“Looks like That Wykoff Woman has gotten another fifteen minutes of fame.” Peg spoke to me in the same upbeat manner that I was used to. “Everyone’s talking about her. We had five of her paintings at the gallery. All of them were sold in the past two days.”
“Even the one with the blacksmith?”
“That went first. Eight thousand dollars.”
“I thought it was priced at thirty-five hundred.”
“Leah is a smart woman. You weren’t thinking of buying it, were you?”
“It had crossed my mind.”
“McKenzie, Grand Marais has a very active art colony; you can trace it back to 1947 for God’s sake. Those other artists, they’re all better than Wykoff is.”
“Really?”
“Well, maybe not all of them.”
The microwave’s timer went off. Peg removed the tea balls and set the cups and saucers in nearly the exact center of each of the placemats.
“Cream, sugar, lemon, honey, biscuits?” she asked.
“I’m good.”
“Atta boy. I’ve had Louise over once. She drinks her tea in the so-called English fashion, loading it up with sugar and cream. Might as well have a milkshake. I should be angry with you. You told me that it was Louise’s paintings that had been stolen from her place, but they were really painted by Randolph McInnis, weren’t they?”
“I apologize for that. We thought they would be easier to recover if we kept the theft a secret.”
“Now everyone knows. They’re even offering rewards.”
“’Fraid so.”
“What does all this have to do with David Montgomery killing himself?”
“Probably nothing.”
“Or probably—everything? Rumor has it David stole the paintings from Louise and was killed by someone who stole the paintings from him.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Here and there. That’s only one of the rumors, though. My favorite—David was killed by an organized crime ring because he had muscled in on their territory by robbing Louise and that these were the same guys who beat you up on the beach across the highway from the Frontier Motel when you got too close to identifying them.”
“I like that one, too, except I have no idea who those guys were or why they attacked me.”
Peg brushed her fingers along my jawline.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” she said.
“You should have seen it Monday morning.”
“McKenzie, why are you doing this? Why are you even in Grand Marais?”
“I told you. A friend asked me to help find the paintings that were stolen from Louise.”
“If you found them, you would go home?”
“Probably.”
“What about David?”
“I’d like to do something for him, but that’s not my job.”
“Another rumor—some people think Montgomery really did commit suicide and that it had nothing to do with those damn paintings.”
“Some people might be right.”
“I wish I could help you.”
“You did.” I pointed at my now empty cup. “Thank you for the tea.”
I made ready to leave.
“McKenzie, you will be careful, won’t you? If David didn’t take his own life and those men on the beach—there’re dangerous people out there.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“I know you don’t like me, but…”
“I never said that, Peg. I said I was in a committed relationship with someone else.”
She gave me a few beats. There was a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth that she was trying hard to keep to herself.
“Get out of here, McKenzie,” Peg said. “Before I start unbuttoning more buttons.”
* * *
After leaving Peg Younghans, I drove to the Law Enforcement Center on Gunflint Trail. The admin I knew as Eileen greeted me. She was smiling, as usual.
“A week ago, no one around here had even heard of you,” she said. “Now you’re all we talk about.”
“Me?”
“It’s those paintings. They’re all over the news. Grand Marais has been receiving more publicity than since forever. Folks over at the Art Colony are going crazy over the sudden interest.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Whose fault is it?” Sheriff Bowland asked. He was standing just outside his door and dressed as if he was expecting to have his photograph taken. The expression on his face reminded me of the vice principal at my high school, the one who was in charge of discipline.
“Start with Montgomery,” I said. “Start with whoever shot him.”
Bowland waved me over and I moved toward his office.
“Can I get you anything?” Eileen said to me. “Coffee?”
“He won’t be here that long,” the sheriff said.
Eileen seemed genuinely disappointed.
“I like her,” I said.
“She takes good care of us. Have a seat.”
Bowland circled his desk and sat down himself. He didn’t close the office door. Unlike Lieutenant Rask, he had no secrets.
“What are you doing here, McKenzie?” the sheriff asked.
“Simple courtesy. Let you know I was back in your county.”
“I thought you might be trying to find out what we’ve been up to since you left.”
“What have you been doing?”
“The BCA tracked Montgomery’s movements and cell phone calls for the past year. He was involved with several women during that period; you’ve met most of them. They all knew what kind of man he was. None of them seemed to care. Nor could we identify any outraged husbands or jealous boyfriends.
“As for the burglaries, Eileen and I spent the last couple days working on it. We were able to connect him to six incidents in the past year. Six out of thirty-one. Nineteen percent. He’s done a lot of handyman work for a lot of people over the years, yet that number seems too high to be a coincidence. On the other hand, Montgomery worked for only some of the vics this year. The others, not for as long as two to three years.
