Stealing the Countess (3 page)

“Do you really believe the thieves are still in Bayfield?”

“No, but it's the logical place to start.”

“I don't know. Seems to me a guy could get into a lot of trouble doing this sort of thing.”

“When did you start worrying about a little trouble?”

“A lot, Mr. Donatucci. I said ‘a lot of trouble.' You still haven't explained why you care.”

“The youngster they replaced me with, she's … she's not ready.”

“She?”

“A girl, McKenzie. They replaced me with a girl.”

Outrageous,
my inner voice said.

“I'm surprised you feel that way,” I said aloud.

“You don't get it.”

I've known an awful lot of very smart women in my time, including the one I sleep with, so he was right, I didn't get it.

“What bothers me isn't that she's a female,” Donatucci said. “It's that she's so damn…”

“Young?”

“Exactly.”

“You want to show her up.”

“No, no, no, McKenzie. I like her. Maryanne Altavilla. I hired her; gave her a job right out of college. Trained her, too. It's the fucking number crunchers who think that I'm too old to do the job but that a young girl can—they're the ones I want to show up.”

“Do you think you'll accomplish that by returning the Strad to its rightful owner?”

“They'll look awfully dumb, won't they, standin' there with idiot expressions on their faces when we hand the violin back to Duclos? The world might not hear of it, the media, but the people in the industry, they'll get the word and they'll laugh.”

“That'll teach 'em.”

“Damn right,” Donatucci said.

“Strike a blow for the AARP generation.”

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed?
my inner voice asked.
You're never going to get old, and neither will Nina, but all your friends will.

“I need to know more about the theft,” I said.

“I should hope so. Here.”

Donatucci offered me his arm again, and I helped him up.

I followed him inside his house. Donatucci had been married, but his wife had passed before we met, and whatever housekeeping skills she instilled in him had dissipated over the years for lack of use. Which isn't to suggest the man was sloppy. He merely lived the bachelor life, always asking why he should find a drawer for something when he could pile it near at hand should he need it. Like the tourist handouts he must have acquired in Philadelphia that were strewn across his dining room table; an expired admission ticket told me he took a tour of Independence Hall at 10:00
A.M.
nine days ago. He saw me looking at it.

“Wanted to see where it all began,” Donatucci said. “Liberty Bell is a lot smaller than I thought it'd be.” He dismissed the literature with a gesture. “Shoulda done it years ago. When I was young.”

I might have said something consolatory about age and never being too old, only he was gazing at a photograph of his wife at the time, and I let it slide.

Instead of in the dining room, Donatucci sat me at his empty kitchen table. His age and employment status notwithstanding, he must have maintained his contacts, because he was able to carefully stack copies of reports from the Bayfield Police Department, the Bayfield Sheriff's Department, the Wisconsin Division of Criminal Investigation, and even the FBI in a neat pile in front of me. He also had a detailed statement given by Duclos to the investigators at Midwest Farmers. Taken together, they formed the basis of the story he told me …

Twelve years ago, Duclos received a curious e-mail. A woman named Renée Peyroux wrote that the foundation she represented—that her family had established decades earlier—was in the process of purchasing a newly discovered Stradivarius violin known as the Countess Borromeo. She asked if he would be interested in playing it.

This was not unusual. Two or three times a year, the Maestro received e-mails from people and organizations about the discovery of a Stradivarius. It was typical of someone who had achieved his status: two degrees from Juilliard, first violin and concertmaster with the National Symphony Orchestra in Washington, D.C., founding member of the Dresden Quartet, and sought-after soloist appearing with symphonies around the world. Most of the e-mails were wishful thinking if not utter nonsense. The exceptional genius and workaholic Antonio Stradivari created 540 violins—that the world has been able to catalog—of such notable and dazzling quality that they're still considered to be the finest musical instruments ever built 280 years following his death. People have been
discovering
them in the dusty corners of attics and at flea markets ever since.

