Stealing the Countess (17 page)

“From what?” Heavenly asked.

Altavilla stared at her for a moment; she seemed to have trouble focusing.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“This is Heavenly Petryk,” Westlund said.

It occurred to me then that when I introduced them earlier that evening I should have used Heavenly's alias—Caroline Kaminsky. Oh, well …

“Heavenly?” Altavilla asked. “Where have I heard that name before? McKenzie, where have I heard that name before?”

“I have no idea.”

“Midwest Farmers,” Westlund said. “Are you the guys who insured the Stradivarius what's been stolen?”

“We are them.”

“Then you should know what happened tonight. We—”

Heavenly and I both raised our voices in a euphonia of confusion, tossing out phrases like “look at the time” and “I remember this song.” Westlund realized what we were attempting to do and stopped speaking. Altavilla swiveled her head from him to us and back to him again.

“What happened?” she asked. “McKenzie, what happened? You didn't find it, did you? Did you? No, wait, you couldn't have. Could you?”

“Find what?”

“The violin, dammit. Just because I've been drinking doesn't mean I'm drunk.”

“Why are you drinking?”

“Killing time waiting. I've been waiting all night.”

“Waiting for whom?”

“For youm.”

“Why?” Heavenly said.

“Who are you again?”

“Maryanne—Maryanne, why were you waiting for me?” I asked.

“To apologize. I was quite inconsiderate this afternoon, and I apologize. I have no excuse. My only explanation is that I was speaking for the company and not for myself.”

“Think nothing of it. I was rude myself.”

“You didn't, did you?”

“Did what?”

“Recover the violin.”

I couldn't think of a reason to lie to her.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Not yet, not yet. It's a dangerous game you're playing, McKenzie.”

“Why dangerous?”

“Because money is involved. Lots and lots of money. I know you think I came down with yesterday's rain, but I'm not so inexperienced I don't appreciate what happens when lots and lots of money is involved. You two. Are you helping him?”

“Sure am,” said Westlund.

“Depends,” said Heavenly. “If McKenzie finds the Strad first, I'm helping. If I find it first…”

“Oh, oh, oh, now I remember,” Altavilla said. “Heavenly Petryk. Mr. Donatucci warned me to keep an eye out for you.”

“Before or after he was fired?” I asked.

Altavilla ignored the question.

“Mr. Donatucci said you were one of those people who likes to profit off the misfortune of insurance companies,” she said. “You make a business out of finding lost and stolen property and selling it back, collecting rewards.”

“Beats working retail,” Heavenly said.

“He thinks that sometimes you arrange to steal the property that you later recover and sell back. He says you should be in prison.”

“Is that what he says?”

“Heavenly is my friend.” I spoke loudly. I spoke firmly. Altavilla's face came around because of the way I spoke. I looked directly into her eyes so there would be no mistaking my meaning.

“I apologize,” Altavilla said. “I'm just saying what Mr. Donatucci told me.” She turned to look at Heavenly again. “You're the second person I insulted today without meaning to. I assure you, it will not happen again.”

“I'm not nearly as offended as McKenzie seems to be.”

“Mr. McKenzie is intensely loyal to his friends. Mr. Donatucci told me so.”

“I'm not offended at all,” Westlund said.

Altavilla patted his hand.

“Thank you,” she said. “Mister…”

“Westlund. Call me Jack.”

“Have we met?”

“Just now.”

“Are you from Bayfield?”

“Yep. I'm living on my boat in the marina.”

“On a boat? That must be fun.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I'd like to see it sometime.”

“I could show it to you tonight.”

Altavilla gave Westlund's shoulder a gentle shove.

“Oh, you,” she said.

“You must be awfully smart to be a chief investigator at your age,” Westlund said.

“I'm a protégée.”

“What does that mean?”

“I scored a thirty-six on my ACT,” she said. “Thirty-six. I bet—what did you score, Mr. McKenzie?”

“Thirty-one,” I said.

Heavenly held up two fingers.

“Thirty-two,” she said.

“Then you're both really smart, too.”

“What's ACT?” Westlund asked.

Altavilla shoved his shoulder again.

“Oh, you,” she repeated.

Altavilla stood abruptly.

“I have to go now,” she said.

She reached for her bag, draping the strap over her shoulder.

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

Altavilla pointed toward the band.

“Bayfield Inn,” she said.

Westlund took her arm and aimed it at the door.

“It's that way, Maryanne,” he said.

“Oh.”

“I'm heading in the same direction. I'll make sure you get there.”

“
Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.
Tennessee Williams.
A Streetcar Named Desire.
December 1947.” Altavilla spread her arms wide. “What? Thirty-six, bitches.”

With that, she and Westlund headed for the door; Altavilla swung back.

“I'm sorry, Heavenly, that I called you a crook,” she said. “Although…”

Altavilla wagged her finger as she walked away. Westlund followed close behind. He was grinning widely. I silently wished him luck, yet I doubted he would get any—luck, I mean.

“What was that about?” Heavenly asked.

I took a sip of the Bailey's Irish Cream Altavilla had left behind and could barely taste the alcohol. I waved Ellis over.

“The woman who was with us, did you serve her?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“How much did she have to drink?”

“Just the one.”

“When did she get here?”

“She arrived shortly after you did.”

“Thank you.”

Ellis left, and I turned to Heavenly.

“I think she was telling the truth,” I said. “I think Maryanne really did score a thirty-six on the ACT.”

*   *   *

We chatted about it at some length. Neither Heavenly nor I could figure out what Altavilla was up to, although we were quite certain it wasn't good for either of us. While we talked, I kept a weary eye on the other customers of the Lakeside Tavern. I wasn't sure what I was looking for until I saw it—the man in the sports coat walking up the short corridor off the stage that led to Philip Speegle's office. Speegle was right behind him.