“You know how hard it is to close a burglary, McKenzie. It’s rare to catch a suspect in the act. If a neighbor doesn’t notice suspicious behavior and write down a license plate number, if the suspect doesn’t set off a security alarm or is caught on CCTV or drop a cell phone in the backyard … I’ve tried following the money. No one has used a stolen credit card; no one has attempted to cash a stolen check; no one has tried to unload stolen property in any pawn shop that I can find in Cook County, or Duluth, or Grand Rapids for that matter. I’ve even tried to match stolen items on eBay and Craigslist. Nothing.”
“Very professional,” I said.
“Or gifted amateurs who carefully follow the instructions they find on the internet. Google ‘how burglars work’ and you’ll get a goddamned tutorial.”
“Montgomery, though, selling Louise Wykoff’s silver tea set and candlesticks to an antiques shop just down the highway…”
“It doesn’t fit the MO, that’s for sure. I mean the thieves usually hit the homes of people they don’t know personally, that don’t have security systems, that are unoccupied between the hours of ten A.M. and three P.M. in locations where they or their vehicles won’t be recognized by a passing bystander … I’ve been working this case, McKenzie, don’t think I haven’t. It might not be a high priority crime in the Cities where you have God knows what else to deal with, but it is here. We’ve apprehended a few suspects, more than a few, but mostly they’re drug abusers or dipshits. Not the crew that I think is targeting the county.”
“I once worked a case where the thieves took their goods to stores and flea markets in Iowa,” I said.
“A little bit outside my jurisdiction.”
“How ’bout Canada, hey?”
“Ha-ha.”
“Is it possible for the burglars to smuggle their goods over the border?”
“It wouldn’t be hard to row ac
ross the Pigeon or take a boat to the Canadian side of Superior; bypass the border crossing. Helluva bigger risk than driving to Iowa, that’s for sure. You get caught, Homeland Security would fall on you like the wrath of God almighty. But again, a little bit outside my jurisdiction.”
“If you gave me a list of recently stolen items, I could scoot up to Thunder Bay and take a look around. The pawn shops up there work the same way they do down here, don’t they?”
“If anything, they work even more closely with law enforcement because—Canada.”
“Maybe I can convince a store owner to give me a name,” I said.
“You would do that?”
“Why not? It’s what? Eighty miles from here?”
“Ninety minutes by car.”
“Not the way I drive.”
“Did you bring your passport?”
“Sure.”
“That makes me think you might have thought of this before you walked into my office.”
“Nah. I carry a passport because it makes me feel like a world traveler. Besides, if I can get a line on your burglars, I might also find Wykoff’s paintings.”
“Speaking of which, I’ve seen more cable news in the past four days than I have in five years. It’s like watching one of those syndicated true crime programs unspooling in real time. Dueling rewards. Who does that?”
“Rich people, I guess.”
“I thought you were rich.”
“Merely well-off,” I said. “In any case, I don’t know if it’ll amount to anything, the reward. That’s why I’d like to pursue other options.”
“It certainly has our colleagues with the BCA thinking. Last I heard they’ve been in contact with the big boys down in St. Paul. It might even have gone all the way to the superintendent, whether or not to start arresting people for obstruction and/or receiving stolen property if the paintings should surface. Your name is on top of the list, by the way.”
“Do you know what was decided?”
“Apparently, they’re taking a wait-and-see approach for now.”
“Swell.”
“Did Louise Wykoff return with you?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes.”
“We can place Montgomery’s car outside her house a half-dozen times during the weeks prior to the theft of the paintings. We’ll want to interview her again about that. I don’t know what it’s going to get us, though, even if she does admit to a relationship with him. She’s probably the only person we’re absolutely sure didn’t murder Montgomery—if he was murdered.”
“Has there been an official determination, yet?”
“No. Agent Plakcy says suicide. Agent Krause says homicide.”
“Really? I would have thought it’d be the other way around.”
“In any case, they’re being pressured to make a decision by Friday.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Why not? It’s been five days since Montgomery died and we don’t know anything more than we did when you discovered the body.”
“What do you believe?”
“I’ve never met a coincidence that I trusted. Speaking of which, I can’t help but notice the bruising along your jawline. Did that happen Sunday night?”
“Yeah.”
“Deputy Wurzer told me about it. He also said you think that he’s to blame.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Don’t go around accusing my people of committing crimes unless you can prove that they’re guilty of committing crimes and I mean prove it to hell and back.”
“Fair enough.”
“I mean it, McKenzie. Good manners is how we show respect for one another—seems I heard that somewhere.”
“Something my old man beat into me.”
“I’ll put together the list you want. Most of the stolen items were common goods, you know—electronics. There have been more than a few special items like jewelry, though.”
“Paintings?”
“’Fraid not. I do have some photos, though.”
“I can stop by in the morning before I go to Canada.”
