Stealing the Countess (5 page)

“Besides, you love the work.”

“I do. I do indeed. I always have.”

“What's your daughter up to?”

“Hanging with her friends. Did you hear—she wants me to change the name of the club?”

“To what?”

“Erica's.”

“What's wrong with Rickie's?”

“She says no one calls her that anymore.”

“How many people besides us even know you named the place after her?”

“I explain it on the Web site. Anyway, I told her that when she inherits the club she can call it whatever she wants.”

“Here I thought you were going to leave it to me.”

“The only thing you're getting is the stool at the bar where you usually sit.”

“It does have a lot of sentimental value.”

“This is assuming I go first, so do me a favor—be careful in Bayfield.”

*   *   *

Bayfield is a tourist town, and a highly successful one at that; people often use the words “picture postcard” and “quaint” to describe it. It has a population of 530, yet there are usually three times that number of people or more roaming its streets on any given day, especially in the summer. Part of the attraction is Lake Superior itself. Last time I was there, Nina and I rented kayaks and explored the many water-sculpted caves along the shoreline. In the winter, you could actually walk across the ice to see the caves, but I had never done that. I have cruised around the twenty-one Apostle Islands, though, checking out the historic lighthouses, hiking the old-growth forests, and lying out on the windswept beaches. There is a large marina where you can rent a boat or book a charter, perches on high hills where you can bird-watch, bike trails, hiking trails, twelve art galleries and antique stores—I think Nina dragged me into each and every one—numerous restaurants and bars, some with live music, and a casino just down the road. Nina had also wanted me to roam the area's many berry farms and apple orchards where, she assured me, we could pick our own fruit, but a guy's gotta draw a line somewhere.

I pulled into town at about 2:00
P.M.
A couple of right turns later, I found what I was looking for—the New Queen Anne Victorian Mansion Bed and Breakfast, the place where Duclos had been staying when someone stole his four-million-dollar Stradivarius.

The front door was locked. I examined it carefully. Solid oak and very old. Yet the lock was new, a dead bolt. I bet myself a nickel that the owner had swapped out the old lock after the theft.

I pressed the bell and waited. From the covered wraparound porch I could see much of downtown Bayfield, the ferry to Madeline Island, the marina, and Lake Superior beyond. I gave it another half minute and pressed the bell again. The door opened, and a young man smiled at me—at least he was younger than I was.

“Welcome to the Queen Anne,” he said. “How may I help you?”

“I'd like to stay in one of your rooms if possible,” I said. “I'm afraid I don't have a reservation.”

“Fortunately, we have a vacancy. Please come in.”

I followed him inside; he was careful to close and lock the door behind us.

“The Queen Anne was built in 1882,” he said. It looked it, with damask walls, floor tiles, elevated ceilings, theatrical wooden staircase, and hardwood floors; both the architecture and furniture featured Renaissance and Gothic themes.

The young man led me to an ornately carved desk, where he proceeded to check me in. There was a registration book on top of the desk that he asked me to sign. I did, adding my name and address to those already listed there.

“You'll be on the second floor in the Peacock Chamber,” he said.

Peacock Chamber,
my inner voice repeated.
That fits your personality.

“By the way, I'm Connor Rasmussen,” he said.

He extended his hand and I shook it.

“Are you the owner?” I asked.

“I am. I took over the mansion a couple of years ago. It wasn't in very good shape then, but we managed to restore it to its original design while adding a few twenty-first-century amenities.”

I was studying the intricately carved woodwork, massive fireplace, spacious parlor, and sparkling chandeliers when I said, “Helluva job.”

“Thank you.”

“I heard you had a little trouble here a few days ago.”

The smile froze on Connor's face; he managed to speak without moving his lips.

“If you're concerned about your safety…”

“Not at all,” I said.

“The locks have been changed, and we will have a security camera in place by the end of the week.”

“I am not concerned.”

