Stealing the Countess (9 page)

“Mr. McKenzie, I have no explanation as to how the violin case ended up in front of my home, and I do not care to speculate. It has nothing to do with me.”

In the next fifteen seconds, Heather slid off the stool, patted my arm, wished me well in my endeavors, and disappeared into the kitchen of her restaurant. She didn't offer to pick up the tab as Speegle had done at his place, but then I hadn't expected her to.

*   *   *

I paid the bill, left the Hill House, and walked the two blocks to Lakeside Tavern. The music started early in Bayfield and lasted only until 11:00
P.M.
I heard it through the bar's open door from fifty yards away, a four-piece band trying hard to channel Stevie Ray Vaughan with mixed results. I stepped inside. The place was crowded mostly with younger tourists, although there were a few thirty- and forty-somethings sitting toward the back. Ellis saw me standing in the doorway and waved me to a small table that I presumed was in her section.

“Long shift,” I said.

“I don't mind. If I weren't working I'd probably be sitting at the bar. Oh, and I want to thank you. That was the best tip I've received all month.”

“I remember what it was like to be a struggling college kid.”

“Would you like another South Shore?”

“Sure.”

I settled in while Ellis fetched my pale ale. From where I sat, I could watch both the stage and the front door. There was no bouncer at the door, and I noticed some of the younger customers wandering in and out while carrying their drinks, something you never see in the Cities. A man stepped across the threshold. He and I might have been the only two men in all of Bayfield County who were wearing a sports coat. In fact, except for the color of his Dockers and shirt, he was dressed just like me. I tried not to hold that against him

He stood still while his eyes adjusted to the tavern lights. A kid brushed up against him, nearly spilling a beer on his jacket, yet he barely noticed.

That's because he's looking for someone.

The kids on the stage were finishing up another selection from the Stevie Ray Vaughan catalog. Three of them played drums, bass, and lead guitar exclusively, while the fourth alternated between guitar, harmonica, and electric piano. When the applause subsided, they introduced a fifth member of the band from the audience, a young woman who mounted the stage in a dress that covered only a third of her land mass. I didn't catch her name because Ellis reappeared with my ale. She set the bottle on the table and leaned in so I could hear her.

“I heard some guys talking about the Stradivarius, but I can't tell you about it right now,” she said. “I'll tell you later. Okay?”

“Sure.”

Ellis left again just as the woman began singing “Angel from Montgomery.” She did a nice job of it except her voice was young, strong, and crystal clear and conveyed none of the pain the song was meant to communicate.

Only Bonnie Raitt should be allowed to sing this song,
my inner voice announced.

Still, the lady received a nice ovation when she finished.

I had finally changed my ringtone, swapping Ella Fitzgerald's timeless cover of “Summertime” for Louis Armstrong's famous syncopated opening to “West End Blues,” a fifteen-second cadenza that literally changed American music. It played to me in the brief lull that followed. I glanced at the cell's caller ID before answering.

“Hey,” I said.

“How are you?” Nina asked. “Staying out of trouble?”

“Just barely. How 'bout you?”

“Typical Tuesday. Nice crowd, not huge.”

“Who's in the big room?”

“The Willie August Project.”

“Are they going all epic tonight with flutes and vibraphones?”

“No, it's just the trio.”

“Tell them to play ‘Chilly and the Mustangs' for me.”

“Do you expect me to hold the phone up so you can listen?”

“Now that you mention it.”

“I hear music. Where are you?”

For some reason, the question nudged me into looking around the bar as if my subconscious needed to confirm my location. The man in the sports coat was now sitting on a stool near the door and drinking from a white coffee mug.

“I'm at the Lakeside Tavern listening to some kids play the blues,” I said.

“Anyone I should hear?”

“Not yet. Maybe in a couple of years after they learn their craft.”

“What's the name of the band?”

I told her, and she paused long enough to write it down. Nina liked to keep track of talent and over the years had managed to give a boost to several unknown acts that hadn't stayed unknown for long. Esperanza Spalding came to mind.

“When are you coming home?” Nina asked.

“In a couple of days. If I haven't heard anything by then … It's a bit of a long shot, anyway. People keep telling me that the thieves who stole the Stradivarius are probably long gone, and they're probably right.” I glanced at the man in the sports coat again. “There are a couple of things that don't quite jibe, though.”

“There are always a couple of things that don't quite jibe.”

“True. Very true.”

I noticed Philip Speegle standing at the side of the stage. He was attempting to catch my eye without catching the eyes of everyone else. I gave him a head nod.

“I have to go,” I said. “The club owner wants to speak to me.”

“Is she as pretty as I am?”

“
He
most certainly is not, but then who is?”

“Good answer. Call me tomorrow.”

“I will.”

*   *   *

I slipped past Ellis, telling her I'd be right back, and made my way to the side of the stage. Speegle took my arm and led me down a short corridor to a small office. He shut the door behind us, effectively muffling most of the noise.

“Do you like this music?” he asked.

“If aliens invade the Earth, it won't be for our technology. They'll be coming for the blues.”

Speegle wagged his finger at me.

“I like that answer. I don't believe it, but I like it.”

Are you going to tell him that you stole the line from Wynton Marsalis?
my inner voice asked.
I didn't think so.

Speegle moved to a credenza that was shoved against the wall behind his desk. A bottle of Booker's and a stack of glasses were on top of it. He filled two glasses and handed one to me without asking. I said, “Thank you,” and took a sip of the bourbon because I'm nothing if not polite.

“Any progress?” Speegle asked.

“I expect major developments at any moment.”

“That's what the cops said. I didn't believe them, either.”

“Give me time, I've only been here seven hours.”