“The list will be waiting for you. If I’m not here, ask Eileen for it. In the meantime, does this courtesy you mentioned earlier include informing me if your art-nappers contact you about the paintings?”
“Another reason I dropped in. I want those paintings, make no mistake. That’s why I came to Grand Marais in the first place. I also want who killed Montgomery. Louise and the others don’t seem to care about that. On the other hand, they didn’t see him lying on the floor with half a head. If I can manage it, I hope for you to be standing there when I take possession of the canvases. If not, I promise I’ll gather as much intel about these guys as I can and turn it over.”
“In that case, enjoy your stay in Cook County.”
* * *
That was twenty minutes ago. Now I was sitting on the terrace at the Gunflint Tavern, nursing an ale from the Castle Danger Brewery, watching the few boats that were still at anchor in the harbor bobbing up and down and willing my burn phone to ring.
“Hi, sweetie.”
I jumped at the words, my hand moving to my right hip.
“I’m sorry,” Jennica Mehren said. “Did I startle you?”
She was aiming a camera the size of a baseball glove at me.
“No, you didn’t startle me,” I said. I was lying, though, and she probably knew it. I couldn’t believe that I had been caught staring out at the harbor and the great lake beyond, daydreaming, not paying attention to what was going on around me. Just like on the beach in front of the Frontier Motel.
When did you become so goddamned careless? my inner voice wanted to know.
I gestured at the camera.
“Would you put that down, please?”
Jennica set it on top of the table, slipped a heavy backpack from her shoulder to the floor, and grabbed a chair without asking.
“How are you, McKenzie?” she asked.
“Are you following me again?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
I didn’t hear Jennica’s answer because I was now on high alert—better late than never—and became distracted by a young man who climbed to the top of the staircase, stared at me for a few beats, and found an empty table across the terrace. He sat and stared for a few beats more. I recognized him immediately—Bruce Flonta’s limo driver, the one who smiled at me across the roof of the Lincoln Town Car. He didn’t look particularly dangerous, but then neither did I.
“McKenzie, are you listening?” Jennica asked.
My hand returned to the SIG Sauer at my hip, spreading my sports jacket back so the young man could see it. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other.
“McKenzie?”
“I want you to stay right here. I don’t want you to move an inch. Do you understand?”
“Why? What … Oh.” Jennica finally saw what I was looking at and started to giggle. “You’re gonna love this.”
“What?”
Jennica gave Flonta’s driver a wave. The driver waved back.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“He’s Mr. Flonta’s representative. His name is Michael Alden.”
“Is Flonta here?”
“No, just us. When we discovered that you were returning to Grand Marais with the Wykoff woman, we decided we should go too, just in case.”
“Who’s we?”
“My father, although he didn’t mean for me to go alone but with someone in our crew. I talked him out of it.” Jennica started laughing. “He’s really not happy about this, only he has to stay with Mr. Flonta.” Jennica laughed some more. “Dad is filming Mr. Flonta, also a few other old friends of Randolph McInnis, also the City of Lakes, which has become McInnis central over the years, the number of his paintings that it exhibits. He’s also trying to film Mary Ann McInnis. She had agreed to an interview earlier, only now she’s vacillating.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“
Anyway, he said I should keep an eye on you since we’re chums.”
“Did he actually use the word ‘chums’?”
“I think it’s a Kansas thing. Mr. Flonta decided to send Michael up here, too, so he can watch over his interests, at least that’s what he said. We, meaning Michael and I, decided to go together. That’s the part Dad was annoyed about. Me and Michael traveling together. You know what else? He told me when Michael and Mr. Flonta weren’t around to hear; he said if I have any trouble—I think he meant Michael and not just trouble in general—he said, if I have any trouble I should stay close to you.”
“Me? I’m supposed to be your babysitter now?”
“I love my father, but honestly…”
“What’s Alden’s story?”
“He graduated from UCLA as coincidence would have it. He has a bachelor’s in economics. He took a contract with Mr. Flonta for thirteen weeks working as a personal assistant while he looks for his dream job. Or at least a position that will help him land his dream job.”
“What would that be?”
“Film finance.”
“Doesn’t anybody in California have a real job?”
“You mean like whatever it is that you do?”
I looked back at Alden and gave him a come-join-us wave. Jennica didn’t laugh, yet she was close to it.
“He’s really nice,” she said.
“He’s too old for you.”
And then she did laugh.
* * *
I didn’t know how nice he was, but Alden was awfully polite; he kept calling me “sir.”
“What exactly were your instructions?” I asked.
“Sir, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“If you don’t, I’ll make you leave the table and you won’t be able to look into Jennica’s eyes every thirty seconds.”
Alden glanced at Jennica’s eyes and abruptly turned away.
“You know, like that,” I said.
Both boy and girl blushed a deep crimson and gazed at everything except each other.
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