Stealing the Countess (15 page)

I was contemplating the black-and-white photographs that made me glad I hadn't been there on the day the rain fell when a car pulled into the small parking lot. Officer Pilhofer hopped out. He was dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt designed to let everyone know that he worked out. There wasn't a badge in sight.

“What did I tell you?” he asked.

He moved swiftly across the lot; gravel crunched beneath his boots. The scowl on his face betrayed his intentions.

“You're making a mistake, Officer,” I said.

He didn't believe me. He came in close and grabbed a fistful of my polo shirt just under my chin. He stabbed a finger at my face.

“I told you what would happen if you didn't leave, didn't I?”

Well, no,
my inner voice said.
You didn't.

I didn't argue the point, though. Instead, I seized his hand with mine and began to push upward on his elbow. I pulled his hand down even as I kept pushing, causing him to arch his spine. He tried to resist; except gravity was working against him. I applied more pressure and flipped him onto his back. I kept pushing his elbow until it was flat against his face. The pain in his shoulder joint made him writhe against the gravel, yet he refused to cry out.

Good for him.

I was contemplating what to do next when I heard a woman's voice behind me.

“Stop it, stop it,” she called.

At the same time, a sharp object was jabbed into my side—once, twice, three times in quick succession. The pain wasn't great, but still … I released Pilhofer and turned to face the threat. I was hit twice more in the center of my chest. I brought my hands and arms up in self-defense and stepped backward.

“Stop it now, just stop it, do you hear me?” the voice said.

It belonged to a woman dressed in a black cloak, the hood pulled over her head, a lantern standing upright on the ground next to her. She was waving a staff fitted with a large crystal at my face.

My first thought—is that thing loaded?

“Lady…” I said.

“You don't talk.”

“Ma?” Pilhofer said.

Ma?

“Are you all right?” the Ghost Lady asked.

“Ma, what are you doing here?”

“I was walking to the center. I saw what he did.”

“He was assaulting me,” I said.

“He's a police officer.”

“Not today.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Ma, cut it out,” Pilhofer said.

He was on his feet now, brushing off the dirt and gravel dust.

“What does he mean you're not a police officer? Of course you are.”

“It's a personal matter.”

“Lady, could you put the stick down?” I asked.

The Ghost Lady replied by waving it at my face some more.

“You don't talk,” she said. “Brian … Brian, what's going on here?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” he said.

“It certainly was something.”

“He wants me out of the way,” I said. “He's protecting someone.”

“Who? Who are you protecting? Why?”

“It's none of your business,” Pilhofer said.

“It's Heather, isn't it? What did she do?”

“She didn't do anything.”

“I told you to stay away from her. She's old enough to be—she's older than I am. And she's married.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Brian?”

“I need to go to work.”

Pilhofer crossed the parking lot to his car. The Ghost Lady called after him.

“Please, be careful,” she said.

He started up his car and drove away. The Ghost Lady turned to look at me, the business end of her staff still aimed at my face.

“Nice kid,” I said. “You must be very proud.”

“Who are you? Talk fast.”

“Could you please lower the stick?”

“It's not a stick. It's a staff used for circle casting, summoning, opening portals, and long-range energy magic.”

“For whacking people upside the head, too, I guess. Ma'am, please. I know it doesn't look like it, but I'm one of the good guys.”

“So is Brian.”

“Probably, but he's going about it all wrong. Can we”—I reached out, rested a hand on top of the staff, and gently lowered it until the crystal was pointed at the ground—“talk?”

“Talk about what? Who are you?”

“My name is McKenzie. I was sent here by Paul Duclos to try and find his missing Stradivarius.”

“Oh, that. I've been wanting to use the burglary in my tours, except I don't have much of a story to tell yet.”

“Maybe we can help each other out. Mrs. Pilhofer? May I call you Maggie?”

