“Yes, ma’am.”
“What paintings?”
SIXTEEN
The crown counselor who caught the case was almost gleeful. Apparently, he couldn’t think of anything more fun than offering up three American punks to the general population at Millhaven. It seemed like a maximum security prison is where they were headed, too, because trafficking in stolen property was the least of their problems. Smuggling guns across the border could cost them three to ten years just by itself. Not to mention discharge of a firearm with intent, four to fourteen; use of a firearm in the commission of an offense, one to fourteen; and carrying a concealed weapon, six months to five years. Attempted murder—that had a price tag of five to life in Canada. Since they were foreign nationals living outside the country, it would be unlikely they’d score bail. Parole, if it came to that, would be problematic at best.
The American consulate in Winnipeg was informed that three American citizens had been taken into custody. That wasn’t going to be of much help to the boys, though. Consular officers can’t arrange for the release of anyone or act as an attorney or pay attorney fees. The best they could do was to ensure, as far as possible, that US citizens were given proper treatment under Canadian laws.
I learned all this over the course of the next ten hours while I gave my statement first to the Thunder Bay Police Service, then the Ontario Provincial Police, and finally to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police because someone decided to make a federal case out of it—all this before I even saw the crown counselor. I told a Mountie that I was surprised that some people called them Horsemen. He didn’t like the nickname. He said “We’re called the Force.” Then he glared, almost daring me to say something obnoxious like “May the Force be with you.” I might have, too, if we were in the States.
At some point, Detective Constable Aire Wojtowick contacted Sheriff Bowland, partly to explain what was going on, but mostly to ask him to verify that I had, in fact, come to Thunder Bay at his behest, which he did. Ninety minutes later, Deputy Wurzer arrived armed with a more comprehensive list of items that had been stolen in Cook County. He and a member of the Criminal Investigations Branch traveled to the pawn shops and antiques stores that I had already visited, plus several more. I was told later that they had recovered evidence from seventeen separate burglaries.
Wurzer and I were in the same room for only about thirty seconds, so our conversation was brief.
“I can’t believe the sheriff didn’t let me come up here years ago,” he said.
“I wonder why he didn’t.”
He stared at me. I stared at him. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but the deputy guessed what was on my mind.
“Be careful, McKenzie,” he said. “Be very, very careful.”
I promised myself I would, except—someone told Curtis that I was coming to Canada and only two names came to mind. If Deputy Wurzer didn’t do it …
I was tagged as a material witness, of course, which meant a subpoena would be issued compelling me to give testimony in court. Yet the subpoena could only be executed in Canada. Once I returned home I would be out of reach. The Canadians had to take my word that I would return when asked.
The crown counselor wasn’t happy about it. He was concerned that the defense attorney might roll the dice, taking a chance that I would be a no-show, which would not only provide grounds for a mistrial, but also give him the upper hand in plea bargaining. But what was he going to do? Take me into custody until the court date? Worst-case scenario—it was decided by the court that I would be allowed to give video testimony if it was too difficult for me to return to Thunder Bay.
It didn’t hurt that Aire vouched for my good character. And all this time I thought she didn’t like me. I told her so over a very late dinner.
“I didn’t say that I liked you, McKenzie,” she said. “I said I trusted you.”
I told her that was the same thing. She assured me that it was not. Still, she embraced me on the sidewalk where we said good-bye. It was like being hugged by the most beautiful bear you’ve ever seen.
* * *
The temperature had dropped close to freezing by the time I reached the Pigeon River Border Crossing. I could see the breath of the US Customs and Border Protection agent as he leaned out of his booth.
I rolled down my window.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening.”
I gave him my passport and he examined it.
“Late night,” he said.
“As long as I get home before the sun rises, that’s the main thing.”
That was dumb, my inner voice said. It was proved correct when a second agent appeared out of nowhere and positioned herself behind the Mustang. It seemed to me that her hand was resting awfully close to her gun.
“Open your trunk,” the agent in the booth said. The snap of his voice startled me.
“Of course.”
I pushed the button that released the trunk lid. The agent behind me opened it and peered inside. The trunk was empty, yet she seemed to look for a long time, perhaps searching for a false bottom or secret compartment.
This is what comes from being a smartass, my inner voice reminded me. You don’t joke with border guards. You don’t act rudely or complain or ask questions or debate policy or rant against the government. They can ruin your trip if not your life on a whim. If you’re smart you speak only when you’re spoken to. Are you smart, McKenzie?
At the same time my cell phone started sounding a trumpet solo.
“What is that?” the agent asked.
“The ringtone on my cell.”
“Sounds like Louis Armstrong playing ‘West End Blues.’”
He’s a jazz fan. Lucky you.
“Exactly right,” I said aloud.
“I like it.”
“Thank you.”
Then the burn phone started chirping.
“What’s that?” the agent asked again.
“I have two phones. One for work and one for play. Neither of them had service in Canada. I guess they’re catching up on missed calls.”
