Stealing the Countess (24 page)

Heavenly gave me a hard look. I pretended that I didn't know why.

“I don't know,” she said.

“You'll want to go through your stuff when we reach Duluth to see if anything is missing.”

Eventually, she settled back against the seat.

“You were right,” she said. “I shouldn't have thrown away the pain pills.”

*   *   *

I pulled into the parking lot of the same hotel where I usually stayed during the Bayfront Blues Festival. When I opened the trunk of the Mustang to retrieve the luggage, Heavenly reached in, pulled out the nylon carry-on bag, and stepped back as if she expected me to take it from her. I pretended not to notice. Instead, I heaved out her two suitcases and my own satchel, which I was able to carry by a strap hanging from my shoulder. I set one of the suitcases down in order to close the trunk and carried all three bags into the hotel. Both of Heavenly's suitcases were heavier than mine.

“If you weren't hurt, I'd make you carry your own luggage,” I told her.

Heavenly didn't answer, probably because she knew that even if she hadn't been shot, the way my father raised me, yeah, I'd probably carry her bags anyway. Hell, I still carried Nina's bags, and I've known her for over six years; still opened car doors for her, too.

Although we were clearly together, neither the desk clerk nor Heavenly batted so much as an eyelash when I rented two rooms adjacent to each other—one of them under the name Caroline Kaminsky.

“That wasn't necessary,” Heavenly told me. By then we were alone on the elevator and heading up; I could see her reflection in the polished door as I faced forward.

“I didn't want to presume,” I said. “In Bayfield I introduced you as Heavenly. That might have been a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“The person who shot you, sweetie—was it because he thought you were Heavenly or because he thought you were Caroline? I don't know. Do you?”

“I still believe whoever it was was actually trying to kill you, and I just happened to get in the way.”

No you don't,
my inner voice said.

“Besides,” she added, “the only person who knew me as Heavenly was Jack Westlund, and he was with us, or at least me, from the time you introduced us at the marina until right before the shooting.”

“Maryanne Altavilla knew.”

“Only after Jack introduced me. And that's not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“It wasn't necessary to get two rooms.”

I let the innuendo slide.

A few moments later, I opened Heavenly's door and tossed the suitcases on the bed. It took some effort. I spoke to her over my shoulder as I headed for the exit.

“When you're finished, knock on the wall and I'll buy you lunch.”

“McKenzie, why are we here?”

“To see a man.”

“What man?”

“Good question,” I said.

And yet I didn't answer it.

*   *   *

It didn't take long to unpack. I had only a few clean things left, and the rest of my belongings I left in the satchel, including the nine-millimeter Ruger that Maryanne Altavilla had lent me—I never did return it after I received Greg Schroeder's phone call.

My smartphone played “West End Blues,” and my first thought was that Heavenly was calling, although, in retrospect, no woman unpacks that fast. Besides, she would have wanted to make sure the $50,000 was still intact.

“McKenzie,” I said.

“Where are you?” Vincent Donatucci asked.

“In Duluth. Why do you ask?”

“What are you doing in Duluth?”

“The same thing I was doing in Bayfield, chasing the Countess Borromeo. Again, why do you ask?”

“I just heard that Maryanne had returned to the office; I still have friends over there. I tried to reach you at the Queen Anne, but the man said you had checked out after breakfast this morning along with Caroline Kaminsky. So she's not dead?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not,” Donatucci repeated. “Only the good die young. Which means Heavenly Petryk should live forever.”

“Her and all the rest of us.”

“Is she with you?”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no, McKenzie. She's there to steal the Countess.”

“I know.”

“That's why she was in Bayfield, to steal the Countess.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Keeping my enemies close—think of it that way. Look, if Heavenly gets her hands on the Countess before we do, I'll buy it from her for the $250,000—which is what we intended to do all along.”

“How do we know she doesn't already have it?”

“If she did, she would have taken the deal the first time I offered.”

“Unless there's someone else who's offering more.”

“In which case, she'd be long gone by now.”

“I don't like this. I don't like you being in Duluth, either. McKenzie, the violin is in Bayfield. It must be.”

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you know that I don't?”

“I'm here to speak to Trevor Ruland.”

There was a long pause before Donatucci spoke again.

“How do I know that name?”

“You helped put him in jail about ten years ago.”

“I did?”

“He stole a $70,000 vase from an art gallery in Omaha.”

“That's right—Trevor Ruland. Very grandiose, thought he was Cary Grant in
To Catch a Thief.
He stole the vase and tried to sell it back to the gallery for $25,000. Midwest Farmers insured the vase; I played the go-between. He arranged to meet me in the most expensive restaurant in town—the man wore a tuxedo, I'm not joking you. I gave him the cash, he gave me the vase, and the Omaha Police Department arrived to take him away. He did five years for receiving stolen property.”

“Ruland said at trial that you behaved unprofessionally by calling the police. He said that was against the rules.”

“I remember that.”

“The Duluth cops suspect that Ruland has been involved in some petty thefts since he was released from prison, but he hasn't been busted yet—a wannabe gangster pretending he's living in an
Ocean's Eleven
world.”

“That sounds right.”

“However—he did stay at the Queen Anne three days before the Stradivarius was taken; actually had the same room as Paul Duclos.”

“Are you sure?”

“I had a detective I know do a background check on everyone who stayed at the B&B up to two weeks before the theft. His name popped up; my guy gave me the details last night.”

“Ruland used his real name?”

“You sound surprised.”

Again Donatucci paused before responding.

“The quality of criminals we get these days,” he said.

“Let me guess—when you were young, they always walked five miles through blinding blizzards to reach their victims, and always uphill.”

“You're not funny, McKenzie.”

I thought it was funny,
my inner voice said.

“McKenzie, he's just as liable to try to steal the Countess from you as Petryk is,” Donatucci said.