The Ghost Lady pulled back the hood, revealing copper hair and green eyes in a round face. She directed me to a bench at the edge of the park next to a locked stone cellar built into the side of the hill. According to a sign, William Knight built the cellar using field stones in 1920 to store the apples that came from his many orchards; it was his large and ancient house that hovered above the park from the top of the hill. It was haunted, the Ghost Lady informed me.

“I don't just talk about ghosts, though,” Maggie said. “I like to work in some of the history of Bayfield, too.”

“Like with the Queen Anne?”

“Exactly like that. Peter Rasmussen originally built the house over a hundred and thirty-five years ago. He lived there with his wife and eight children; he was one of the people who built Bayfield. When Peter died, the house went to his eldest son, along with everything else, which is how things worked back then. This started a violent feud that lasted more or less until the family's businesses collapsed. The brownstone quarry, commercial fishing, the lumber mill, the hotels—they made a lot of money, but when they went away the family went with them. The Queen Anne had at least a half-dozen owners before Connor finally acquired it. In case he didn't tell you, he's Peter's great-great-grandson. I hope he makes a go of it.”

“Why wouldn't he?”

“He spent a lot of money buying the property and restoring it, converting it into a B&B. I heard that even though he's mostly full up the year 'round, he's still having trouble paying his notes.”

“That's too bad.”

“He's not the only one with money troubles. Take that whore Heather Voight.”

“Is Heather a whore?”

“She's married and she's sleeping with a man who's thirty-five years younger than she is. What would you call her?”

“Troubled?”

“Yes, she's troubled all right.”

“Why would your son be protecting her?”

“Guess.”

“I mean, what is he protecting her from?”

“You, you numbskull.”

“Me?”

“You're here to buy the Stradivarius from the thieves. Everyone in town knows that; it's all we're talking about. Well, who do you think has it?”

“You tell me.”

“The violin case was found outside Heather's front door.”

“That doesn't mean she took it.”

“McKenzie, she needs money. She did very well for herself, but then she got greedy. She built a restaurant in Washburn, a town that's four times as big as Bayfield but only half as busy. If that wasn't enough, she also opened one in Red Cliff in direct competition with the casino.”

“I was over there earlier.”

“Did you see many people?”

“No.”

“Now she needs money.”

“Do you really think she stole her ex-boyfriend's violin to get it?”

“Who said she stole it? Who said she's Paul's
ex
-girlfriend? Her being here and him being there doesn't make them
ex
-anything. It just means they can't spend as much time together as they would like, that's all.”

“But?”

“But what?”

“It doesn't make sense.”

“Think about it. She needs money; she calls her longtime lover. Paul arrives outta the blue and arranges for Heather to
steal
his violin. A couple days later he arranges to buy it back from her.”

“I am definitely going to take your tour, Maggie. You're a terrific storyteller.”

“Is it a story?”

“Unless you have evidence—look. If Heather needed money, Duclos could have just given it to her. Or at least he could have arranged a low-interest loan.”

“Do you think his wife, Renée Peyroux—do you think she would have let him?”

“I met her.”

“And?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Okay, then.”

“If Heather had the violin, she would have made a deal by now. She's had the perfect opportunity.”

“Except then she'd have to admit that she and Paul were in on it, together. That's not going to happen. If they had wanted you to know what they were doing, they would have told you from the very beginning. Wouldn't they? No. The whore'll be using someone as a what-do-you-call-it, a go-between.”

“Who would that be, I wonder? Her husband?”

“Herb? That poor man? I doubt it.”

“Who, then?”

“Just as long as it isn't Brian I don't care.”

As if on cue, my smartphone made the metallic pinging sound associated with navy ships and sonar, alerting me that I had a notification. I excused myself and checked. There was a message in my e-mail from Curtis Shanklin with the subject line
URGENT.

*   *   *

Heavenly was with me in the Peacock Chamber, examining the photograph that filled the screen of my laptop.

“What does that look like to you?” I asked.

