“Why here?” I asked myself aloud.
It seemed like such an unlikely spot. Taking Highway 13 east or west was the quickest way to get out of Bayfield by car. Or the thieves could have escaped by boat across Lake Superior. There were many places to ditch the violin case along both possible routes. Yet the intersection was several blocks from the highway, a mile from the lake, and maybe twice as far from the Queen Anne.
“So why dump the violin case here?”
Maybe the neighbors would know, I told myself.
* * *
I recorded the addresses of all the houses in the immediate vicinity into my notebook and began hiking back toward the B&B. The quickest way to reach it was to walk down the hill and cut through Bayfield’s downtown, and soon I was approaching the Lakeside Tavern again. That’s when I noticed a second man dressed in a police uniform. This one was younger, not more than twenty-five. He was standing among the sidewalk tables and talking to Ellis. She shrugged her shoulders at whatever he had to say and moved past him in a hurry as if she wanted to put as much distance between her and the officer as possible. He barked words at her. She spun around abruptly to face him. Tourists sitting at nearby tables looked up. He said something, and they quickly averted their eyes. He spoke to Ellis. She shook her head and waved her arms, then noticed me watching the scene from up the street. She pointed. The officer followed her finger to where I was standing. He stared at me. I folded my arms over my chest and stared back. He moved in my direction. Ellis stepped in close and said something. He shoved her away.
The officer walked toward me with the swagger of a D-I college football player; big man on campus taking up much of the sidewalk, forcing tourists to walk around him instead of giving up space for them to pass. He tried to appear menacing as he approached; think Lee Van Cleef in all those spaghetti Westerns that you’ve seen late night on TCM.
“You’re McKenzie,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
My eyes found his name tag—Brian Pilhofer. I recognized it instantly.
“You’re the guy who thought a four-million-dollar Stradivarius was a fiddle,” I said.
“Who told you that?”
“The Federal Bureau of Investigation”—which wasn’t true, but still … “You’re also the guy who’s going around calling Connor Rasmussen a thief, which leaves you, the police department, and the City of Bayfield open to a lawsuit that you would almost certainly lose.”
“Wait a minute.”
“I already met Chief Neville, so I’m going to guess that you’re the bad cop. What do you want?”
“The missing Stradivarius…”
“What about it?”
“You’re looking for it.”
“Yes, I am. Aren’t you?”
Pilhofer obviously enjoyed the authority his badge gave him, yet he used it poorly. He expected people to back down when he spoke, and when I didn’t he took it as a personal affront. He leaned in, purposely violating my personal space in an effort to make me feel uncomfortable.
“I want you to get the fuck outta my town,” he said.
“You realize that people are watching, right? That they can see and hear you threatening an innocent tourist, right?”
Pilhofer backed away immediately. He began turning his head this way and that. There were people watching, not many, but enough. He seemed surprised. I didn’t know why. A uniformed police officer confronting a man on the sidewalk, the world the way it is these days, you might be tempted to pay attention yourself.
“Why do you want me to leave town, Officer?” I asked. “How am I a threat to you?”
“You, McKenzie—I know you’re here to buy stolen property. That’s against the law.”
“So I have been told. But that’s not why you want to get rid of me—I just spoke with Chief Neville, like I said. No, this is something personal. What is it? The money?”
“What money?”
“If it’s about the reward—if you want me to leave so you can recover the violin on your own and collect the $250,000, I’m fine with that. Believe me.”
“I don’t care about the damn reward.”
“Then what’s your motivation? Why are you threatening me on a street corner less than an hour after your boss told me to have a nice day?”
“He doesn’t know anything about being a good cop.”
“He has twenty-eight years. What do you have? A week?”
“I’m warning you, McKenzie.”
“Warn away. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re interfering with an ongoing police investigation.”
“Then you should slap the cuffs on me.”
“What?”
“I’m either guilty of obstruction of justice or you’re guilty of police harassment.”
“Next time I see you, I will arrest you. I bet you’ll resist, too. In fact, I can guarantee it.”
“Then I’m free to go about my business?”
Pilhofer didn’t say if I was or wasn’t.
“Does Chief Neville know what a lousy cop you are?” I asked. “Maybe I should tell him.”
It was a foolish thing to do, I know, calling him out like that. Pilhofer could have been a decent cop for all I know, just a little too full of himself—I was accused of the same thing when I started out. Now he was going to react in one of two ways. He was either going to leave me alone, or he was going to make it his mission in life to mess me up.
Philip Speegle was right, I decided—we’re our own worst enemies.
FIVE
I found four couples in the parlor, along with Connor Rasmussen, when I returned to the Queen Anne. They were drinking wine from long-stem glasses made of crystal that matched the decanters on the sideboard. Connor called to me.
“Everyone,” he said, “here’s McKenzie, another of our guests.”