“We'll see.”

“We'll see, we'll see—you're awfully cavalier about all this.”

“No. I stopped being cavalier when someone put a round in Heavenly's shoulder.”

“What's your play?”

“I'm going to buy him drinks, talk it over. I called him last night to set it up.”

“Why would he agree to meet with you?”

“I told Ruland that I'm representing the Midwest Farmers Insurance Group and I'm interested in hearing his theories concerning the theft of the Stradivarius. He said he'd be happy to discuss the matter—hypothetically, of course.”

“When?”

“He'll contact me in a few hours.”

“It couldn't possibly be this easy.”

“Oh, I agree. I absolutely agree with that.”

*   *   *

Minnesota Point was a narrow, seven-mile-long sand spit that separated Lake Superior from both Superior Bay and St. Louis Bay, as well as the Duluth Harbor Basin, where all the great ships and freighters were loaded and unloaded. To allow the substantial shipping traffic to move easily from one side to the other, a huge canal, called Superior Entry, was dug through the spit. Technically, this turned it into an island that was connected to the mainland only by the Aerial Lift Bridge.

The bridge was up when we arrived, and we had to wait nearly fifteen minutes as a giant freighter negotiated the canal. We weren't alone. Canal Park, on the Duluth side of the bridge, was the city's answer to Bayfield multiplied by about twenty. It was easily the most-visited tourist attraction in the area, what with its shops, restaurants, inns, and motels, plus an aquarium, marine museum, movie theaters, and a convention center where both the Duluth Superior Orchestra and the University of Minnesota–Duluth hockey team played.

“Where are we going?” Heavenly asked.

“You'll see.”

“What does that mean? You haven't answered a single question I've asked since we left the hospital. If you don't start coming clean…”

“You first.”

“I should just get out of the car and walk back to the hotel. Make my own arrangements.”

“You can do that. By the way, you owe me money from both the hospital and the Queen Anne.”

“You'll get it. Dammit, McKenzie, where are we going?”

By then the lift bridge had settled back into place, and I was able to proceed across the canal and up the point. I drove less than a mile before I reached the parking lot of SSL Harbor Basin Marina. I found an empty space for the Mustang and shut her down.

“Coming?” I asked.

“To do what?”

“Talk to a man about a boat.”

“Seriously? Is that why we're in Duluth?”

“One of the reasons.”

“I'll stay here, if it's all the same to you.”

“Good idea. Call your mom. Tell her what a wonderful time you're having.”

A couple of minutes later, I was standing on the fuel dock. A young man wearing a T-shirt and ball cap with the name of the marina imprinted on them had just finished topping off the tanks of a sleek runabout. He gave it a wave and shoved the nozzle back into the gas pump as the owner motored away.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

“I hope so. It's a small matter of expenses. Me and a guy share a boat, the
Heavenly II.
I don't want to make a big deal about it…”

“I know the
Heavenly II.
”

“Do you know Herb Voight? Did he gas up here last weekend?”

“He did. Twice.”

“Twice?”

“Kinda unusual, I know. I hope I'm not causing problems between you two.”

“No, no, no—that's what he told me. I was just checking. The partnership isn't what it should be, guys and boats, I don't know, and the man is lousy about receipts. When did he…”

“The first time was at about seven Thursday evening, right before we knocked off for the day. I think he was our last customer. Yeah, yeah, he was. I remember because we gave him nearly ninety gallons, which wasn't unusual; his thirty-footer had a one-hundred-gallon tank, but it took a while, you know. The second time—it was way early Friday morning, right after we opened, and he asked us to top him off, and I'm like, didn't we see you here yesterday? Twenty-three gallons I gave him. Twenty-three—are you kidding? Made me wonder where he'd been all night.”

“Makes me wonder, too. Thanks, man.”

I returned to the Mustang. Heavenly was staring out the passenger window at nothing in particular. Her cheap flip phone was in her hand resting on her lap.

“Miss me?” I asked.

“I'm hungry.”

*   *   *

I told Heavenly I knew plenty of Italian restaurants that served better pasta than Grandma's Saloon & Grill, located on the Canal Park side of the Aerial Lift Bridge, including Bellisio's just down the street.

“Her Marathon spaghetti and meatballs, though—the absolute best I've ever had,” I said.

She gave a small lunch plate a try and agreed that I might be onto something, which led to a conversation about finding iconic food in the most unlikely places.

“Best pizza?” Heavenly asked.

“Deep dish or thin crust?”

“Deep dish.”

“Little Star in San Francisco.”

“Not Chicago? Wow.”

“Best thin crust?”

“La Briciola, in Paris.”

“That surprises me. Paris of all places.”

“Surprised me, too. Best barbecue?”

“Rudy's in San Antonio.”

“That doesn't surprise me at all.”

“Best fried chicken?” I asked.

“Pies 'n' Thighs in Brooklyn. Best steak?”

“There's a place, I don't even know if it exists anymore. When I was a kid, my dad took me to hunt pheasant near Jackson, Minnesota, right along the Iowa border, he and some buddies of his. It was the year after my mother died, and it made me feel very grown up, like I was one of the guys; they let me drink blackberry brandy from the bottle. After a day walking the cornfields, we went to this place—I don't know its actual name. I call it the Farm because it was located on an actual farm. The restaurant slaughtered its own beef and hogs and chicken; grew its own potatoes, carrots, beans, whatever. I ordered a New York strip. I never even heard of a New York strip until that day. It was … I've never eaten anything like it before or since. So tender; so flavorful. The fixings on the side … best meal I've ever had.”

“Is it the best meal because of the food or because you were with your father?” Heavenly asked.

“Probably both.”

“I never had a … happy meal with my father, not even at McDonald's. I was never man enough for him.”