Stealing the Countess (20 page)

“Why should you do anything with them?”

“Caroline had planned to check out, today.”

Dammit, Heavenly,
my inner voice said.
You couldn't tell me even that much?

“Another couple has reserved the suite,” Connor said. “They should be here later this afternoon.”

“What about my room? Is it still available?”

“Yes. Until Saturday, and then—”

“Okay, let's move Caroline's stuff to my room. I'll settle her bill, and then we'll decide what to do when she gets out of the hospital.”

It seemed like a good idea to Connor; he ran my credit card through his machine, made me sign the receipt, and gave me a key to the suite. Except he was awfully busy all of a sudden. Could I pack up Caroline's belongings? Sure, I told him. He was anxious about cleaning the room before his guests arrived. Could I take my shower and change clothes
after
I made the move? Fine.

“McKenzie?” Connor said.

“Yeah?”

“I didn't do it.”

“Do what?”

“I didn't shoot Caroline.”

“Who said you did?”

“People in town think I stole the violin. They'll think I did this, too.”

“I wouldn't worry about it.”

“I do worry. I'm trying to build something here. A city this size, all of us more or less in the same business, we rely on each other's goodwill.”

“Did Chief Neville or someone from the sheriff's department question you?”

“No.”

“They probably won't, but if they do ask you where you were at about eleven thirty last night, what are you going to tell them?”

“I was at home. In bed.”

“Can you prove it?”

“No.”

“Neither can most of the people who live in Bayfield,” I said. “So relax.”

I didn't think he was going to take my advice, though.

*   *   *

I climbed the stairs to the Queen Anne Suite. The door was unlocked, which gave me pause. I swung it open cautiously and found—chaos.

“Connor,” I said.

I went to the top of the stairs and called down.

“Connor.”

He bounded up two steps at a time. The effort caused him to lose his breath.

“What?” he asked.

I gestured at the suite. Heavenly's belongings had been thrown about carelessly. Suitcases were opened and discarded on the floor. Every drawer of every dresser and armoire was hanging open. The bedspread and sheets had been pulled down, and the mattress and box spring were out of place as if someone had searched beneath them. Whatever the intruder had been looking for, I bet he found it.

“Oh no, oh no,” Connor chanted. “Someone must have broken in. It must have been after Caroline … oh no, oh no.” He slumped against the wall. “First the violin and now … What are the police going to say? Bayfield? No one will believe … I worked so hard.”

“You act as if you've never had a messy guest before,” I said.

Connor's eyes snapped onto mine as if he couldn't believe he had heard me correctly.

“The room was ransacked,” he said. “After Caroline was shot.”

“Not necessarily. My girlfriend's daughter, a college kid, what a slob.”

“What are you saying?”

“Unless you want to charge Caroline with, I don't know, vandalism, I'd keep this to yourself.”

“McKenzie—”

“I'll gather up all of Caroline's belongings as promised, and then you can get the room in order before your guests arrive.”

Connor paused for what seemed like a long time before he replied.

“Thank you,” he said.

*   *   *

I dumped the two suitcases on the bed and began filling them with Heavenly's clothes, folding each article as best I could. It gave me a strange feeling touching her things—jackets, sweaters, skirts, slacks, and shoes that I placed neatly into one suitcase; bras, panties, camisoles, pajamas, shirts, and socks that I carefully packed in the other. I tried to make it impersonal, like when I packed my own clothes, yet it made me wonder about her. It occurred to me that I knew nothing about Heavenly for sure, not even her name. Maybe Caroline Kaminsky was her real name and Heavenly Petryk was the alias.

Very little of what I found in the suite gave me clues. She had hairbrushes in the bathroom, and a handheld dryer, and all kinds of beauty aids I didn't think she needed that went into a plastic bag that I dumped on the bed. 'Course, anybody could use those. In fact, the only personal item that I found was a framed photograph, Heavenly six or seven years ago dressed in a black graduation gown and cap with a gold tassel that matched the honors stole around her shoulders. She was surrounded by three older women all hugging her simultaneously. I thought that if they were her mother and aunts, she was wrong to worry. The women in Heavenly's family looked pretty damn good after they rounded forty.

