Stealing the Countess Page 9

  “That was an unavoidable accident.”

  “I’m on my own this time.”

  “Does Shanklin have any kind of relationship with Connor?”

  “I don’t think he’s Connor’s accomplice, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t think he has the Countess, either. Do you?”

  “No. I’ve been spreading word that I’m willing to buy back the violin. He thought I was carrying the $250,000 in my pocket.”

  “That’s what you get for painting a target on your forehead. What are you going to do now?”

  “I have a few ideas.”

  “Want some company?”

  “No.”

  “We’ve worked well together in the past. The gold hidden by Jelly Nash. The lily—”

  “We’ve never worked together, Heavenly. Or should I call you Caroline? It was always you on one side and me on the other and somehow, some way, we’d meet in the middle.”

  “Think about it.”

  I did. What is it they say about keeping your enemies close? Of course, Heavenly wasn’t really my enemy. More like an unscrupulous rival.

  “What’s your cell number?” I asked.

  I inputted the digits into my smartphone as she recited them to me.

  “I’ll give you a call if something comes up,” I said.

  Heavenly rose from the bed and moved to the door.

  “Be sure to give Nina my love,” she said.

  “If I do, she might come up here and give you hers.”

  SEVEN

  Bayfield Superior Marina practically glistened the way sunlight reflected off the water and the boats riding in their slips. I studied it from a metal bench in Memorial Park. The benches were all angled to look out at Lake Superior and Madeline Island beyond. Anyone watching Paul Duclos play from the gazebo on the corner would have had to sit sideways. ’Course, there had been so many people in the park that night, even those who had arrived early enough to secure seats probably ended up standing to see anyway.

  The marina was tucked behind imposing breakers. Children and their parents crawled over the rocks and concrete, but there were no tourists walking the docks. The man who operated the marina explained to me that permission was required to gain access to the boats.

  “Many of our guests, at least during the season, this is their home,” he said. “You’d be amazed how many people live on their boats.”

  I asked if Herb Voight was on his boat. He didn’t know, but he allowed me to take a look. I walked along the docks until I reached slip number 77; the marina boasted 135 slips, and the man said 110 were rented for the season. I discovered a thirty-footer there with the name Heather II printed across the transom. I knew enough about boats to know that you don’t hop on board without asking permission first; that would be like walking into someone’s house without knocking.

  “Ahoy,” I called. “Anyone aboard?”

  There was no answer.

  “Mr. Voight?”

  “He’p ya, son?”

  The question came from a man standing on the deck of another thirty-foot boat that provided full accommodations in the slip next to Heather II. He was much older than me with white hair, and so thin I was sure a heavy wind could pick him up and carry him across the lake at any moment.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I was looking for Mr. Voight.”

  “Not here.”

  “I guess not. Maybe I’ll find him at his mansion on Wilson.”

  I tossed in that last bit so the old man would think I knew Voight personally.

  “More likely he’s out getting himself some breakfast,” the old man said. “Buy ya a beer while ya wait?”

  “I haven’t turned down a free beer in my life.”

  “Come aboard.”

  I did.

  “Name’s Jack,” the old man said. “Jack Westlund.”

  His way of shaking hands was to hand me a Leinenkugel.

  “McKenzie,” I said.

  I took the beer and drank.

  “Good morning, Bayfield,” I said.

  “Attaboy. So, whaddya want wit’ Voight? Can I ask?”

  “I’m looking into the theft of the Stradivarius.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Isn’t that somethin’? No crime in Bayfield t’ speak of for God knows how long, and then this. ’Mazing.”

  “Are you from Bayfield?”

  “Me? Nah. From Fitchburg down by Madison. Retired a few years back and now come up here t’ stay durin’ the summer. Some people have lake homes. This is my home. Superior is my lake.”

  “That is so cool,” I said. I meant it, too.

  “I like it,” Jack said.

  “May I ask how all this works?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “You rent a slip in the marina for the summer, am I right?”

  “You are correct, sir.”

  “Do you just come and go as you please?”

  “Yeah, man. That’s what makes it fun. Go across t’ Isle Royale or Grand Marais, up to Houghton, whatever. Sometimes, I’ll just scoot over t’ the Apostles, find a protected anchorage, drop anchor, lower the dingy, barbecue on the beach, catch some rays. You’d be surprised. Some nights you’d see a hundred boats out there from all over Superior. Just one big party.”

  “You don’t inform the marina when you leave?”

  “Oh, oh, I see what you’re askin’. Well, yeah, sometimes. See, what you do, if you’re gonna be gone overnight or for maybe a couple of nights, you might pass the word. That way they can rent out your slip t’ some other boat while you’re gone; get yourself a few bucks rebate on your rent, you know? I do it all the time. Fixed income, what can I say?”

  “How about Voight?”

  “Doubt he bothers. Man has more money than God. At least the old lady does.”

  “When you travel, do you file … what’s the seagoing equivalent of a flight plan?”

  “Float plan.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go over t’ the Coast Guard station across the way and let ’em know what’s going on. Leastways I do. On long trips, I mean. Let ’em know if I’m crossing over t’ Canada or what. Most people don’t bother, though. It’s not required by law or nuthin’. I don’t do it myself if I’m just takin’ a short trip, huggin’ the shoreline to Duluth or someplace like that. Why bother?”