Connor beckoned me into the parlor, poured me a glass of wine, and proceeded to introduce the others. One couple was in their sixties, another in their fifties. The other two were in their early twenties and seemed to know one another.
“What do you do, Mr. McKenzie?” asked the fifty-something woman, whose name I had already forgotten.
I’ve never liked the question because I don’t have a ready reply. How should I answer? Unlicensed private investigator? Self-employed do-gooder? Easily bored jazz-loving baseball fan? Rich dick?
“I suppose you could call me a freelance troubleshooter,” I said.
“Mr. McKenzie is here to help catch the thieves who stole the Stradivarius violin,” Connor said.
The remark surprised the hell out of me; I had thought the man was trying to downplay any news of the theft.
“That is so exciting,” said one of the younger women. “Chasing a cat burglar. I can imagine him climbing through a bedroom window, the burglar I mean, all dressed in black, and stealing a famous diamond while we sleep. It gives me shivers.”
Her boyfriend grinned as if he also wanted to give her shivers; the fifty-something woman looked like she wanted to slap her upside the head.
“I don’t think there’s anything exciting about a robbery,” she said.
“Actually, the young lady is correct,” I said. “It was a burglary. They call it a robbery when someone steals using force or intimidation; you need to be present for that. A burglary occurs when someone gains entry to a house or business, or a garage, and steals without you being aware of it.”
Now the woman looked like I was the one she wanted to slap. Her husband, though, began telling a story about how his daughter and son-in-law were not only robbed in their sleep, they weren’t even made aware of it until the police knocked on their door and told them. This launched the youngsters into a series of stories of their own. It seemed everyone had been a victim of a crime or knew personally someone who was; such is the world we live in. The couple in their sixties, however, didn’t speak a word. They remained planted on a love seat and held hands while they sipped their wine. Their expression suggested to me th
at they were waiting for a lull in the conversation so they could excuse themselves and sneak upstairs.
Good for them, my inner voice said.
“How are you going to catch the cat burglar?” the young woman asked me.
“Alice,” her boyfriend said.
“I’m just asking.”
“I’m going to use bait,” I said.
“A woman?” Alice was acting all giggly now, as if this was the first time she had been on vacation without Mom or Dad. “She has a famous diamond and she’s going to keep it on her nightstand and when the burglar sneaks in late at night to steal it, you’re going to leap out of the closet and catch him. Or her. Maybe the cat burglar is a woman. Has anyone thought of that?”
I glanced at the couple on the love seat. They couldn’t believe Alice had said that, either.
“No,” I said. “No diamonds. All I have is cash. And no woman. Sorry.”
“You’re going to catch him when he tries to steal the money,” Alice said.
“Something like that.”
“Can I help?” Alice waved at her friends. “Can we help?”
“It might be dangerous.”
“It sounds like so much fun.”
“I’ll let you know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”
The fifty-something woman spoke in the most derisive voice she could manage.
“Burglar-catching work?” she asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” I said.
I set my empty wineglass on the sideboard and drifted toward the doorway. That was enough to launch the other guests toward their evening activities as well. “Good nights” were exchanged, and a couple “see you at breakfasts.” The sixty-something couple brushed past me and climbed the wooden staircase in a hurry. I managed to catch Connor’s attention.
“I thought you wanted to keep it quiet, the theft of the Countess Borromeo,” I said.
“I’m not going to promote it, but if someone brings it up—you can’t hide from the truth, can you? Besides, I’m starting to wonder if it might not turn out to be good for business after all. There are some B&Bs that hold mystery nights during which customers try to solve murders. There are some that advertise that they’re haunted.”
“Well,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. “Well.”
* * *
I returned to the Peacock Chamber and fired up my PC. The Queen Anne provided free Wi-Fi, and I used it to access the Bayfield County Web site. I found a link for property tax information and one by one typed in the addresses of all the homes in the immediate vicinity of Eleventh Street and Wilson Avenue that I had listed in my notebook. A list of parcels popped up with the names of their owners. Only one stood out—Herb and Heather Voight. Immediately, all manner of theories concerning the missing Stradivarius began ricocheting inside my head that had not been there before.
I glanced at my watch. The fried onion rings had taken the edge off my appetite, yet I decided I would take Chief Neville’s advice and have dinner at the Hill House after all.
* * *
The restaurant was located on the far side of Bayfield, but I didn’t even consider taking the Mustang. I hadn’t jogged that morning, and I felt all the walking I was getting in was making up for it. Besides, I had already consumed three beers and a glass of wine with the promise of even more alcohol, and Chief Neville struck me as a guy who would just love to write up a DUI. It would probably make Officer Pilhofer’s week.
Even though the art galleries, antique stores, and boutiques were closed, there was still plenty of foot traffic. Some of it was heading in the same direction as I was, to Manypenny and Fourth Street. There was a small line waiting outside Hill House, yet it moved quickly. When my turn came, I requested a table for one. The hostess asked if I would mind eating in the bar.