I held the photograph with one hand and reached for a small nylon carry-on bag that had been tossed carelessly across the room. It seemed heavy to me, yet when I glanced inside I discovered that the bag was empty.

Why is it so heavy?
my inner voice asked.

I examined the bag carefully, pulling on this and pushing on that until I found the latch that opened the hidden compartment.

The bottom of the bag was lined with cash.

Seeing it made my ears ring.

I finished packing as quickly as I could and moved all of Heavenly's belongings into the Peacock Chamber. Once I was behind the locked door, I sat on the bed and attacked the carry-on bag again. I reopened the secret compartment and spread the contents over the bedspread.

There were ten stacks. I counted them twice—one, two, three …

Each stack contained a hundred bills.

All fifties.

I stared at the money for a long time.

*   *   *

I was hungry, so I returned the $50,000 to the carry-on's hidden compartment, undressed, brushed my teeth, shaved, took a shower, combed my hair just so, dressed, and went out. It was sunny and warm, about seventy-five degrees, and I didn't wear a jacket, but that was mostly because I didn't have a handgun to hide beneath it—which made me nervous. The streets were crowded with tourists, and any of them could have been the person or persons unknown who shot Heavenly, who might have been trying to shoot me and missed. I watched them carefully. They all seemed to be going about their business with joyfulness and vivacity. Or maybe it was just me.

The Egg-Ceptional Breakfast and Bakery was closed by 2:00
P.M.
, and I had had enough of both the Lakeside Tavern and Hill House, so I went to Evelyn's near Memorial Park. It was filled with customers who seemed to delight in the eccentricity of the place, what with the flamingos, old signs, antique toys, off-center photographs, and electric trains running on tracks hanging from the ceiling. The waitress dressed like she worked for a circus. She wore a garish button that read
WELCOME TO EVELYN'S
, and my first thought was that Evelyn was a nut job. Yet she served a decent cheeseburger and fries that made me go “Hmmm.”

I was finishing up and wondering if Chief Neville and I shouldn't have another talk when Herb Voight walked in. He gave a halfhearted wave at the hostess and started toward a table for two next to the door that led to the kitchen, the worst table in the restaurant. I called his name. He pivoted toward me.

“McKenzie,” he said. “Don't you lead an interesting life.”

He came to my table and sat down.

“Do you enjoy being the most talked-about person in town?” Voight asked.

“I really don't.”

“How's the girl, what's her name—Caroline?”

“Caroline Kaminsky.”

“She okay?”

“As well as can be expected with a bullet in her shoulder.”

“That's just crazy, a shooting in Bayfield. I heard that, I was shocked. So's just about everyone else that lives here. I overheard some of the chamber types talking about visiting Chief Neville or the county sheriff, see what they can do about getting you out of town. They say you're hurting the tourist trade; they say you're an undesirable.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Is this all about the violin, Duclos's Stradivarius?”

“I won't know until I find the shooter. That's my guess, though.”

“It's crazy. But—did you just say ‘until
I
find the shooter'? What does that mean?”

“It means I'm not going anywhere.”

“A lot of folks are going to be unhappy to hear that.”

Voight smiled. I think he wanted me to know that “a lot of people” didn't include him. I decided to ask an ill-mannered question just to see if he really was on my side.

“Mr. Voight, someone shot my friend,” I said. “When I find out who, I just might shoot them. I don't want it to be you. Please tell me that it wasn't you.”

“It wasn't.”

“Prove it.”

Voight stared at me for about ten seconds before he replied.