  “Were you here for the big concert?”

  “Yeah, I was. Sittin’ right where you are now, sippin’ Leinie’s, the music comin’ across the water, oh man, it was beautiful. I’m not what you’d call a classical music fan. Give me Hank or Johnny, any day. The way that boy was playin’—it made me reconsider, you know?”

  “Was Voight here, too?”

  “That was the damnedest thing. He wasn’t here. Then he was. Then he wasn’t. What I mean—he wasn’t here for the concert. Or the big after-party, neither. Him or his boat. He didn’t tie up till—I was asleep until like close to one o’clock. That’s when I hear ’im. I peek outta the porthole. He’s got a woman wit’ him, Heather, I figure, so I roll over, go back to sleep. Next mornin’, Voight and the boat is gone. I don’t see him again till Friday afternoon. Now, they done that many times before, him and Heather just takin’ off in the boat. But after midnight? What’s that about?”

  “Are you sure it was Heather?”

  “Who else?”

  * * *

  We chatted some more, although I changed the subject—I didn’t want Jack to wonder why I was asking so many questions about Voight. He offered me a second Leinie’s. I declined, telling him that I needed to get back to it, without actually explaining what that meant. He told me to drop by anytime.

  A few minutes later, I was back on shore and walking along First Street. Tourists interested in kayaking to the sea caves, boating, fishing, hiking, and other physical activities were already up and at it. Those planning a day of leisurely sightseeing and shopping, though, were mostly still at breakfast; the galleries and stores had not yet opened to greet them. W
hich meant the streets of Bayfield were virtually empty. Which made it ridiculously easy for me to spot the man I saw at the Lakeside Tavern the previous evening.

  He was sitting on a bench outside the Bayfield Maritime Museum, and since I had switched to shirtsleeves, I could say with confidence that he was now the only man in Bayfield County wearing a sports coat. It was already seventy-three degrees with the weatherman’s promise of another ten later in the day, so I was pretty sure the jacket was meant to hide a gun. That was just a guess, though.

  He buried his face in a tourist newspaper as I walked past. I pretended not to notice him. I didn’t want him to start working harder at conducting his surveillance; I found it far more comforting to know exactly where he was at all times.

  Still, I had to wonder—who the hell was this guy?

  * * *

  The high school girl sitting behind the desk at the Bayfield Chamber of Commerce–slash–Visitor Bureau viewed my presence with alarm. She didn’t even wait until I told her what I wanted before she was on her feet and seeking assistance in the offices behind her. A woman appeared that I had not seen during my previous visit. She was tall and slim, and her brown eyes watched me as if she were afraid she might miss something important if she looked away.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’d like to speak with Zofia McLean.”

  “I’m Zofia.”

  “Zo.” I smiled brightly and offered my hand like we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a while. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m McKenzie.”

  She shook my hand reluctantly. People in Wisconsin were nearly as polite as those living in Minnesota, but not quite.

  “I’m told that you’re the marketing and events manager for Bayfield,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Both Heather Voight and Philip Speegle suggested that I speak to you.”

  “They did?”

  “Is now convenient?”

  “If it doesn’t take too long.”

  “How ’bout outside? It’s such a beautiful day.”

  “I guess that would be all right.”

  I went to the front door and held it open for her. She stepped past cautiously. I didn’t know what others had told her about me, but it seemed to have made her nervous.

  There was a garden outside the gray and rose-colored building with a bench in the middle of it—there were benches everywhere you looked in Bayfield. I glanced around as we sat yet didn’t see the man in the sports coat, which didn’t mean he couldn’t see me.

  “I want to apologize first of all,” I said. “I certainly didn’t mean to agitate you or your colleagues when I arrived yesterday.”

  “Oh, McKenzie, of course you did.”

  “I’m here to help recover the stolen Stradivarius—”

  “I know. I suppose everyone in Bayfield knows by now.”

  “I have a letter from Paul Duclos.”

  “I know that, too.”

  So much for being nervous, my inner voice said.

  “You seem to think that the theft of the violin is a good thing for Bayfield,” Zofia said. “You are so wrong.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. However”—I held up a finger to emphasize my point—“recovering it could only be to your advantage, am I right?”

  “What is it that you want?”

  “I’m told that you’re the one who invited the Maestro to play in your Concert in the Park series.”

  “Yes—regrettably.”

  “How did that come about?”

  “I contacted the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, and they put me in touch with a man who put me in touch with another man who put me in touch with Duclos.”

  “Yes, but whose idea was it?”

  “Mine.”

  “You knew that Duclos was a Bayfield native?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Are you from Bayfield?”

  “No. I’m originally from Milwaukee. I attended Marquette University. When I graduated, I moved up here and took the assistant’s job that Amy has now. When my boss—the woman who was the city’s marketing director before me—when she moved on I was promoted into her spot. That was three years ago. Since then I’ve often been told that the great Maestro grew up in Bayfield and that I should arrange to have him return for a concert, only he’s a world-class violinist and I have a limited budget.”