Yet Renée's e-mail was legitimate. The Georges and Adrienne Peyroux Foundation for the Arts did acquire the Countess Borromeo, it did loan her to Duclos with virtually no conditions amid much fanfare, and he did play her on many of the world's greatest stages. He actually won a Grammy for the classical music album
Songs of the Countess.
At the same time, he was busy wooing the fabulously wealthy Renée Marie Peyroux. Two years after they met, Duclos and Renée married. They were in their early fifties at the time, and it was the first marriage for both of them; she kept her maiden name. When Georges and Adrienne passed within six months of each other, the couple settled in the Twin Cities, where Renée grew up, and she took control of the foundation. A couple of years later, Duclos became a soloist and artistic partner with the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra.

The SPCO was the only full-time professional chamber orchestra in the country, performing 130 concerts a year and enjoying two million weekly radio listeners. It was in the middle of its summer tour when the Maestro received a call. Would Bayfield, Wisconsin's favorite son consider playing in the city's Concert in the Park Series? Duclos happily accepted the invitation. It sounded like fun.

“That's what he told me, too,” I said. “That it was supposed to be fun.”

Donatucci ignored my interruption and was about to continue reciting his story when I stopped him again.

“When was the call made?” I asked.

“Two weeks before the concert. The scheduled act had to cancel, and someone said, ‘Hey, why don't we call the great Maestro? What could it hurt?'”

The Bayfield appearance had fit neatly into Duclos's calendar. The SPCO had a performance scheduled at the Marcus Center for the Performing Arts in Milwaukee on Tuesday night. He would drive to Bayfield, arriving on Wednesday afternoon, play the concert Thursday evening, and drive the two hours to Duluth, Minnesota, Friday morning, arriving with plenty of time to rejoin the SPCO and rehearse for that evening's performance at Symphony Hall.

The Maestro arrived early Wednesday afternoon as scheduled, stopping at City Hall as requested, where he was welcomed as a conquering hero. “Those were his words, not mine,” Donatucci said.

The mayor was there to greet him, as were members of the common council, the chamber of commerce, and the visitors' bureau that had arranged the concert. He was led to the New Queen Anne Victorian Mansion Bed and Breakfast, where he was installed in the Queen Anne Suite on the third floor, the best room in the house, with a splendid view of the city. Afterward, he was treated to dinner at the Hill House Restaurant, where he was reacquainted with several old friends.

“Where was the violin during all of this?” I asked.

“Locked in his room at the B&B.”

Thursday afternoon, Duclos met with Geoff Pascoe, the man who would accompany him during the concert. Pascoe was also a local boy, born and raised in Superior, Wisconsin. Duclos liked him, said he had nice technique. After the rehearsal, Duclos left Bayfield to clear his head. “His words, again.”

“The Countess?” I asked.

“He took her with him.”

“People never saw him carrying it around on the street, then.”

“If they did, it was only briefly.”

Eventually, Duclos returned to Bayfield, and without much ado, the concert began. It was played from a large gazebo in the corner of Memorial Park between downtown Bayfield and the marina, with Lake Superior glistening beyond. It began at seven and lasted until after sunset, about nine. Several thousand people were there; there's no way of knowing the exact number. Everyone was convinced, though, that it was the largest turnout ever for a Concert in the Park, and the biggest crowd to hit the city with the exception of its annual Apple Festival.

Afterward, Duclos, Pascoe, and just about everyone who was anyone in Bayfield retired to the Hill House for an after-concert party. Duclos stayed until about eleven. He reminded his guests that he had to get up early the next day and drive to Duluth but thanked one and all for their kindness and generosity.

Duclos and the Countess Borromeo returned to the Queen Anne. He went to bed. The next morning he rose early. He said he took a walk through the mostly empty streets of Bayfield. He returned to the B&B for breakfast at eight, went to his room, began to pack for his trip, and that's when he discovered that the Stradivarius was missing.