He nodded as if he understood completely.
“Are you going to answer them?” he asked.
“They can wait.”
He smirked, a man who knew exactly how much power he had and how to wield it. The other agent shut my trunk lid and shook her head. Her partner returned my passport.
“Welcome home,” he said.
Despite everything, my heart leapt in my chest. It always happened that way. Whenever I returned to my country, even after a short time abroad, someone, usually a custom agent, would say, “Welcome home,” and I would feel so damn happy. Go figure.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later I arrived at the Frontier Motel. It wasn’t until I was safely inside my room that I checked the cells, burn phone first.
I had received four calls. Two had hung up when I didn’t answer. The other two left voicemails. The first said he possessed important information about the paintings, but it would cost me more than $250,000. The second said, “If you want to see those paintings alive, you had better call back pretty damn quick.” I decided both could wait until the morning.
My personal cell phone had two messages. The first was from Nina. I returned her call immediately. She didn’t answer her cell, which told me that she was at the club. I called Rickie’s and eventually tracked her down.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“I went up to Canada where a gang of hardened criminals shot at me.”
“So, Thursday?”
Despite the joke, I knew Nina was concerned. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t tell her these things except I had learned long ago that she would become even more upset when I kept them to myself. So now I tended to edit my close calls. For example, I didn’t tell her that a bullet whizzed past my ear—if in fact a bullet had whizzed past my ear and it wasn’t just my overactive imagination.
“No damage done,” I said. “I m
ight have to return to Thunder Bay for the trial if the boys don’t cop a plea. Maybe we can make a vacation of it. Check out the blues festival if it’s around the same time.”
“You’ll need to give me plenty of advance warning.”
“I know. The club comes first.”
“I wish you wouldn’t take so many chances, McKenzie, because guess what? The club doesn’t come first.”
“It doesn’t?”
“It’s more like a tie.”
“I love you, too.”
“By the way, the reason I called—remember Flonta, the old man who stopped us on the street? He called me.”
“He called you?”
“Called the condo. He wants to talk to you.”
“Did he leave a number?”
“He said you should contact his man in Grand Marais. Michael Alden?”
“More like a kid, but okay. Did he say what it’s about?”
“Not specifically. He did say that despite your rude and unsavory behavior, he was sure that you two could come to an understanding. Personally, I like it when you’re being unsavory.”
“That’s startling talk coming from a nice Catholic girl.”
“I’ve been corrupted, what can I say? McKenzie…” Nina paused for a few beats before she asked, “What do I always tell you?”
“Just as long as I come back in one piece…”
“See you soon.”
* * *
The second call was from Louise Wykoff. She left a voicemail message—Call me no matter what time it is. I’ll be awake.
So I did.
She told me to come to her place.
I told her it was late.
She said she didn’t mind if I didn’t.
I did mind—images of Louise ambushing me in a lavender nightie like Peg Younghans danced in the back of my head. Yet she deserved an update on my so-called investigation. I said I’d be there in twenty minutes.
* * *
Instead of lavender, That Wykoff Woman greeted me in a long-sleeve white cotton gown that covered her body from throat to ankles. It was utilitarian in design; I didn’t know if she slept in it or if it was just something she wore around the house on cold evenings.
She waved me inside as if she was afraid someone would see me standing on her doorstep. On impulse, I glanced behind me. No one was there. I hadn’t actually seen anyone while driving through Grand Marais. Most of the surrounding homes were dark, although there were lights shining through some windows at Peg Younghans’s house across the street.
“I’ve been thinking,” Louise said.
A dangerous thing to do, I thought, but didn’t say.
“What if Dave Montgomery still has the paintings? Oh, I’m sorry. Can I get you something? I’m drinking white wine.”
I would have preferred bourbon, my drink of choice whenever I was confused, yet said, “Wine is fine.”
Louise poured a glass. It tasted sweet. A moscato. She settled on her stool. I found a chair and looked up at her. There was a ceiling light on behind her and it shone through her hair. She seemed beatified, leaving no doubt in my mind why Randolph McInnis had chosen her for his muse so many decades before.
“What if Montgomery still has the paintings?” Louise repeated. “What if he hid them, not in his house or garage, but in a storage unit or a shed in the woods? Something like that? What if he gave them to a friend to hide?”
“That’s entirely possible. We know that the burglars working Cook County don’t have them.”
“We do?”
While I explained, Louise slid off her stool and began pacing the classroom filled with easels and canvases, her bare feet squeaking a little on the hardwood floor.
“They shot at you?” she said. “What is happening?”
“No one was hurt.”
Louise seemed startled by my remark.
“David Montgomery and now this,” she said. “If I had known this would happen I would’ve given up those paintings to Mary Ann thirty-five years ago.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It seems like my fault. McKenzie, what should we do?”
Since Louise was standing, I stood.