“Have you spoken to Heather? What did the Great Lady have to say?”

“I take it you don't like her much.”

“Truth is, I like her very much. Don't tell her I said that.”

“You've had your ups and downs, though.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That you've had your ups and downs.”

“We were born six hours apart on the same day in the same hospital, God's truth—the same doctor and nurses delivered us. Did she tell you that?”

“No.”

“You'd think that would have created a bond between us.”

Speegle finished his drink with one giant gulp, turned his back on me, and reached for the Booker's. A moment later, he spun back and let me see him drink half of the bourbon he had poured into his glass.

“I've been thinking how I can help you,” Speegle said.

“I appreciate that.”

“I think you should speak to Zofia McLean. She works for the chamber; handles our marketing and events.”

“You told me that already, although not her name.”

“I did? Huh. Must've forgotten.”

Speegle took another pull on his bourbon.

“Tell me about the Great Lady,” I said.

“Heather…” He drew the name out as if it were a lyric to a song. “You know who you should talk to, really talk to? Herb. Herb Voight. He can tell you a thing or two.”

“Was he here when the theft took place?”

“No, he wasn't here, I don't think. That's cuz he was out on his goddamn boat like usual. But Herb, he sees things. He's the nicest guy in the world, but he sees things.”

“What does he see?”

“Things. Things. They say the husband is always the last to know. That's not true. He's always the first to know, just the last one to admit it.”

“Are you saying that Heather is cheating on him?”

“I didn't say that. I never said that. Don't be putting words in my mouth, McKenzie. I didn't say that about Heather.”

“My mistake.”

“Goddamn right. But McKenzie. You should talk to him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Speegle. It's kind of you to help.” I finished the Booker's and set the empty glass on his desk. “Thanks for the drink, too.”

Speegle slumped in the chair behind the desk and balanced his glass on the arm.

“'Sokay,” he said.

I left the office, being sure to tightly close the door behind me.

*   *   *

Ellis caught my arm as I was heading back to the table.

“What I said before, about some guys talking about the Stradivarius?” she said. “One of them came back. There were three of them, and they left before the band came on. Now one of them is back, and he asked me, did I know McKenzie?”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes but that you weren't here.”

“Is he still around?”

Ellis turned and looked down the length of the bar.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you know his name?”

“Curtis Shanklin. He works summers as a guide for Apostle Island Adventures outside town; gives kayak tours of the caves. This is his third year. Otherwise, he's at a school somewhere in Southern California.”

“He goes there?”

“No, he teaches.”

“Ellis, you are worth your weight in gold.”

She actually patted her stomach as if she were wondering if she should put on a few pounds.

“Give me a minute to get back to my table,” I said. “Then tell him who I am, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Bring me another South Shore, too, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

I returned to my table. The band was on a break. A couple of the musicians were leaning on the stick and drinking bottled beer. A half-dozen guys were vying for the attention of the singer. I didn't blame them. If I had been twenty years younger, the dress she almost wore would have seized my attention as well.

Only a couple of moments passed before a young man approached my table. He looked as if he had been out of college for about three years; his hair was sandy and his face windswept like he spent a lot of time on the water.

“McKenzie,” he said. “I wanna talk to you. Outside. Now.”

Shanklin moved toward the door. He stopped when he realized that I wasn't following him. He quickly returned to the table.

“Didn't you hear me?” he asked.

“Manners,” I said, “is how we show respect to one another.”

“Huh?”

Ellis appeared with my ale. She dropped a napkin with the bar's name and logo in front of me and set the bottle of South Shore on top of it before removing the empty. Not once did she look at Shanklin or me.

I pointed at an empty chair.

“Sit,” I said.

I deliberately refrained from using his name or what little else I knew about him. Knowledge really was power, and I wanted to hit him with it when it would do the most good.

“I said outside,” Shanklin said.

“I said sit.”

He set one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the tabletop. He leaned in close. His breath was scented with nachos and beer.

“If you ever want to see the violin again, you'll do exactly as I say,” he said.

“Yes, but then I'd be an idiot. Look here…”

I removed the bottle from the napkin and pulled a pen from a pocket. I carefully wrote my e-mail address on the napkin and slid it across the table toward him.

“Take a photo of the violin and send it to me. If it looks like the real thing, maybe then I'll go with you.”

“You can come see it now. It's outside.”

“I don't believe you.”

Shanklin's expression suggested that I had genuinely hurt his feelings. He stuffed the napkin in his pocket.

“Do you have the money?” he asked. “The $250,000?”

I made a show of patting my pockets.

“Not on me,” I said. “You can tell that to your two friends outside in case they decide to jump me when I leave.”

Shanklin flinched when I mentioned his friends.

“Where is the money?” he asked.

“You haven't done this sort of thing before, have you? The money's not in Bayfield. I can get it, though, in a reasonable amount of time, half in twenties and half in fifties, if you actually have the Stradivarius.”

“I have it.”

“Then I'll be delighted to conduct business with you. Now, off you go. Oh, and in the future—behave like a professional and not a thug, okay?”

Shanklin didn't like that at all. Any other time he would have made it a test of strength between us. He might have tried it anyway except for the way I smiled at him.

“You're one fucked-up old man,” he said.

Old man?

He left. I watched him go, but only so I could search for the man in the sports coat while pretending not to. He was still sitting on the stool near the door, except now he was playing with his smartphone. I wondered if he took a pic of the kid. I had no doubt he already had mine.

*   *   *

The band came on for its final set, only by then I had already heard enough. I paid cash for the ale, once again leaving a hefty tip for Ellis, and headed for the door. The man in the sports coat did a nice job of not noticing.