“When we spoke before, I said things about my wife and Paul Duclos,” he said. “I shouldn't have. I shouldn't talk at all. See, last night I was with Maggie Pilhofer. On the
Heather II.
We were together belowdecks when Chief Neville called on Jack Westlund.”

“You and the Ghost Lady?”

“She wasn't doing the tours when we first started seeing each other. That was what? Fifteen years ago? I was single then, and she was married to an asshole who later ran out on her. Her and the kid. We get together four, five times a year. More often than not we'll rendezvous at a marina somewhere along the lake and go off on my boat. I wouldn't want that to get around.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“No one will hear it from me.”

“I know what you must think of me. It's just that—there are times when I look at Heather, I think to myself, I could have done better, you know?”

“She's pretty; she has wealth, position.”

“It's not about that, though. Never is. More often than not—Mags and me, we actually like each other, enjoy each other's company. Heather and me, not so much.”

“I understand.”

“Do you, McKenzie?”

“I think so. Tell me one thing, though. It's none of my business, but…”

“Yes?”

“Is Heather having financial problems?”

Voight stared at me for a few beats, a pensive expression on his face that quickly turned to one of amusement.

“Are you kidding?” he asked.

“I heard that a couple of her restaurants aren't doing well.”

“You mean like Superior 13 that she's selling to the Chippewa; that she built knowing she'd eventually sell it to the Chippewa. Heather's smarter than all of us, McKenzie.”

I stood and threw some money next to my plate.

“Good luck to you, sir,” I said.

Voight covered the bills with his hand.

“I got this,” he said. “Another restaurant owned by Heather.”

“Then tip the waitress.”

*   *   *

Bayfield City Hall consisted of three rooms in a gray wooden building that had seen far too many Lake Superior winters. I went into the room marked
POLICE DEPARTMENT
without bothering to knock. I heard Chief Neville say, “I told the mayor you would behave after your last dust-up. Now what should I tell him?” When he saw me he stopped talking.

Officer Pilhofer was sitting in one of two wooden chairs positioned in front of the chief's desk looking remorseful, a penitent taking a scolding from the head of his order. His eyes came up when I entered the room. His expression turned to one of rage and scorn. He rose quickly from his chair.

I walked deeper into the room. The chief gestured at his officer.

“Brian says you're lying,” he told me. “He says he never told you to leave town; he says he never assaulted you at the Iron Bridge Hiking and Nature Trail.”

“That's okay,” I said. “I don't mind. I didn't come here to file a complaint or press charges. I would never do that to a cop. I wouldn't even have mentioned what happened except you asked.”

Pilhofer squeezed his fists tight.

“It's a fucking lie,” he said.

I sat in the second chair without being asked.

“Let's forget about it, then,” I said. “For all I know, you have the makings of a fine police officer—once you get past all that rookie crap.”

Pilhofer took a step toward me.

“Brian,” Chief Neville said.

Pilhofer glanced at the chief, back at me, and at the chief again. He slowly unclenched his fists and sat down. Yet his breathing suggested that he was still angry.

Good,
my inner voice said.

“What rookie crap?” Pilhofer asked.

“Thinking that you know it all, losing control of your emotions, lacking respect for the job and the citizens you serve; generally believing that your badge means you're in charge and everyone else had better watch out. I was kind of a jerk myself when I was first sworn in, and look how well I turned out.”

Chief Neville rolled his eyes.

“How 'bout you?” I said. “Walking those means streets in Houghton, Michigan?”

“Michigan Tech is in Houghton,” the chief said. “Typical college town. Half the morons I dealt with on a daily basis when I was a rook were about my age, and I was always trying to prove that I was smarter and tougher than they were.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Here I am. Is this just a social call, McKenzie, or did you barge into my office for a reason?”

“I wanted to ask—three rounds were fired at Heavenly and me last night. Two missed their mark. Can you tell me if they've been recovered?”

“No. The sheriff's department forensics team scoured the area, but they were unable to find any impact craters. Why?”