“You’re crazy.”
“There’s a town in Minnesota called Northfield. Every September thousands of people flock there to celebrate the day Jesse James tried to rob the place.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Sure it is. All your story needs is a happy ending.”
“What kind of happy ending?”
“How ’bout the violin is recovered intact and restored to Paul Duclos, who promptly returns to his hometown to play a benefit concert? Do you think that might polish Bayfield’s apple?”
Lauren’s expressive face held no secrets. I knew what she was going to say before she said it.
“That would certainly help, but I don’t know what I can do about it,” she said.
“Just spread the word.”
“The word? You think whoever stole the violin lives in Bayfield?”
“Not necessarily.”
“You think he’ll sell it back for the reward money?”
“It’s been done before.”
Lauren stared at me some more.
“Get out,” she said.
I knew she was going to say that, too.
* * *
I made two more stops along the avenue. The owner of an antique store seemed to be a fan of detective fiction and had a lot of questions to ask. The manager of the place that sold scented candles and potpourri ordered me to leave thirty seconds after I opened my mouth. Oh well.
Once outside, I scanned my list for another prominent citizen to annoy. The chamber’s treasurer lived on Madeline Island, and I thought a twenty-minute ferry ride might be fun. On the other hand, the name just below his owned a joint called the Lakeside Tavern that was three minutes away if I walked slowly.
I found a seat at a small sidewalk table just as the place began to fill for happy hour. I ordered a half-price South Shore Pale Ale, a beer brewed in Ashland just down the road that I had never seen in the Cities, and an order of fried onion rings. The young woman who served them was pleasant and talkative. She and her roommates were students at the University of Wisconsin–Madison working summer jobs in Bayfield to help pay their tuition, although she figured to have at least forty thousand dollars’ worth of outstanding student loans by the time she graduated. I asked her what she thought about the theft of the Countess Borromeo.
“I was there,” she said. “Not there when the violin was stolen, I mean is that crazy or what? I was at the concert, though. Duclos played Vivaldi’s Concerto no. 2 in G Minor. You know, ‘Summer,’ from The Four Seasons, which is like the greatest violin piece of all time. So cool.”
I suggested that a smart girl, working in a bar, might hear things.
She said I’d be surprised.
“What have you heard?” I asked.
“About the theft? I don’t know. Some people think Connor Rasmussen, the guy who owns the Queen Anne, some people think he did it, but I don’t believe them. I met Connor, and he seems like a real nice guy, and besides, you don’t steal stuff from people in your own house. That’s just crazy. Some other people, they think it was international criminals, you know? But that seems silly, too.”
“What do you think?”
“I saw this movie once, an old black-and-white, I don’t know who was in it, where the bad guys were like following around the victim for like days before they struck. I think that’s what happened. Someone was following the Maestro around waiting for the chance to steal his violin, and then he comes up here and like wham, there you go.”
“As good a theory as any. Listen, is Philip Speegle here?”
“I just saw him behind the bar.”
“Would you ask, if he has a moment, if I might speak to him?”
“Sure. Should I tell him…”
“My name is McKenzie.”
“Okeydoke.”
Despite its name, the Lakeside Tavern wasn’t actually located on Lake Superior. Instead, it was two blocks up the hill. Yet from where I was on the sidewalk, I was able to see straight down the avenue to where the lake slapped against the breakers. The ferry was making its return run from Madeline Island with boats of all shapes and kinds bobbing around it. On shore, tourists flitted from shop to shop and restaurant to restaurant; the colors of their summer attire gave the place a festive atmosphere. Bicyclists pedaled up, down, and around with only a casual regard for the existing traffic laws, and, unlike where I came from, the drivers who shared the streets with them didn’t seem to mind at all. It was all very nice; yet I knew from experience that after three days, the place would bore me out of my mind.
I had nearly finished the South Shore, thinking there must be something wrong with me to prefer the noise, crowds, and pollution of the big city, when Speegle appeared at the table.
“Mr. McKenzie,” he said. “Is there something I can do for you?”
He was a pleasant-looking fellow—everything in Bayfield seemed pleasant—with the physique of a man who was starting to wonder if all the exercise he had done over the years had been worth it.
“Mr. Speegle,” I said, “I was sent here by Paul Duclos.”
“The pompous, self-important jerk who left a four-million-dollar violin lying around like it was a coupon for fifty cents off at the grocery store? That Paul Duclos?”
Whoa, my inner voice said.
“Wow,” I said aloud.
“Let me guess—you think he walks on fucking water, too.”
“I only met him yesterday.”
“Yeah?”
“I think he’s a guy who desperately wants to get his Stradivarius back.”
“Isn’t that the way? Man treats his property like crap until he loses it and then suddenly it’s the most important thing in his life. What do you expect me to do about it?”
I decided Speegle was a man I wanted on my side—at least for now.
“You, sir,” I said, “are a breath of fresh air because you’re right, everyone I’ve spoken to does think Duclos walks on water. Truth is, he was careless as hell; one of those guys who thinks he can wander through life without anything bad ever happening to him.”