“If it's me you're worried about…”

“No.”

“I am not a thief.”

“I didn't say you were.”

“Others have.”

“I apologize,” I said. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

“Yet, it is very upsetting. People talk, don't they? They've been talking ever since it happened, the robbery. It's all they talk about. Some say I'm responsible for the theft. Others have actually accused me of stealing the Stradivarius myself. I've already lost bookings over this. That's why I have a vacant room. I was booked solid all the way through the holidays; now…”

“I'm sorry.”

“Do you know how long it took me to get the Queen Anne in order, how much it cost?” Connor asked. “I thought having Paul Duclos stay here would be good publicity. I took his photo; I was going to upload it on the Web site. Now this.”

“For what it's worth, Duclos doesn't hold you responsible.”

“That's not what he said when he was here.”

“He's had time to cool down, to reevaluate.”

I had no idea if that was true or not, but I needed the young man's cooperation.

“Do you know him?” Connor asked.

“The Maestro sent me.”

“Why?”

“To retrieve the Stradivarius. He's offering a reward for its return.”

“I heard the insurance company—”

“Not the insurance company. Just Duclos, $250,000. No questions asked.”

“He doesn't care if the thief is arrested?”

“He does not. All the Maestro wants is the violin safe and sound.”

Connor gave it a few moments' thought before he asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

“I was hoping you might help me out.”

“I didn't steal the damn violin. The police searched my house. They searched it twice. I didn't take it.”

“I know that.”

You do?
my inner voice asked.

“I read the police reports,” I added. “You were the victim of a professional burglar; just as much a victim as Duclos.”

“Then why is Brian Pilhofer telling everyone that I'm a thief?”

I recognized the name. According to the reports, Pilhofer was the Bayfield cop who was first summoned to the scene, the one who called the Countess Borromeo a fiddle.

“I can't speak for some dip-shit local yokel,” I said. “The FBI, though, the Wisconsin DCI, they don't consider you to be a suspect.”

I didn't know if that was true or not, either. Yet the way Connor smiled made me think the lie had been well received—and that he would repeat it every chance he got. I decided to give him more; make him my bestie for life.

“If you want, I know the name of a good attorney,” I said. “You could sue these guys; at least make them cease and desist with the accusations.”

“That would be—no, I don't want to do that.”

“Okay.”

“But you said … you said you were hoping that I might help you,” Connor said. “What can I do?”

Tell everyone near and far there's a man with money who's willing to make a deal,
my inner voice said.

“How do your locks work?” I said. “Not the new one that you just installed”—I gestured toward the front door—“the old ones.”

Connor smiled again. I think he liked the idea that I might actually know what I was doing.

“It's not terribly different than the old one,” he said. “Maybe a little better quality. I give each guest a key to the front door.” He set one in the palm of my hand. “The door locks automatically when you come in or go out. If you don't have a key, you'll need to ring the bell.” He gave me a second key. “Each room has its own key, of course. There are eight rooms. Yours is on the second floor facing the lake.”

“Where is the Queen Anne Suite?”

“Top floor.”

“May I see it?”

“There's a young woman staying there, so, no, I really can't let you in. I need to respect her privacy while she's here. I hope that's not a problem.”

“Not at all. Maybe later.”

“If there's anything else I can do…”

“I'll let you know.”

*   *   *

I don't know why Connor named it the Peacock Chamber. There was nothing even remotely flamboyant about the room. It was, in fact, quite serene, with two bookcases filled with impressive titles, king-sized bed, armoire, desk, matching chair and love seat, stone-top table and nightstand, and gas fireplace. The step-down washroom featured a porcelain soaking tub with rain shower, subway tiles on the wall, hexagonal tiles on the floor, and built-in linen cabinets. There were large windows with a nice view of the edge of downtown Bayfield and the Madeline ferry.

