Stealing the Countess (6 page)

From there I headed east, following Front Street. I paused when I reached the gazebo overlooking Memorial Park where the Maestro had played his concert. The park was smaller than I would have guessed, with the Pier Plaza Restaurant on the right and the Bayfield Inn with its restaurant and rooftop terrace just behind it. A few thousand people squeezed into this space must have been quite a sight, standing room only.

I crossed the park, following the sidewalk that separated the city from the marina until I reached Manypenny Avenue. Keep going straight and I would come across City Hall and Bayfield's four-man police department, but I was determined to avoid official involvement for as long as possible. Instead, I went south along the avenue until I reached Broad Street and the gray and rose-colored home of the Bayfield Chamber of Commerce and Visitor Bureau. The high school girl behind the desk was more than happy to assist me but was confused by my request—the names and addresses of all the members of the chamber plus a map.

“Why?” she asked.

“So I don't need to search through the police reports to find them.”

“What police reports?”

“The ones concerning the theft of the Stradivarius last week.”

“What has that to do with the chamber?”

“The chamber brought Paul Duclos here to play.”

“So?”

“That makes them suspects.”

That's when the girl decided she needed help. Neither the executive director, the office manager, nor the marketing and events manager was available, but the marketing and events assistant was. Her name was Amy, and she looked as if she had graduated from college last week. She asked what I wanted, and I told her. She also asked why. Instead of messing with her, I told the truth—sorta.

“I was hired by Paul Duclos to retrieve his stolen violin.” I gave her a quick glance at the letter the Maestro had given me to prove it. “I was hoping that members of the chamber could help.”

“I don't know how,” she said.

“Are the names secret?”

“No. I mean, if you go to the Web site…”

“Ahh.”

She printed out the list and gave me a map of the city. I thanked her and announced, “By the way, my name is McKenzie, and I'll be here all week.” Amy had no idea what to make of that, which was okay with me, just as long as she repeated it.

*   *   *

There were thirteen names on the list, along with the businesses they owned, nearly all of them tourist related. The president of the chamber operated an inn located on Highway 13 at the edge of town. I decided it was too far to walk, and I didn't want to get the Mustang, so I skipped him and went to the vice president. Lauren Ternes owned an art gallery on Third Street near the Farmers Market. It was only a block and a half away according to my map.

*   *   *

Ternes Studio and Gallery sold watercolors, oil paintings, and original photographs, as well as some pottery and wood carvings—most of it Bayfield related, all of it provided by local artists, including the owner. I didn't see anything I liked, but then I know very little about art. I ended up standing near the door while the plump, brightly dressed woman working the cash register dealt with a steady stream of customers. At first, she probably thought I had accompanied one of the women browsing the merchandise. Yet as customers came and went without me moving, her expression changed to one of overt curiosity. Eventually, she handed off the cash register to an associate and approached me.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Lauren Ternes?”

“Yes.”

“Vice president of the Bayfield Chamber of Commerce?”

“Yes.”

I offered my hand and she shook it.

“I'm McKenzie,” I said.

“What can I do for you, Mr. McKenzie?”

“You can help me find Paul Duclos's four-million-dollar Stradivarius.”

“I'm sorry…”

“The Stradivarius violin that was stolen—”

“Yes, yes, I know all about it.”

“Well, then.”

“Well, what? Do you think I had something to do with the theft?”

“You did help bring the Maestro to town.”

“I did not. We have a person who plans and manages events for that.”

“She wasn't in the office, so…”

“Who are you?”

“McKenzie, I told you.”

“Are you police?”

“No.”

“Because the police have been all over town asking questions. The FBI, too.”

“I was hired by Duclos to arrange for the safe return of his violin. He's even offering a reward, $250,000. No questions asked. I have a letter…”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Since you're the vice president, I thought you might be interested.”

“We have a quote on the city's Web site—
Making Bayfield the way we like has been the slow and loving task of 150 years. To destroy the Bayfield that we know can take but the careless act of a single day.
Last Friday was that day. It's been just awful for Bayfield; awful for any town that depends as much on tourism as we do.”

“Who are you kidding? This isn't food poisoning on a Carnival Cruise or a rash of drive-by shootings from rival drug cartels. It's a high-profile art theft. It's given the city more publicity than it's ever had. I bet your historical society is already planning an exhibit.”

“You're crazy.”

“There's a town in Minnesota called Northfield. Every September thousands of people flock there to celebrate the day Jesse James tried to rob the place.”

“It's not the same thing.”

“Sure it is. All your story needs is a happy ending.”

“What kind of happy ending?”

“How 'bout the violin is recovered intact and restored to Paul Duclos, who promptly returns to his hometown to play a benefit concert? Do you think that might polish Bayfield's apple?”

Lauren's expressive face held no secrets. I knew what she was going to say before she said it.

“That would certainly help, but I don't know what I can do about it,” she said.

“Just spread the word.”

“The word? You think whoever stole the violin lives in Bayfield?”

“Not necessarily.”

“You think he'll sell it back for the reward money?”

“It's been done before.”

Lauren stared at me some more.

“Get out,” she said.

I knew she was going to say that, too.

*   *   *

I made two more stops along the avenue. The owner of an antique store seemed to be a fan of detective fiction and had a lot of questions to ask. The manager of the place that sold scented candles and potpourri ordered me to leave thirty seconds after I opened my mouth. Oh well.

Once outside, I scanned my list for another prominent citizen to annoy. The chamber's treasurer lived on Madeline Island, and I thought a twenty-minute ferry ride might be fun. On the other hand, the name just below his owned a joint called the Lakeside Tavern that was three minutes away if I walked slowly.

