later, I was standing on the fuel dock. A young man wearing a T-shirt and ball cap with the name of the marina imprinted on them had just finished topping off the tanks of a sleek runabout. He gave it a wave and shoved the nozzle back into the gas pump as the owner motored away.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

  “I hope so. It’s a small matter of expenses. Me and a guy share a boat, the Heavenly II. I don’t want to make a big deal about it…”

  “I know the Heavenly II.”

  “Do you know Herb Voight? Did he gas up here last weekend?”

  “He did. Twice.”

  “Twice?”

  “Kinda unusual, I know. I hope I’m not causing problems between you two.”

  “No, no, no—that’s what he told me. I was just checking. The partnership isn’t what it should be, guys and boats, I don’t know, and the man is lousy about receipts. When did he…”

  “The first time was at about seven Thursday evening, right before we knocked off for the day. I think he was our last customer. Yeah, yeah, he was. I remember because we gave him nearly ninety gallons, which wasn’t unusual; his thirty-footer had a one-hundred-gallon tank, but it took a while, you know. The second time—it was way early Friday morning, right after we opened, and he asked us to top him off, and I’m like, didn’t we see you here yesterday? Twenty-three gallons I gave him. Twenty-three—are you kidding? Made me wonder where he’d been all night.”

  “Makes me wonder, too. Thanks, man.”

  I returned to the Mustang. Heavenly was staring out the passenger window at nothing in particular. Her cheap flip phone was in her hand resting on her lap.

  “Miss me?” I asked.

  “I’m hungry.”

  * * *

  I told Heavenly I knew plenty of Italian restaurants that served better pasta than Grandma’s Saloon & Grill, located on the Canal Park side of the Aerial Lift Bridge, including Bellisio’s just down the street.

  “Her Marathon spaghetti and meatballs, though—the absolute best I’ve ever had,” I said.

  She gave a small lunch plate a try and agreed that I might be onto something, which led to a conversation about finding iconic food in the most unlikely places.

  “Best pizza?” Heavenly asked.

  “Deep dish or thin crust?”

  “Deep dish.”

  “Little Star in San Francisco.”

  “Not Chicago? Wow.”

  “Best thin crust?”

  “La Briciola, in Paris.”

  “That surprises me. Paris of all places.”

  “Surprised me, too. Best barbecue?”

  “Rudy’s in San Antonio.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

  “Best fried chicken?” I asked.

  “Pies ’n’ Thighs in Brooklyn. Best steak?”

  “There’s a place, I don’t even know if it exists anymore. When I was a kid, my dad took me to hunt pheasant near Jackson, Minnesota, right along the Iowa border, he and some buddies of his. It was the year after my mother died, and it made me feel very grown up, like I was one of the guys; they let me drink blackberry brandy from the bottle. After a day walking the cornfields, we went to this place—I don’t know its actual name. I call it the Farm because it was located on an actual farm. The restaurant slaughtered its own beef and hogs and chicken; grew its own potatoes, carrots, beans, whatever. I ordered a New York strip. I never even heard of a New York strip until that day. It was … I’ve never eaten anything like it before or since. So tender; so flavorful. The fixings on the side … best meal I’ve ever had.”

  “Is it the best meal because of the food or because you were with your father?” Heavenly asked.

  “Probably both.”

  “I never had a … happy meal with my father, not even at McDona
ld’s. I was never man enough for him.”

  How incredibly awful, I thought but didn’t say.

  “Do you think that might have influenced some of my life choices?” Heavenly asked.

  I didn’t respond to that either.

  “Best French,” she said.

  “Le Papillon in Toronto near the Hockey Hall of Fame.”

  “Is that why you went there, because it was near the Hall of Fame?”

  “I was in the neighborhood, what can I say? Best Mexican?”

  Before Heavenly could answer, though, my smartphone pinged. I read a text sent by a cell with a Duluth phone number.

  Go to Wade Stadium and wait.

  “We’re on,” I said.