  “Who told you?”

  “About Duclos? Heather Voight, for one. The mayor, Lauren Ternes, dozens of people.”

  “Did you know that Heather and Duclos were high school sweethearts?”

  “It’s no secret. There’s a photograph of the two of them in Egg-Ceptional.”

  “Egg-Ceptional?”

  “Egg-Ceptional Breakfast and Bakery. It’s one of Heather’s restaurants. Just up the street. I’m surprised you haven’t been there. It’s probably the most popular spot in Bayfield.”

  “How did the concert come about?”

  “It was the result of pure desperation. Have you ever heard of Big Top Chautauqua?”

  “No.”

  “How do I explain those guys? Big Top Chautauqua is a kind of weekly down-home variety show performed mostly in an eight-hundred-seat circus tent on top of Mount Ashwabay some miles south of here. I say mostly because Big Top also tours. Excerpts of their performances are broadcast across the country in an hour-long radio program called Tent Show Radio, usually on public stations. It’s very popular. They’ve had artists like Johnny Cash, B. B. King, Lyle Lovett, and Willie Nelson sitting in.

  “For our concerts, we try to book a variety of acts—folk, bluegrass, country-western, jazz, whatever—mostly from around the region, mostly lesser-known artists who meet our budget. Sometimes, though, we’re able to lure the better-known artists who come up here to do Big Top Chautauqua. They’re going to be in the area anyway, and if they can fit us into their schedule, some figure why not? They’re entertainers, after all. They like to entertain. We play up the venue, too—the open-air park, the gazebo, the lake. A lot of musicians seem to really like that. One group actually recorded their performance for a live album, although I never did hear what happened about that.

  “Two weeks ago, well, closer to three now, the group that we had scheduled, who was also scheduled to play Big Top, canceled on both of us. Something about a car accident. Big Top had the resources to deal with that; all they needed to do was pick up a phone. Only there was no guarantee that their replacement act would have had the time to play Bayfield, or even that it would want to. So I needed to find someone else who was going to be in the area and who had an empty date on their calendar. That’s when I thought—why not give Duclos a try? I knew he was going to be in Duluth with the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra; WHWA-FM, the local public radio station, had been promoting the concert. I made my calls, and damn if he didn’t agree. For free, even.

  “The people at Big Top were very jealous, but everyone else was excited as can be. And everyone did what I wanted; I hardly needed to ask. The local radio stations, even Real Rock J96, played up the concert. Flyers went up everywhere. Heather agreed to host both a welcome-home dinner and the postconcert reception at Hill House. Connor Rasmussen agreed to put up the Maestro at the Queen Anne on Wednesday and Thursday nights at no charge. I was a hero. Then the Stradivarius was stolen and now I’m not.”

  “What about Geoff Pascoe?”

  “That was the one condition from Duclos. He wanted someone to play piano with him. Someone really good, although he didn’t specify what that meant. I knew Pascoe because he had played for us once before; he had a master’s in music from UMD and played with the Duluth Superior Orchestra. I gave him a call, and he jumped at the chance to accompany the great man. I didn’t learn until later that he actually canceled a job so he could do it. He said he’d perform for free, too, but I gave him a stipend anyway.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “He lives in Superior. Do you want his phone number and address?” />
  “Yes, please.”

  Zofia went into the building. While she was gone I wandered the garden and pretended to look at the flowers while searching for the man in the sports coat. I couldn’t find him. I was surprised by how apprehensive that made me feel. Zofia returned with a square of paper that she thrust into my hand. I think she was anxious to be rid of me. I moved her back to the bench just the same.

  “Did you spend much time with Duclos?” I asked her.

  “I didn’t let him out of my sight from the moment he arrived. I escorted him to and from the Queen Anne, to the dinner, sight-seeing around Bayfield the next day, to the park for rehearsals, to the reception. I did everything but tuck him in at night, and I might have done that, too, if he had asked.”

  My, my, my, my inner voice chanted.

  “Are you telling me he was never alone?” I asked aloud.

  “Not before the concert, anyway. After the reception, he said he was going to bed early, and when I offered to drive him to the Queen Anne he told me to stay and enjoy myself, and, yeah, I wasn’t there when he went for his walk the next morning, either. I should have been. People say I should have been.”

  “That’s because they’re looking for someone to blame. It isn’t you, Zofia. From what I’ve heard, you were fabulous.”

  “That might not help. My contract comes up for renewal at the end of summer.”

  “Who did Duclos see while he was here?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Ev-er-ry-bod-y. The mayor shook his hand, the common council members, most of the chamber; old friends from when he used to live here; neighbors who knew his family before they moved away—I never saw so many selfies being taken in my life. I thought the Maestro would get annoyed after a while, but if he did, he didn’t show it. He was lovely to everyone he met.”

  “Was he more lovely to anyone in particular?”

  “You mean besides Heather? I don’t think he was ever more than a dozen feet away from her either at the welcome-home dinner or the postconcert reception the next evening. I told you about the prom picture—it must have been a helluva night, because it’s almost forty-five years later and they were still all touchy-feely. My date to prom, I hope he falls off a mountain.”