Stealing the Countess (13 page)

“Mr. Voight?” I asked. His head came up and he smiled. “I'm McKenzie.”

“The troublemaker?”

He said it as if it were the finest compliment he could give a fellow.

“'Fraid so,” I said.

He stood and shook my hand as if he were genuinely happy to meet me.

“Have a seat, have a seat,” he said.

I sat.

“Mr. Westlund told me I might find you here,” I said.

“Offer you a beer, did he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you take it?”

“Of course.”

“There you go. He's a good man, Jack. Hates to drink alone. I've often cracked open a cold one early in the morning just to keep him company. Now you tell me, what can I get you?”

“Coffee. Black.”

“Darcy.” Voight waved at a waitress, who scurried over. “Black coffee for my friend McKenzie. Put it on the boss's tab.”

“That's kind of you,” I said.

“Don't thank me. Thank my wife. It's her tab.”

He laughed like it was a great joke on her.

Darcy returned with the coffee. As I picked up my mug, Voight lifted his.

“My old man used to tell me when I was a kid, find yourself a beautiful rich woman to take care of you,” he said.

“Funny, my father used to say the same thing.”

“There you go.”

Voight tapped my mug with his, and we both drank.

“McKenzie, they say you're looking for Duclos's violin.”

“I am.”

“Any success so far?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Explain something to me.”

“If I can.”

“When the burglary happened, the police were all over the place asking questions, the police and the county sheriff—where were you, what did you see, what do you know—and then it was the FBI's turn and the insurance company's, and most people were okay with that. We watch TV; we know how it works. But then you come to town and everyone gets discombobulated. My wife, the chamber—McKenzie this, McKenzie that, why's he here, when's he leaving. What's that about?”

“My presence suggests that the crime was committed by someone in Bayfield and that the violin is still here. It makes people anxious. It makes them wonder if their next-door neighbor might be the culprit.”

“Was it committed by someone in Bayfield? Is the violin still here?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Basically, then, you're just wandering around shaking cages until someone jumps up and says, ‘Yes, I did it and I'm glad, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,' like in those old Perry Masons.”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I wish you luck.”

“Thank you.”

“I gotta say, though, to be honest, I don't care if you ever find the damn thing.”

“No?”

“I figure it serves Duclos right.”

“Because he was careless?”

“Because he's an asshole. Coming to town like he owned the place and everyone in it, making moves on my wife like he did.”

“He hit on Heather?”

“At the so-called welcome-home dinner. I understand my place in the world, McKenzie. I know I was Heather's second choice. Maybe even third or fourth. And maybe our marriage isn't what it should be, but you don't make a play for another man's wife while he's standing there watching, I don't care if you did dance with her at your high school prom. That's just not right.”

“No, it isn't.”

“Heather and I … I moved here fifteen years ago, ran a full-service gas station, the only one within miles, popular with the tourists; she bought it from me. Paid enough that I could spend most of my time on my boat. That's how we met, when she bought me out. Afterward, we spent time together, mainly because I was the most presentable single man in town that was near her age, which makes me sound more special than I really am. Let's face it, the entire population of Bayfield County wouldn't fill Lambeau Field if you multiplied it five times. Yet there was never any talk of us getting married.”

“What changed?”

“I don't really know. Just one day she started asking if I ever thought of settling down with a wealthy, mature, fairly attractive woman who she promised would make very few demands on my time—her exact words, so help me. Do you think Heather's beautiful, McKenzie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think she's beautiful. Even at her age. She has a kind heart, too, although maybe it's not so easy to see sometimes. So I said yes. Hell yes, I said yes. Wouldn't you? Our tenth wedding anniversary is coming up soon.”

Tenth,
my inner voice said.
Didn't the Maestro marry Renée Peyroux ten years ago?

“At first we shared everything,” Voight said. “Especially our time. All we share now is a house and occasionally a bed. Heather has all of her businesses to occupy her, make her happy. I spend most of my time on the boat. My point, McKenzie”—he raised his coffee mug again—“the old man gave me bad advice.”

I raised my own mug in reply.

“There you go,” he said, and we both drank.

“Then Duclos gets all touchy-feely with my wife at dinner,” Voight said. “Shoulda busted him up. Would have too, except…”

“Except?”

“Heather wouldn't have liked it.”

“Is that why you left?”

Voight stared as if I had accused him of something.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Jack Westlund told me you weren't here for the concert.”

“Yeah, that's right. I just took off. Didn't want to hear that idiot play. Went down to Duluth on Thursday instead. Didn't return until Friday afternoon. I found out what happened with Duclos's violin when I tied up at the marina. Gotta tell you, McKenzie—it didn't make me cry.”

*   *   *

We left Egg-Ceptional together. Voight walked off in the direction of the marina. I headed back toward the Queen Anne. The streets were more crowded than before, so I didn't see the man in the sports coat again until I was about thirty yards away from him. He was sitting on yet another bench, this one in front of an antiques store, and pretending to read the same tourist newspaper. The sight of him actually made me feel more relaxed, although …

C'mon, man,
my inner voice said.
You're not even trying.

As I approached the bench, I retrieved my smartphone from my pocket. I slowed as I inputted the phone number that Zofia had given me, and stopped altogether when Geoff Pascoe answered my call. The man in the sports coat was only a few feet away, so I was probably speaking louder than I needed to when I identified myself and asked Pascoe if he would be kind enough to spare me a few minutes of his time.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Bayfield.”