I found a seat at a small sidewalk table just as the place began to fill for happy hour. I ordered a half-price South Shore Pale Ale, a beer brewed in Ashland just down the road that I had never seen in the Cities, and an order of fried onion rings. The young woman who served them was pleasant and talkative. She and her roommates were students at the University of Wisconsin–Madison working summer jobs in Bayfield to help pay their tuition, although she figured to have at least forty thousand dollars' worth of outstanding student loans by the time she graduated. I asked her what she thought about the theft of the Countess Borromeo.

“I was there,” she said. “Not there when the violin was stolen, I mean is that crazy or what? I was at the concert, though. Duclos played Vivaldi's Concerto no. 2 in G Minor. You know, ‘Summer,' from
The Four Seasons,
which is like the greatest violin piece of all time. So cool.”

I suggested that a smart girl, working in a bar, might hear things.

She said I'd be surprised.

“What have you heard?” I asked.

“About the theft? I don't know. Some people think Connor Rasmussen, the guy who owns the Queen Anne, some people think he did it, but I don't believe them. I met Connor, and he seems like a real nice guy, and besides, you don't steal stuff from people in your own house. That's just crazy. Some other people, they think it was international criminals, you know? But that seems silly, too.”

“What do you think?”

“I saw this movie once, an old black-and-white, I don't know who was in it, where the bad guys were like following around the victim for like days before they struck. I think that's what happened. Someone was following the Maestro around waiting for the chance to steal his violin, and then he comes up here and like wham, there you go.”

“As good a theory as any. Listen, is Philip Speegle here?”

“I just saw him behind the bar.”

“Would you ask, if he has a moment, if I might speak to him?”

“Sure. Should I tell him…”

“My name is McKenzie.”

“Okeydoke.”

Despite its name, the Lakeside Tavern wasn't actually located on Lake Superior. Instead, it was two blocks up the hill. Yet from where I was on the sidewalk, I was able to see straight down the avenue to where the lake slapped against the breakers. The ferry was making its return run from Madeline Island with boats of all shapes and kinds bobbing around it. On shore, tourists flitted from shop to shop and restaurant to restaurant; the colors of their summer attire gave the place a festive atmosphere. Bicyclists pedaled up, down, and around with only a casual regard for the existing traffic laws, and, unlike where I came from, the drivers who shared the streets with them didn't seem to mind at all. It was all very nice; yet I knew from experience that after three days, the place would bore me out of my mind.

I had nearly finished the South Shore, thinking there must be something wrong with me to prefer the noise, crowds, and pollution of the big city, when Speegle appeared at the table.

“Mr. McKenzie,” he said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

He was a pleasant-looking fellow—everything in Bayfield seemed pleasant—with the physique of a man who was starting to wonder if all the exercise he had done over the years had been worth it.

“Mr. Speegle,” I said, “I was sent here by Paul Duclos.”

“The pompous, self-important jerk who left a four-million-dollar violin lying around like it was a coupon for fifty cents off at the grocery store? That Paul Duclos?”

Whoa,
my inner voice said.

“Wow,” I said aloud.

“Let me guess—you think he walks on fucking water, too.”

“I only met him yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

“I think he's a guy who desperately wants to get his Stradivarius back.”

“Isn't that the way? Man treats his property like crap until he loses it and then suddenly it's the most important thing in his life. What do you expect me to do about it?”

I decided Speegle was a man I wanted on my side—at least for now.

“You, sir,” I said, “are a breath of fresh air because you're right, everyone I've spoken to
does
think Duclos walks on water. Truth is, he was careless as hell; one of those guys who thinks he can wander through life without anything bad ever happening to him.”

“The people who come into my place, my customers, most of them are having a good time; they're on vacation, right? Around closing time, though, you start hearing stories about how shitty their lives are back home, and the reason—because they fucked up. Oh, they'll tell you it's because of this or that or the other thing. I am so tired of people blaming their problems on the fucking economy or the president or the Democrats or the Republicans or the Jews or the Muslims or whomever else they're pissed off at. In the end, people are their own worst enemies.”

“Sir, let me buy you a beer.”

“You know what, let me buy you one.”

Speegle caught the attention of the waitress, pointed at my pale ale, and held up two fingers. He sat across from me at the small table, cutting off my view of the lake. A few moments later, the waitress set a bottle of South Shore in front of each of us. She left without speaking a word.

“I gather you're not a tourist,” Speegle said.

“Not this trip, although, I've been here before. I like it.”

“Yeah, Bayfield's a nice town. Good neighbors for the most part. It's like any place you've ever been, though; people have issues, most of them centered on money. Getting money, spending money, keeping what they can.”

“The way of the world.”

“Tell me—McKenzie, right? What exactly did that violin-playing fool hire you to do?”

I nearly told Speegle that I had volunteered; yet I decided it would be better to let him think I was just a working stiff.

“He wants me to get his Stradivarius back,” I said.

“How?”

“With money.”

“How much money?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“That's not much considering what the damn thing is worth.”

“Depends on how you look at it. The thieves can't sell it on the open market, and the insurance company refuses to buy it back. This is the only offer on the table.”

“If I was the thief, I'd be long gone by now.”

“I bet they're paying attention, though.”

“We should never have brought that asshole back to town.”

“The Maestro isn't Bayfield's favorite son?”

Speegle snorted at the idea.

“I grew up with the little prick,” he said. “I went to school with him. Even when he was a kid he thought his shit didn't stink. He went away and became a big success. Whoop-de-do. A lot of us stayed home, and we became successes, too.” Speegle waved at his bar. “Just no one applauding us in some fancy concert hall, is all. You gotta ask, too—how much of that success is because he married a boatload of money?”