“The people who come into my place, my customers, most of them are having a good time; they’re on vacation, right? Around closing time, though, you start hearing stories about how shitty their lives are back home, and the reason—because they fucked up. Oh, they’ll tell you it’s because of this or that or the other thing. I am so tired of people blaming their problems on the fucking economy or the president or the Democrats or the Republicans or the Jews or the Muslims or whomever else they’re pissed off at. In the end, people are their own worst enemies.”
“Sir, let me buy you a beer.”
“You know what, let me buy you one.”
Speegle caught the attention of the waitress, pointed at my pale ale, and held up two fingers. He sat across from me at the small table, cutting off my view of the lake. A few moments later, the waitress set a bottle of South Shore in front of each of us. She left without speaking a word.
“I gather you’re not a tourist,” Speegle said.
“Not this trip, although, I’ve been here before. I like it.”
“Yeah, Bayfield’s a nice town. Good neighbors for the most part. It’s like any place you’ve ever been, though; people have issues, most of them centered on money. Getting money, spending money, keeping what they can.”
“The way of the world.”
“Tell me—McKenzie, right? What exactly did that violin-playing fool hire you to do?”
I nearly told Speegle that I had volunteered; yet I decided it would be better to let him think I was just a working stiff.
“He wants me to get his Stradivarius back,” I said.
“How?”
“With money.”
“How much money?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“That’s not much considering what the damn thing is worth.”
“Depends on how you look at it. The thieves can’t sell it on the ope
n market, and the insurance company refuses to buy it back. This is the only offer on the table.”
“If I was the thief, I’d be long gone by now.”
“I bet they’re paying attention, though.”
“We should never have brought that asshole back to town.”
“The Maestro isn’t Bayfield’s favorite son?”
Speegle snorted at the idea.
“I grew up with the little prick,” he said. “I went to school with him. Even when he was a kid he thought his shit didn’t stink. He went away and became a big success. Whoop-de-do. A lot of us stayed home, and we became successes, too.” Speegle waved at his bar. “Just no one applauding us in some fancy concert hall, is all. You gotta ask, too—how much of that success is because he married a boatload of money?”
“Whose idea was it to ask Duclos to play the concert?”
“That’s a good question. I have no idea. Could have been Heather Voight. She and Duclos were an item back in the day. King and queen of the prom. You know how it is, though. He leaves, she stays; he becomes famous, she marries the local schnook—typical small-town cliché. It’s not like she spent all her time pining for him, though. Heather owns half of Bayfield. If it wasn’t her who called that asshole—you should ask the girl who plans our events at the visitors’ bureau. She would know.”
“I’ve already made myself unpopular down at the visitors’ bureau and over at the Queen Anne. I all but accused Lauren Ternes of helping to plan the burglary.”
“That dyke?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just trying to get the word out that I’m willing to make a deal for the violin.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. News travels pretty fast in this town.”
Speegle stood. He called, “Ellis,” and the young woman who had served us earlier spun away from the table she was bussing to look at him. He pointed at our table.
“I got this,” he said.
“Thank you for the beer,” I said.
“Come back later tonight and I’ll buy you another one. We’ve got some kids going onstage who think they can play the blues.”
“I’ll be here.”
* * *
Speegle moved back inside the tavern. I was about to leave myself when a dark blue police cruiser with the name BAYFIELD stenciled on the door pulled up; the front high-grade push bumper was about five yards away from where I sat on the sidewalk. The car was parked illegally. The driver stepped out. He was an older man and bigger than I was, wearing a police uniform and sunglasses. He stepped around the cruiser. Tourists strolling the sidewalk gave him plenty of room; those sitting at tables like mine watched while pretending not to.
Speegle was right, my inner voice said. News does travel fast here.
“You’re McKenzie,” the police office said.
It wasn’t a question, yet I answered anyway.
“I am,” I said.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“We’re going to the hall. Now get up.”
“No.”
My eyes followed his hand as it slowly moved to the butt of his holstered Glock.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I said no.”
My response seemed to catch him by surprise. The officer whipped off his sunglasses with a dramatic flourish and took a step toward me. He pointed his glasses at my face, his other hand still resting on the Glock.
“We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way,” he said.
He was close enough now that I could read the name tag over his left pocket.
“Chief Neville,” I said. “Am I under arrest?”
“I should arrest you.”
“I didn’t ask what you should do.”
“No, you’re not under arrest.”
“Good, cuz if I was under arrest, I’d lawyer up and not speak to you at all. On the other hand, if you were to remove your hand from your gun and sit down, we could have a friendly conversation about any damn thing that you want. What do you say?” I gestured at the chair across from me. “Sit. Relax. Can I get you anything?”
The chief put his sunglasses back on and reluctantly pulled out a chair. I raised my hand and waved at the waitress, who had been watching the scene intently. She hurried over.
“Chief,” she said.