  FOURTEEN

  It was a ten-minute drive from Canal Park to Wade Stadium, where the Duluth-Superior Dukes minor league baseball team used to play. I parked in the deserted lot. To kill time, I told Heavenly about watching Ila Borders pitch for the Dukes against the St. Paul Saints when both teams were in the Northern League.

  “Second woman to start an NCAA men’s college baseball game and the first to play pro ball since Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier,” I said. “She was very good at locating her pitches, but you’re not going to make it to the Show with an eighty-mile-an-hour fastball.”

  “This is silly.”

  “A woman playing professional baseball? I don’t know. Someday.”

  “I mean moving us around like this. What does Ruland hope to accomplish?”

  “Probably wants to see if we’re being followed.”

  “The man’s never heard of GPS? Cell phones? You could be making a call right now on the car’s system without taking your hands off the steering wheel. Who is this guy anyway?”

  “I told you; thinks of himself as a master criminal. Are you sure you never heard of him?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Well, you are competitors.”

  “I am not a criminal, McKenzie. I wish people would stop calling me that. Especially insurance companies.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “I’m a salvage specialist.”

  My smartphone pinged again.

  Miller Hill Mall. Walk the concourse. Don’t look for me. I’ll see you.

  * * *

  Much of Duluth is built on the side of a steep hill facing Lake Superior, not quite as bad as San Francisco, but close. The Miller Hill Mall, as the name suggests, is located at the top of the hill. It has over a hundred stores, a food court, and several chain restaurants; it resembles for the most part every shopping mall you’ve ever been in. We wandered the concourse as instructed. I thought there would be more kids hanging around. The fact that there weren’t actually made me feel better.

  Instead of a ping, my cell played “West End Blues” just as we passed Pink, a store owned by Victoria’s Secret that Nina wouldn’t have been caught dead in but Erica seemed to like, judging by the sweatshirt she sometimes wore.

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “Who’s the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “My friend.”

  “Doesn’t mean she’s mine.”

  “On the contrary, she hates Vincent Donatucci almost as much as you do.”

  Ruland—I assumed it was Ruland—thought it over for a moment before chuckling.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he said.

  “Exactly right.”

  “Fitger’s Brewhouse—ever hear of it?”

  “I’m familiar.”

  “That’s your next stop.”

  “You know, Trevor”—I deliberately used his first name—“I’m not trying to jam you up.”

  “Others might. Donatucci comes to mind.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t lollygag, McKenzie.”

  Ruland hung up. I slipped the smartphone into my pocket. Heavenly had a what-now expression on her face.

  “Mustn’t lollygag,” I told her.

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  * * *

  We found Fitger’s Brewhouse attached to the upscale Fitger’s Inn at the bottom of the hill on the north side of downtown Duluth. I knew from experience that it served pretty good pub food and craft beers, but the PortLand Malt Shoppe next door—I liked it better.

  I parked in an empty space in the lot between the two businesses and was debating which direction to go—toward a Bourbon Barrel Aged Stout or Black Raspberry Truffle Shake—when my cell rang again.

  “McKenzie,” I said.

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Now I want you to take the Lakewalk.”

  “Take it where?”

  “To the Old Standby Lighthouse. You can see it from where you’re standing.”

  The canal I told you about, the one that separated Minnesota Point and Canal Park and allowed freighters to sail from Lake Superior into the Duluth Harbor Basin? The lighthouse was located at the far tip of the north pier, giving the ships a dependable landmark to steer by. It wasn’t more than a couple hundred yards from the restaurant where we started.

  “I see it,” I said.

  “On your way.”

  I hung up the cell phone.

  “We’re walking,” I said.

  “Walking where?” Heavenly asked.

  “Back to Canal Park.”

  “Okay, now I’m starting to get miffed.”

  “It’s only a mile and a half.”

  * * *

  We took a concrete and iron staircase from the parking lot down to the Lakewalk, a pedestrian and bike path that closely followed the shoreline of Lake Superior for pretty much the entire length of Duluth. We caught it at about the midpoint and followed it south.