“Was it there
before
he took his walk?” I asked.

“He said he didn't notice.”

Duclos panicked. He called Connor Rasmussen, the owner of the Queen Anne, and together they called the police. Unfortunately, the Bayfield police officer who responded to the complaint was unimpressed, as indicated by the questions he asked. “How do you spell Stradivarius? What the fuck is a Stradivarius? How could a violin, I don't care what it's called, be worth four million dollars?”

Fortunately, Rasmussen made a call to the Bayfield County sheriff, a man he knew personally, and explained what happened. The sheriff called the Bayfield chief of police. The Bayfield chief of police—his name was Jeremy Neville—called the officer on his cell phone. The conversation went something like this:

“Officer, this is Chief Neville. What do you have?”

“Got a guy here says someone stole his fiddle.”

“Listen to me very carefully. This is not a fiddle. This is a fucking multimillion-dollar musical instrument. Secure the crime scene; don't touch anything.”

The investigation gained a little momentum after that. Within twenty minutes both the chief and the Bayfield County sheriff were at the scene. Ninety minutes later, investigators from the Wisconsin DCI arrived, and the FBI was notified. A bulletin was issued, searches were made, guests were interviewed, the crime scene was processed.

“What did they come up with?” I asked.

Donatucci tapped the reports in front of me.

“A lot of paper,” he said.

“I'd be approaching the case four days late, five if I start tomorrow. Do you honestly believe I'll find anything that they missed?”

“It's possible. Fresh eyes. People in town settling down, not as cautious. Besides, the cops carry badges. Most people are nervous if not downright afraid to talk to them, including the innocent. You'll be carrying something that'll make them much more willing to cooperate.”

“What's that?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Except you'd be an idiot to actually carry it around with you,
my inner voice said.
Not unlike leaving a priceless violin in your bedroom while you take a stroll.

“So?” Donatucci said. “Are you in?”

It was my turn to tap the reports.

“I'm going to take these with me,” I said.

“I'd be disappointed if you didn't.”

“I'll leave tomorrow morning.”

“Have a safe trip. Keep in touch.”

“Why don't you come with me?”

The idea seemed to appeal to him at first, but after a brief hesitation Donatucci began shaking his head.

“It'll be fun,” I said. “I've been to Bayfield before. There's this bar with a verandah on the lakeshore. We can lounge there in between interviews. Drink craft beers. Catch some rays. Watch the girls.”

“I know the place”—he hesitated for a moment before continuing—“I haven't been there for years, but I know the place you're talking about.”

Uh-huh.

“You know, Mr. Donatucci, you didn't need to send a formal invitation, trying to use reverse psychology to get me to take the job,” I said. “All you had to do was pick up a phone.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Of course not.

“I mean it,” I said. “Come with me.”

“I'd just slow you down.”

“I'm not asking you to jog down the beach. Just hang out. I could always use some good advice.”

“My advice? Don't ever get old.”

*   *   *

I dropped the files on the front seat of my car and made a call before driving off. I was a little surprised when Genevieve answered her own phone, reciting, “Bonalay and Associates, Attorneys at Law.”

“G. K.,” I said, “it's me.”

“I knew it, McKenzie. You're going to ignore my advice and go after the violin.”

“What if I had a letter stating that I was acting on the Maestro's behalf?”

“Duclos doesn't own the violin.”

“Yes, but you said he's entitled to possession, so…”

“A letter won't help if the county attorney decides to prosecute.”

“That's the thing, though. If I do recover the violin, I doubt either the foundation or the insurance company will press charges.”

“It doesn't work that way. The way the state looks at it, the crime wasn't committed against the foundation; it was committed against its citizens. If the prosecutor wants the case to go forward, it's going forward.”

“Yeah, but if the foundation refuses to cooperate…”

“That makes it tougher. On the other hand, if the prosecutor calls out the foundation in the media for dealing with criminals—tell me, do you think they'll stand up to all the bad publicity just to protect you?”