“Iced tea,” he said. “Thank you, Ellis.”
Ellis, my inner voice repeated. Another small town where everyone knows everybody. That could be useful.
Ellis glanced at me, and I pointed at the empty South Shore bottle.
“One more,” I said.
She hurried away.
“So, Chief Neville,” I said. “What would you like to talk about? The weather? It’s just perfect.”
“The reason you’re in Bayfield.”
“What have you heard?”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“Honestly, sir, I am not.”
“You’re here to buy stolen property, specifically, the Countess Borromeo. You’re willing to pay a quarter of a mil for her.”
I was thinking about G. K. Bonalay’s warning, the one about lying to the police, when I answered.
“I have been spreading that rumor, it’s true,” I said. “However, it could be mere subterfuge, a lie spoken to draw out the thieves and see that swift and merciless justice is meted out. Who knows?”
The chief chuckled at that.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. “You’ve done this before.”
Ellis returned with our drinks. We both thanked her by name, and she moved away.
“Sir, I mean to cause you and your department the barest minimum of inconvenience,” I said.
“I like the ‘sir.’”
“And I apologize for flouting your authority in public, only I wanted to talk to you as much as you want to talk to me, and I don’t think we could do that at the hall.”
“Why not?”
“Too official. Too much public record. I used to be a police officer myself, in St. Paul, Minnesota.”
“I did twenty years in Houghton, Michigan, before coming here to do eight more.”
“So, we understand each other.”
“I was hired to serve and protect the citizens of Bayfield. You’re not from Bayfield. Do you understand that?”
“I do. Just out of curiosity”—I glanced at my watch; I had been in Bayfield for just over three hours—“who told you I was here?”
“You’re staying at the Queen Anne, am I right?”
Good answer, my inner voice said. A cop’s answer, giving me information without giving it.
“I am at the Queen Anne,” I said aloud.
“Is that where you’re keeping the $250,000?”
“Only a moron would carry around that kind of cash.”
“You can get it in a hurry, though, isn’t that the correct answer?”
“Tell me, Chief. Of the five hundred and thirty people living in Bayfield, who do you think was the most likely to steal the Stradivarius?”
He took a long sip of his iced tea before he answered.
“These violins have been stolen before from dressing rooms and apartments; a café outside a train station in London that I read about…”
“Or B&Bs,” I added.
“Usually it was done quietly. The thieves—and the owners—always wanted to create as little noise as possible, which would make recovery that much easier. Yet this particular theft created nothing but noise that got louder and louder. There’s also the issue of who would buy a four-million-dollar Stradivarius after it was stolen. No dealer in the world would touch it. The FBI’s art crime guys told me that a collector might want it even if he could never show it to anyone. But all the collectors I know—and I don’t care what it is that they’re collecting, cars, comic books, autographs, whatever—they live to show off their stuff.”
“What’s your theory?”
“You can’t discount the nitwit factor.”
&nbs
p; Another cop answer. He’s telling you that the crime was either unplanned or planned by amateurs.
“I have copies of reports,” I said. “The FBI’s; yours, too.”
“Is that right?”
“They tell me that the violin was removed from its case and the case was dumped in the street.”
“The case had a GPS tracker.”
“Which makes me think the thief wasn’t a complete nitwit.”
The chief took another pull of his tea; nothing in his expression or demeanor gave away what he was thinking.
“Where exactly was the violin case found?” I asked.
“Didn’t the reports say?”
I pulled the map from my pocket and unfolded it. I was going to search for the location noted in his police report, yet before I could, the chief reached across the table and tapped a spot on the map—the intersection of Eleventh Street and Wilson Avenue.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re not carrying a gun in my town, are you, McKenzie?”
“I’m not licensed to carry in Wisconsin.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“No, I am not carrying a gun in Bayfield.”
“Keep it that way.”
The chief stood and stretched; a lot of the tourists standing on the sidewalk and sitting at the tables watched him do it.
“If you’re looking for a good restaurant, I recommend Hill House,” he said. “I know the owner; a woman named Heather Voight. Say hi for me.”
“I will.”
“We’ll talk again real soon; shoot the shit like old pals. You can tell me what you think of my city after you’ve had a chance to look around a bit, meet a few citizens.”
“Sure.”
I watched as the chief climbed into his cruiser and drove away, leaving me to ask myself—did he really just invite me to investigate the theft of the Countess Borromeo and report back to him?
Why would he do that?
* * *
I paid for the pale ale and iced tea in cash, leaving Ellis an obscenely generous tip. Using the map for directions, I made my way south through the city. Most of the restaurants and galleries were in the center of downtown, so it didn’t take long to escape the tourists. Soon I found myself alone on Manypenny. I walked up the steep hill across Highway 13 into the heart of Bayfield’s residential area, past the Lutheran church to Eleventh Street, and then east to Wilson Avenue. I stood in the middle of the T-intersection. There were a few small houses nearby and one mansion large enough to have a carriage house on its property.
Stealing the Countess Page 5