  I noticed Heavenly wince a few times, adjust her sling, and roll her shoulder as if seeking relief.

  “Does it hurt to walk?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t help.”

  “Could be worse. You could be wearing heels.”

  “Shut up, McKenzie.”

  We kept walking, first along the edge of downtown and, after we angled east, past a couple of hotels with expensive views of the lake. There were plenty of benches to sit on, most of them occupied by tourists, and huge rocks to crawl over. I asked Heavenly if she wanted to rest, but she declined.

  The north pier, which completed one side of the canal, was built of concrete and steel and was very long. Tourists strolled the length of it to the lighthouse, took turns snapping photographs and selfies with the Old Standby and the big water behind them, and walked back to Canal Park. We joined the parade. I tried not to stare at the visitors sitting on benches or lingering at the concrete railing as we passed, yet couldn’t help wondering if any of them were staring at me.

  Once we reached the lighthouse, I asked Heavenly if she wanted me to take her photo.

  “You can send it to your mom,” I said.

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She didn’t believe me, though. I don’t know why.

  We hung around for a few minutes. My smartphone neither rang nor pinged. We drifted to the railing. I leaned against it; Heavenly stood as straight as possible. I knew she was in pain yet trying hard not to show it. Pride, I guess. We gazed across the water toward the city. And waited.

  “Maybe he changed his mind,” Heavenly said.

  “Maybe.”

  I was watching with my peripheral vision a man sitting alone on a bench just a few yards from us. People tended to dress casually Up North. Probably that’s true of people everywhere who live outside the big city, or in our case, the Cities, what people who don’t live there call Minneapolis and St. Paul. Yet this gentleman was wearing a silk suit, silk shirt and tie, and black brogues. He looked like he was waiting for a limo to take him to the Concert Hall at the Ordway to listen to Paul Duclos and the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra play.

  I kept watching while he slowly ate mi
ni-donuts from a bag and wiped the sugar on a linen napkin that was draped across his knee. Eventually, he noticed me noticing him and grinned like a celebrity who didn’t mind being recognized by his fans. He tipped the open bag toward me while looking straight ahead. I closed the distance between us and helped myself to a mini-donut.

  “One of my many vices,” he said.

  “Mine, too. I actually own a machine.”

  “Do you?”

  “Belshaw Donut Robot Mark I, capable of making one hundred dozen mini-donuts per hour, although I seldom eat that many.”

  “I’m Trevor Ruland.” He spoke his name like he enjoyed saying it.

  “McKenzie.”

  Ruland wiped his fingers on the napkin before shaking my hand.

  “A pleasure,” he said.

  “This is Heavenly Petryk.”

  Ruland handed both the mini-donuts and the napkin to me as he stood. He took Heavenly’s hand and kissed her knuckle.

  “A very great pleasure,” he said. “But you’re injured. Please, Ms. Heavenly, take a seat.”

  Ruland ushered her to the bench and helped her sit. Afterward he sat, angling his body so that he was facing her. There was little space left on the bench for me. I sat anyway, working my butt until Ruland gave me room. I cleared my throat, but his attention was solely on Heavenly—big surprise.

  “Whatever happened?” he asked.

  “I was shot,” she answered.

  “Surely you’re joking.”

  “I am not joking, and please don’t call me Shirley.”

  “I am so impressed that you’re able to make light of such a traumatic event. You are incredibly brave. At the risk of seeming sexist, may I also say, Ms. Heavenly, that you are the most extraordinarily attractive woman?”

  Heavenly smiled through the pain in her shoulder.

  “You’re very kind,” she said.

  I cleared my throat again. Ruland still didn’t seem to notice.

  “May I inquire … does your wound have anything to do with the theft of the Countess Borromeo?” he asked.

  “We believe so,” Heavenly said.

  I spoke loudly.

  “I am willing to pay $250,000 for the violin’s safe return, no questions asked.”

  That caught Ruland’s attention.

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” he said. “Publicly the insurance company announced it will not negotiate with criminals, yet privately we all know that it is more than willing to do so.”