Enough is enough,
my inner voice said.

“Wait here,” I told Heavenly.

The man in the sports coat spotted me as I was slowly weaving around tables and past the other customers. He went straight for the door; was through the door before I could reach him. I intended to follow him outside, except I was intercepted.

“McKenzie,” Speegle said.

He stood between the doorway and me.

“Excuse me just a second,” I said.

It took only a moment to maneuver around Speegle and out the front entrance. Unfortunately, the brief delay gave the man in the sports coat all the time he needed to disappear. I searched up and down the avenue yet couldn't find him anywhere. I went back inside the tavern. Speegle was waiting for me.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Who was what?”

“The man in the sports coat.”

“I didn't notice.”

“He came out of your office.”

“No he didn't. He must have been using the restroom.”

I glanced over Speegle's shoulder. From that angle I could see the names on the two doors just past his office. White type on a black background; they read
MEN
and
WOMEN.

“Listen, about last night,” Speegle said. “I might have given you bad advice.”

“About what?”

“About talking to Herb Voight. That was uncalled for. Herb is a good man. Whatever I feel about the Great Lady, there was no reason to drag him into it. He doesn't deserve to have people talk about him behind his back. What I'm saying—I was outta line. Guess I was feeling my bourbon.”

“I spoke to Voight this morning. He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is.”

“I also got the impression that he sleeps on his boat more than he does at home.”

“So they say. Heather should never have married him. She should've married someone more like her. An entrepreneur.”

It didn't take a genius to figure out whom he meant.

“About Voight and his boat,” I said. “Does he always sleep alone?”

“See, McKenzie, that's what I mean. Talking behind Herb's back. He doesn't deserve that, and I wish you would leave him alone. Look, I gotta go. I have things to do.”

I watched Speegle turn and march to his office.

He didn't answer your question,
my inner voice said.

*   *   *

I returned to the table.

The drinking age in Wisconsin is twenty-one, which made me wonder how the young man who was asking Heavenly to dance got into the place. I demanded to see his ID.

“Who are you?” the kid asked.

“Oh, Daddy,” Heavenly said. “We were only going to dance. Can't I have any fun?”

“Daddy?” the kid said.

I wagged my finger at Heavenly much the same way Altavilla had.

“You know what the doctors said, honey,” I told her. “No touching until we know that you're cured.”

“But it's been so long,” she said.

The kid left without another word. I sat down.

“You're a bully,” Heavenly said.

“Think I'm going to let just anyone dance with my little girl?”

“Now that you brought it up…”

Heavenly gestured with her pretty chin at the dance floor.

“No,” I said.

“Just as well. Old man like you, I bet it's way past your bedtime.”

“Funny.”

A few minutes later, though, we were outside the Lakeside Tavern and walking toward my Mustang with plans to retreat to the Queen Anne for the evening. The streets were nearly empty, just a few revelers heading back to wherever they came from, like us. Heavenly wrapped her arm around mine.

“Such a beautiful night.” She was looking up at the sky. “You never see stars like this in the city, all that ambient light. Some kids growing up in New York, places like that, they never see the stars at all. Isn't that sad?”

“It is.”

“I like what you told Maryanne before—‘Heavenly is my friend.' That meant a lot to me, I want you to know.”

“Yes, but is it true?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know that I'm your friend. But are you mine?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then why are you holding out on me—Caroline?”

“That hurts, McKenzie. It does. Here I thought we were having a moment.”

“The time has come to talk of many things,”
I said.

We reached the passenger side of the Mustang. My hand was resting on the door latch, yet I did not open it.

“Of shoes and ships and sealing wax,”
Heavenly said.
“Of cabbages and kings.”

And her upper chest exploded.

The bullet hit her high on the left side, just below her collarbone.

The blood splashed her sweater, the Mustang, and me before I registered the shot.

Heavenly didn't seem to notice at first. Her body didn't so much as flinch when the bullet bored into her. But then her head flung backward and her shoulders arched. Her eyes found mine and she seemed to reach her hand out to me as her body twisted hard to her left and she collapsed.

It was like I was watching her in slow motion.

Maybe I was.

I didn't try to catch her. Instead, I slid down the side of my car. I reached behind my back and gripped the butt of the SIG Sauer. I pulled the gun, grasped it with both hands, and turned.

Two more shots were fired. I didn't see where the bullets hit. I saw the muzzle flashes with my peripheral vision, though. They came from behind a parked SUV across the street. I sighted on the car. Something moved, a shadow near the rear bumper.

I fired three times.

And waited.

No one fired back.

I swiveled my head to find Heavenly. She was flat on her back, her right hand pressed against her wound. Blood seeped between her fingers.

God help me, I left her there.

I dashed across the street, holding the SIG low until I reached the SUV. Breathing hard. I brought the gun up and sighted on—nothing. No one was there.

I moved slowly around the bumper. I crouched. I moved to the next car parked up the street. And the next. And the next. I looked up and down the boulevard. Searched doorways. Nothing moved in front of me.

Behind me, people were moving cautiously, aware that something unexpected had happened yet not knowing what.

I ran back to the Mustang. A crowd was gathering there. They seemed frightened by the gun in my hand; someone actually shouted, “He has a gun.”

I slid the SIG behind my back. Heavenly had rolled on her side and pressed her arm against the sidewalk as if she were attempting to get up. I pushed her back and told her to keep still.

“I've been shot, McKenzie,” she said. “Do you believe that?”

“Don't talk.”

I took a handkerchief from my pocket, removed her hand, pulled up her sweater, stuffed the handkerchief into her wound, and replaced her hand.

“Press down hard,” I said.