“Your idea is a good one,” I said. “Tomorrow morning I’ll ask the sheriff to either look into it or let me do it. In the meantime, the offer of dueling rewards might turn up something. I’ve received several calls that I haven’t had a chance to check on yet. If that doesn’t yield anything—it’s possible that the thief is laying low until the media spotlight is turned on something else. All this could be old news by Monday; such are the times we live in.”
“Bruce Flonta called me today. He told me that he’s also received several calls about the reward. He asked me to identify the paintings for him. In return, he said he’d give me ten percent of what he earns when he sells them.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him he could go—entertain himself. I don’t like to swear, usually.”
“It’s the only language some people understand.”
“He made me so angry, like he was doing me a favor by stealing my paintings. Mary Ann, at least—you can argue that she has a small claim to them. But Flonta? I don’t trust him. He’s a, a…”
“Businessman?”
“He doesn’t love art. That’s probably true of most people, though. Most people, they walk through the City of Lakes Art Museum or the Minneapolis Institute of Art in an hour, just glancing at the pretty pictures on the wall and the sculptures, not stopping to appreciate how much work went into them or what they have to say. Do you appreciate art, McKenzie?”
“Yes, I think I do. At least I’m starting to.”
“I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve been—from the very beginning you’ve been great.”
“Well, hopefully we’ll do what we came here to do.”
A couple of moments later, I set down my empty glass and we moved toward the front door. Louise opened the door and did something unexpected—she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a tight embrace, her head resting between my shoulder and neck.
Wow, my inner voice said. That Wykoff Woman is hugging you.
I hugged her back because it seemed like the thing to do.
After a moment, Louise released me and stepped backward.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” she said.
“No, I liked it.”
“Good night, McKenzie.”
“Good night. I’ll call you tomorrow after I speak to the sheriff.”
Louise closed the door and I walked down her steps, over her lawn, and across the street to my car. All the lights in Peg Younghans’s house had been extinguished by then except for one up high. It went off just as I reached the Mustang.
* * *
Nearly everything in Grand Marais was closed expect the Gunflint Tavern and it wasn’t showing much life. I parked in a slot right outside the front door and went inside looking for something to wash the taste of Louise’s sweet wine out of my mouth. Only a couple of tables were occupied, one of them by Mitchell McInnis and Michael Alden. They waved me over. A waitress arrived at the same time I did.
“Last call,” she said.
“Maker’s Mark on the rocks.”
She left me alone with the boys. I sat down.
“Where’s Jennica?” I asked.
“She decided to make an early night of it,” Mitchell said.
Good for her, my inner voice said.
“We’ve been looking all over for you, McKenzie,” Alden said. “Where have you been?”
I couldn’t think of a single good reason why I should tell him, so I didn’t. By then the waitress had reappeared with my drink and I took a long sip of it.
“Why were you looking for me?” I asked.
“Mr. Flonta wants to speak to you.”
Alden’s voice was slurred just enough to make me think that he and Mitchell had been sitting in the Gunflint for a long time.
&n
bsp; “What about?” I asked.
“He keeps getting calls from people who want to sell him the missing Scenes from an Inland Sea. It was over two dozen the last time I spoke to him.”
“What did he think was going to happen?”
“He needs someone to help him indentify the paintings, make sure he doesn’t get ripped off, and Louise Wykoff won’t cooperate.”
“Again, what did he think was going to happen?”
“Mr. Flonta said he’s willing to make you an offer.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Ha,” Mitchell said. “Told you.”
“Don’t be cocky, pal,” I told him. “If I can recover those paintings without paying a ransom, your grandmother will be out of luck, too.”
“You don’t mean that.”
I answered him by drinking half of my bourbon.
“McKenzie,” Alden said, “will you at least talk to Mr. Flonta?”
“I’ve already made him aware of my position. Seems to me that you were standing there at the time. I see no reason why I should repeat myself.”
“It’ll make me look good to my boss.”
“Sorry, kid. You’re on your own.”
“Please, McKenzie. I don’t want to go back to the Cities. I like it up here.”
“What he likes is Jennica Mehren,” Mitchell said.
“Shut up.”
“The way you keep staring at her, it’s pathetic.”
“You know, you’ve been an ass about her ever since you got here. How many times do you need to hold her hand, hmm? Or caress her shoulder? Or rub her back. Talk about pathetic.”
“Jennica deserves better than a wannabe”—Mitchell air quoted—“investment banker.”
“Didn’t you say that your father worked in finance?”
“Perfect example.”
“What are you?” This time Alden air quoted. “An artist living off his grandfather’s reputation and money?”
“Don’t knock it,” Mitchell said. “Especially the money part.”
“Boys, boys, boys,” I said. “It’s no wonder Jennica went to bed early. You’re so boring.” I knocked back the remainder of the Maker’s Mark, stood, and pulled a ten from my pocket and dropped it on the table. I patted Alden’s shoulder. “Tell your boss that if he makes a deal with Mary Ann McInnis we’ll talk. Otherwise, he’s on his own. And give Jennica a break. Both of you.”
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