“Not at all,” I told her.
The menu offered a typical tourist-town mix—plenty of whitefish from the lake, pasta, burgers, and pizza. I ordered something called Poop Deck Charlie’s Garlic Chicken Penne and a glass of wine recommended by the bartender, Ravishing Red from Bayfield’s own All Sisters’ Winery. They were both very good.
While I was eating, I asked the bartender if Heather Voight was available. He said he’d check. A few moments later, I heard a voice behind me.
“Mr. McKenzie,” it said. “I was wondering when you’d get around to me.” I spun on my stool. “My, but you’ve been making an awful nuisance of yourself.”
I knew the woman was old enough to have been in the same high school class as the Maestro, yet she didn’t look it. Everything about her appearance—from her well-kept hair and trim figure to her fashionable clothes and knowing smile—made me feel both old and shabby.
“Ms. Voight,” I said.
“Mrs. I’m an old-fashioned girl. You’re welcome to call me Heather, if you like.”
“Your food is very good.”
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I’ve eaten in tourist towns before. I’m sure you have, too.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment, then, and not just sucking up.” She gestured at the empty bar stool next to mine. “May I?”
“Please.”
Heather sat as if she practiced it the way Steve McQueen practiced getting out of his car when making the movie Bullitt—so she’d look cool.
“Mr. McKenzie, did you come here to accuse me of nefarious deeds like you did Lauren?” she asked.
“Just McKenzie. I hear ‘Mr.’ and I turn around to see if my father is standing there.”
I had hoped to elicit a smile, and I received one, only it reminded me of someone’s aunt amused by a child’s attempt at telling a joke and not the joke itself.
Heather didn’t speak, so I did.
“I work for Paul Duclos,” I said.
To prove it, I pulled his letter from my inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. Most people, if you gave them such a document, they would merely glance at it. Heather read every word before handing it back.
“I know Paul is quite anxious about recovering the Countess,” she said. “I know he was quite disappointed when his wife refused to pay the ransom for her safe return.”
“Have you been in contact with him?”
“We have spoken twice since the theft. He didn’t mention you.”
“You could say that I’m a new development in the case.”
“Is Renée aware of what you are attempting to accomplish?”
“Ms. Peyroux is aware, although she does not approve.”
“I do not understand her position, do you?”
“Yes. If more victims behaved as she did, there would be far fewer violins stolen, I think.”
“Perhaps. However, I would expect a woman to take her husband’s side no matter what. If I were married to Paul, I would take his side no matter what. Renée wouldn’t even take his name.”
“You grew up with Duclos. Philip Speegle told me that you two were king and queen of the prom.”
“It was a small prom.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“If you’re asking if Paul and I still have a relationship, the answer is yes. We’ve exchanged Christmas cards. I had dinner with him when he performed at Symphony Center in Chicago a couple of years ago. He surprised me by attending the grand opening of a restaurant I opened in Red Cliff last year. If you’re asking if our relationship has extended beyond that, the answer is no. To suggest otherwise would be base gossip.”
“Understood.”
“Did Philip suggest otherwise?”
“No.”
“Philip and I don’t always get along.”
“Is that because you own half the town?”
“I own only three restaurants, an art gallery, and a motel out on Highway 13. Oh, and a full-service gas station.”
“So just a third of the town, then.”
Heather flung back her head and laughed out loud.
“No, probably not quite that m
uch, either,” she said. “I’ve done well, though. Not only here, but in Washburn and Red Cliff, too.”
“Has your husband helped?”
Heather’s smile softened with her answer.
“No. Herb likes playing with his boats.”
I wanted to ask more about her marriage, yet decided a different time and place would be more appropriate.
“Who thought to invite the Maestro to play in Bayfield?” I asked instead. “Was it you?”
“No, although I was very pleased when he accepted. Ask Zo, our marketing and events planning guru. I believe the idea originated with her. I could be mistaken, however. Why? Is it important?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Is it your intention to merely buy back the Countess Borromeo for Paul or are you also hoping to punish the thieves?”
“The violin comes first.”
“So you’re willing to reward the thieves for stealing the Stradivarius—the very thing Renée is loath to do.”
“I tend to deal with the world as I find it, not as I wish it were.”
“That’s an exceedingly practical attitude.”
“Look up the word in the dictionary and you’ll find my photo next to it.”
“What kind of woman is she?”
“Who? Ms. Peyroux? I spoke to her only for a few moments.”
“What is your impression?”
“Button-down, I think.”
“Does she strike you as someone who likes to have fun?”
“Define fun.”
“What would she give up for love?”
“Nothing. She would want it all.”
Heather grew quiet; her eyes focused on something on the wall that I couldn’t see.
“Why are you here, McKenzie?” she asked.
“I thought the letter made it clear.”
“No, why are you here speaking to me?”
“I’m looking for help.”
Stealing the Countess Page 6