“It looks like a pic of a violin lying on top of the front page of today's
Ashland Daily Press.
”

I used the touchpad to enlarge the photo. Harry Potter's lightning bolt was scratched into the wood exactly where Duclos had told me it would be.

“It's the Countess Borromeo,” I said.

“Yes, but is it
the
Countess Borromeo and not just an image he picked up off the Internet and Photoshopped?”

I manipulated the laptop so it would take me back to Shanklin's e-mail message:

Take the 9 PM ferry to Madeline Island. Drive Old Fort Road east until it turns north and becomes Casper Road. You'll find a spur that leads directly to a deserted beach near Grants Point. Stay on the spur until you can't drive any further. It's a short walk to the beach. Bring the money. Come alone. We'll be watching. Any shenanigans and the Countess Borromeo goes into the lake.

“Shenanigans,” I said.

“He teaches English.”

“Still…”

“It's a trap.”

“What a suspicious nature you have.”

“They don't have the Countess. They're just trying to rip you off.”

“On the other hand, if they do have the violin … What are you doing later tonight?”

“McKenzie, it's a trap.”

“Yes, well, there are traps and then there are traps.”

*   *   *

I had dinner alone at Hill House; I even wore a black sports jacket to impress the hostess. This time I started with crostini with smoked salmon and then moved on to grilled whitefish Alfredo over linguini, the whitefish fresh from Lake Superior. It was excellent, yet I have to admit that there was a tightness in my stomach that kept me from fully enjoying it, not to mention the discomfort of the 9 mm SIG Sauer pressed between the small of my back and the chair.

I had hoped to meet Heather Voight, except her waitstaff told me that she hadn't been in all day. Just as well. What was I going to say to her? Please, if you have the Stradivarius, let's make a deal right now; don't make me go to Madeline Island where I might get shot?

After I finished dinner I wandered around town, killing time. I found myself at the marina looking for Jack Westlund's boat. It wasn't in its slip. Neither was the
Heather II.

At eight twenty by my watch, I drifted back to the Queen Anne. I went to my room. A few moments later, I left the B&B with a small suitcase. I had filled it with books from the Peacock Chamber's collection so it would look like I was carrying twenty-three pounds of cash.

I went to the Mustang. It had Intelligent Access, meaning its sensors could read the key fob I carried from three feet away, allowing me to unlock the door at a touch and start the engine with the push of a button. I opened the door, slid inside, pretended to adjust my rearview mirror, started the car, and left the parking lot. It took all of three minutes to drive to the landing for the Madeline Island ferry, another three to pay my passage, and thirty seconds more to maneuver into line.

The large boat had left its berth on the island and was now making its way across the expanse of water toward Bayfield; I could see the setting sun reflecting off its hull. The damn thing seemed to take forever.

I had music loaded into the Mustang's system and turned it on. The shuffle function selected Sarah Vaughan's cover of “Black Coffee.” I switched it off thirty seconds in—something I had never done before, quit Sarah in midsong.

At eight fifty, the ferry arrived. It dropped its massive iron ramp. Two college kids dressed in blue knit polo shirts stood on either side, directing traffic. First the pedestrians were allowed to disembark, followed by a dozen vehicles. Once that was accomplished, tourists who were on foot climbed the ramp and made their way up a gangway to an elevated passenger lounge. Vehicles then entered one at a time, parking bumper-to-bumper on the deck. Finally, the ramp was raised and the ferry pulled away from the dock. It was 9:00
P.M.
exactly. The sun was just a sliver of orange light on the horizon.

I left the Mustang and managed to squeeze past the parked vehicles to the gangway. I climbed it to the passenger lounge and leaned against the railing. The lights of Bayfield were slowly receding in the distance while those on Madeline Island were becoming brighter. I spent most of my time, however, studying the people in the lounge and the drivers and passengers who had remained in their vehicles. Shanklin had two accomplices that I knew of, the young men Ellis had mentioned at the Lakeside Tavern the night before. That didn't mean he didn't have others. Like the two young women dressed for clubbing who were sitting near the stern.