I quickly unpacked and dumped my files on top of the desk. I went through them again as I considered my next moves. The plan, of course, was simple and straightforward: Tell people who I was; tell them why I was there; wait for someone to say, “Psst, buddy, you wanna buy a hot violin?”

What could possibly go wrong?

 

FOUR

There was a perfect blue sky reflecting in a calm lake, and the temperature was in the low seventies, yet I threw on a light blue sports jacket over my polo shirt and jeans because I knew it would get cool along the shore when the sun left the sky. It made me look less like a tourist, but I didn't mind. I left the Peacock Chamber, making sure the door was locked behind me, and descended the staircase. I looked for Connor and couldn't find him, and then I did. He was working in the garden that surrounded the Queen Anne.

It didn't seem as if he was coming inside anytime soon, so I went to the registration desk and opened the guest book. I very carefully transcribed the names and addresses of every guest who had stayed there in the past two weeks into a notebook that I nearly always carried. I could have gone back further, except I remembered that Bayfield had contacted Duclos only two weeks before he actually played his concert. That narrowed the amount of time an outsider would have had to plan the heist. As it was, I wrote down fifty-nine names. A quarter had stayed only one evening, the others for two nights or more. Connor had done very good business before the burglary.

Afterward, I went to the Mustang, parked in the Queen Anne's lot. I made myself comfortable before speaking to the onboard computer. I could have used my smartphone, of course, or even my laptop, but did I tell you—Nina bought me a new car with all the gadgets.

“Computer, dial Schroeder Private Investigations,” I said.

A few moments later, a woman answered.

“I would like to speak to Greg Schroeder,” I said.

“I'm sorry,” she told me. “Mr. Schroeder is unavailable. May one of our associates assist you?”

“Tell him that it's McKenzie.”

“I'm sorry—”

“Yes, I know. Tell him it's McKenzie. I promise he'll take my call.”

A half minute later, I heard his voice.

“Damn, McKenzie. How are you? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Schroeder was a trench-coat detective, one of those guys who carried his gun in a shoulder holster beneath a rumbled suit jacket and chain-smoked Marlboros. When I first met him nearly five years ago, he was just another ex-cop leading a one-man band. Now he ran one of the bigger PI agencies in town.

“I need a favor,” I said.

“A favor for which you will gladly pay our going rate?”

“Of course.”

“Those are my favorite kind of favors. What do you need?”

“I'm going to give you a list of names and addresses. I want you to find out which one of them is most likely to steal a four-million-dollar Stradivarius.”

“You couldn't have given the names to one of my detectives? You have to bother—wait. Four-million-dollar Stradivarius?”

“Yep.”

“Are you talking about the violin that was snatched in Wisconsin the other day?”

“I am.”

“My, my, look at you. Getting a little ambitious, aren't you, son?”

“Could be. But listen—if you can't be bothered…”

“C'mon now.”

“I'll talk to one of your employees. How many detectives do you have working for you now?”

“Seventeen.”

“Transfer me to—”

“They're all working other cases, and you know me, as busy as I am, I always have time for an old friend.”

“Especially if the old friend is willing to pay the going rate.”

“I have a pencil, I have paper.”

I recited the names and addresses.

“Are we on the clock?” Schroeder asked.

“Not particularly.”

“Give me a day or two.”

“Okay.”

“So, McKenzie. Four-million-dollar Stradivarius, huh? Who's your client?”

“I'll talk to you soon, Greg.”

*   *   *

Most of Bayfield was built on a hill, with the downtown area at the bottom, where it touched Lake Superior. Given its size, it was easier to walk through the town than drive, and besides, I could use the exercise. So I left the Mustang and drifted from the top of the hill, where most of the residential area was located, down toward the shoreline.

I found over a dozen vehicles idling in two neat lines in a sprawling asphalt parking lot where Washington Avenue dead-ended. Most of them were waiting for the ferry to shuttle them across the lake to Madeline Island with its beaches, camping areas, restaurants, art galleries, studios, and craft schools.