“I'm in Superior…”

“Yes…”

“But I'm heading up to Red Cliff in a couple of hours. I'm playing a happy-hour gig at the casino with a vocalist I've only met once, and we're meeting ahead of time to plan the sets and rehearse. If you want to meet then…”

“That would be great.”

“How 'bout Superior 13 at, say … I have a couple of errands to run first. Would two-ish work?”

“Yes, it would. Thank you.”

“Superior 13 is right off the highway, in case you're wondering.”

I thanked him again before ending the call and turning to the man in the sports coat.

“Did you get all that?” I asked.

“Are you talking to me?”

I stepped closer. He was as tall as I was and about the same age, with eyes that gave nothing away. He deliberately folded his newspaper and set it on the bench next to him. There was tension in his body as if he expected me to attack. I slipped the smartphone into my pocket. He shifted his weight. The sports coat opened slightly to reveal the handgun holstered to his hip.

“I'll be heading to Red Cliff at a little after one thirty to meet a guy, in case you want to plan your afternoon,” I said. “I'll be driving a black Ford Mustang GT, so I should be easy to follow. Well, if you can keep up. In the meantime, I'm heading back to the Queen Anne to take a nap. I didn't get much sleep last night, but then you already know that.”

He yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “What were you saying?”

“You're not from around here, are you?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind.”

*   *   *

I returned to the Queen Anne. The man in the sports coat did not follow.

I unlocked the front door and went inside. Connor intercepted me as I was about to mount the staircase.

“There's someone waiting for you in the parlor,” he said.

He said it like I should be afraid. I didn't know why. When I stepped into the parlor I found a young woman—she couldn't have been more than twenty-six—looking about as scary as a summer cold. She had long black hair and wore a white dress shirt, black knee-length skirt, black hose, and sensible black shoes. My first thought was that she worked as a hostess in one of Heather Voight's restaurants.

I approached the tall wing-back chair where she was sitting.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “Are you waiting for me?”

She stood and draped the strap of her large black bag over her shoulder as if she expected to leave in a hurry.

“Are you McKenzie?” she asked.

“Yes.”

I offered my hand. She looked at it as if it were germ-laden. I put it in my pocket.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“I've come to give you a warning.”

She had set a verbal trap, and the question I was expected to ask—warn me about what?—would spring it. Instead, I said, “That's very kind, thank you,” and stood there smiling. It threw her off, which was exactly my intention.

“Don't you want to know?” she asked.

“Can I get you something? The Queen Anne has a pot of coffee on at all times, and it's very good. Jamaican, I think.”

“No, I don't want … McKenzie?”

“Yes, dear.”

“I'm not your dear. My name is Maryanne Altavilla. I'm chief investigator for Midwest Farmers Insurance. I've come to tell you that you must cease your activities immediately. If you make any further attempt to recover the Stradivarius violin called the Countess Borromeo, I and my firm are prepared to have you arrested for receiving stolen property and aiding and abetting an offender after the fact, both felonies punishable by considerable prison terms.”

“You're kidding?”

“I assure you, Mr. McKenzie, I am not.”

“I don't mean about arresting me, I mean—you're the woman who replaced Vincent Donatucci?”

“I am.”

“How old are you?”

“What difference does it make?”

“The question isn't about age, it's about experience.”

“I assure you, I have a great deal of experience. I have already saved Midwest millions of dollars in bogus claims.”

“How?”

“Analytics.”

“Insurance companies have always been about crunching numbers,” I said. “Yet any kid with a PC and access to Wi-Fi can do that.”

“I am not a kid.”

“What about field experience—accident and crime scene analysis, gathering witness statements, performing surveillance? Insurance companies still investigate arson and theft, don't they? You still investigate disability claims.”

“Field experience is overrated. Much of that work can now be accomplished using computers, although I appreciate how a man of your and Mr. Donatucci's generation might find that difficult to comprehend.”

A man of my generation?
my inner voice asked.
Wow.

“In other words, you've never in your life attempted to recover a nickel's worth of stolen property,” I said aloud.

“No, I have not. Neither will you if you know what's good for you.”

“That sounds less like a warning and more like a threat.”

“Take it as you will.”

“Why are you being so unpleasant, a pretty girl like you?”

Altavilla leaned in close and hissed at me.

“I'm not a girl,” she said. “It would be foolish for you to think so.”

“Why should you care what I think about anything, Maryanne? Why come all the way from the Cities to tell me what you're telling me? If I recover the Countess, I'll be saving your company four million bucks without costing you a penny in out-of-pocket expense. If I don't—that's my hard luck, isn't it? Yet you're telling me to not even try. It raises questions that I did not have five minutes ago. It motivates me to discover the answers. Simply put, young lady, you have overplayed your cards. If you had more
field
experience, you would have known not to do that. You would have remained in the Cities and waited to see what happened.”

The lecture didn't ruffle Altavilla a bit. Maybe she was expecting it; maybe she had heard it before.

“You must stop involving yourself in matters that are none of your concern,” she said. “I assure you, McKenzie, the letter from Mr. Duclos that you are carrying will not protect you if we choose to prosecute.”

“I notice you do that a lot—assure people. Sounds slightly insecure to me.”

“You've been warned.”

“You don't happen to have a man working for you who likes to wear sports coats on warm, sunny days, do you?”

Altavilla brushed past me without answering and made a beeline toward the entrance of the parlor. I called after her.

“Hey, Maryanne,” I said. “You know, we can still be friends. If you're in the Lakeside Tavern later tonight, I'd be happy to buy you a drink and talk it over.”

“You're a sexist pig.”

Who? Me?

Altavilla left the Queen Anne in a hurry, slamming the door behind her.