I found four couples in the parlor, along with Connor Rasmussen, when I returned to the Queen Anne. They were drinking wine from long-stem glasses made of crystal that matched the decanters on the sideboard. Connor called to me.
“Everyone,” he said, “here’s McKenzie, another of our guests.”
Connor beckoned me into the parlor, poured me a glass of wine, and proceeded to introduce the others. One couple was in their sixties, another in their fifties. The other two were in their early twenties and seemed to know one another.
“What do you do, Mr. McKenzie?” asked the fifty-something woman, whose name I had already forgotten.
I’ve never liked the question because I don’t have a ready reply. How should I answer? Unlicensed private investigator? Self-employed do-gooder? Easily bored jazz-loving baseball fan? Rich dick?
“I suppose you could call me a freelance troubleshooter,” I said.
“Mr. McKenzie is here to help catch the thieves who stole the Stradivarius violin,” Connor said.
The remark surprised the hell out of me; I had thought the man was trying to downplay any news of the theft.
“That is so exciting,” said one of the younger women. “Chasing a cat burglar. I can imagine him climbing through a bedroom window, the burglar I mean, all dressed in black, and stealing a famous diamond while we sleep. It gives me shivers.”
Her boyfriend grinned as if he also wanted to give her shivers; the fifty-something woman looked like she wanted to slap her upside the head.
“I don’t think there’s anything exciting about a robbery,” she said.
“Actually, the young lady is correct,” I said. “It was a burglary. They call it a robbery when someone steals using force or intimidation; you need to be present for that. A burglary occurs when someone gains entry to a house or business, or a garage, and steals without you being aware of it.”
Now the woman looked like I was the one she wanted to slap. Her husband, though, began telling a story about how his daughter and son-in-law were not only robbed in their sleep, they weren’t even made aware of it until the police knocked on their door and told them. This launched the youngsters into a series of stories of their own. It seemed everyone had been a victim of a crime or knew personally someone who was; such is the world we live in. The couple in their sixties, however, didn’t speak a word. They remained planted on a love seat and held hands while they sipped their wine. Their expression suggested to me that they were waiting for a lull in the conversation so they could excuse themselves and sneak upstairs.
Good for them, my inner voice said.
“How are you going to catch the cat burglar?” the young woman asked me.
“Alice,” her boyfriend said.
“I’m just asking.”
“I’m going to use bait,” I said.
“A woman?” Alice was acting all giggly now, as if this was the first time she had been on vacation without Mom or Dad. “She has a famous diamond and she’s going to keep it on her nightstand and when the burglar sneaks in late at night to steal it, you’re going to leap out of the closet and catch him. Or her. Maybe the cat burglar is a woman. Has anyone thought of that?”
I glanced at the couple on the love seat. They couldn’t believe Alice had said that, either.
“No,” I said. “No diamonds. All I have is cash. And no woman. Sorry.”
“You’re going to catch him when he tries to steal the money,” Alice said.
“Something like that.”
“Can I help?” Alice waved at her friends. “Can we help?”
“It might be dangerous.”
“It sounds like so much fun.”
“I’ll let you know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”
The fifty-something woman spoke in the most derisive voice she could manage.
“Burglar-catching work?” she asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” I said.
I set my empty wineglass on the sideboard and drifted toward the doorway. That was enough to launch the other guests toward their evening activities as well. “Good nights” were exchanged, and a couple “see you at breakfasts.” The sixty-something couple brushed past me and climbed the wooden staircase in a hurry. I managed to catch Connor’s attention.
“I thought you wanted to keep it quiet, the theft of the Countess Borromeo,” I said.
“I’m not going to promote it, but if someone brings it up—you can’t hide from the truth, can you? Besides, I’m starting to wonder if it might not turn out to be good for business after all. There are some B&Bs that hold mystery nights during which customers try to solve murders. There are some that advertise that they’re haunted.”
“Well,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. “Well.”
* * *
I returned to the Peacock Chamber and fired up my PC. The Queen Anne provided free Wi-Fi, and I used it to access the Bayfield County Web site. I found a link for property tax information and one by one typed in the addresses of all the homes in the immediate vicinity of Eleventh Street and Wilson Avenue that I had listed in my notebook. A list of parcels popped up with the names of their owners. Only one stood out—Herb and Heather Voight. Immediately, all manner of theories concerning the missing Stradivarius began ricocheting inside my head that had not been there before.
I glanced at my watch. The fried onion rings had taken the edge off my appetite, yet I decided I would take Chief Neville’s advice and have dinner at the Hill House after all.
* * *
The restaurant was located on the far side of Bayfield, but I didn’t even consider taking the Mustang. I hadn’t jogged that morning, and I felt all the walking I was getting in was making up for it. Besides, I had already consumed three beers and a glass of wine with the promise of even more alcohol, and Chief Neville struck me as a guy who would just love to write up a DUI. It would probably make Officer Pilhofer’s week.
Even though the art galleries, antique stores, and boutiques were closed, there was still plenty of foot traffic. Some of it was heading in the same direction as I was, to Manypenny and Fourth Street. There was a small line waiting outside Hill House, yet it moved quickly. When my turn came, I requested a table for one. The hostess asked if I would mind eating in the bar.
“Not at all,” I told her.
The menu offered a typical tourist-town mix—plenty of whitefish from the lake, pasta, burgers, and pizza. I ordered something called Poop Deck Charlie’s Garlic Chicken Penne and a glass of wine recommended by the bartender, Ravishing Red from Bayfield’s own All Sisters’ Winery. They were both very good.
While I was eating, I asked the bartender if Heather Voight was available. He said he’d check. A few moments later, I heard a voice behind me.
“Mr. McKenzie,” it said. “I was wondering when you’d get around to me.” I spun on my stool. “My, but you’ve been making an awful nuisance of yourself.”
I knew the woman was old enough to have been in the same high school class as the Maestro, yet she didn’t look it. Everything about her appearance—from her well-kept hair and trim figure to her fashionable clothes and knowing smile—made me feel both old and shabby.
“Ms. Voight,” I said.
“Mrs. I’m an old-fashioned girl. You’re welcome to call me Heather, if you like.”
“Your food is very good.”
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I’ve eaten in tourist towns before. I’m sure you have, too.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment, then, and not just sucking up.” She gestured at the empty bar stool next to mine. “May I?”
“Please.”
Heather sat as if she practiced it the way Steve McQueen practiced getting out of his car when making the movie Bullitt—so she’d look cool.
“Mr. McKenzie, did you come here to accuse me of nefarious deeds like you did Lauren?” she asked.
“Just McKenzie. I hear ‘Mr.’ and I turn around to see if my father is standing there.”
I had hoped to elicit a smile, and I received one, only it reminded me of someone’s aunt amused by a child’s attempt at telling a joke and not the joke itself.
Heather didn’t speak, so I did.
“I work for Paul Duclos,” I said.
To prove it, I pulled his letter from my inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. Most people, if you gave them such a document, they would merely glance at it. Heather read every word before handing it back.
“I know Paul is quite anxious about recovering the Countess,” she said. “I know he was quite disappointed when his wife refused to pay the ransom for her safe return.”
“Have you been in contact with him?”
“We have spoken twice since the theft. He didn’t mention you.”
“You could say that I’m a new development in the case.”
“Is Renée aware of what you are attempting to accomplish?”
“Ms. Peyroux is aware, although she does not approve.”
“I do not understand her position, do you?”
“Yes. If more victims behaved as she did, there would be far fewer violins stolen, I think.”
“Perhaps. However, I would expect a woman to take her husband’s side no matter what. If I were married to Paul, I would take his side no matter what. Renée wouldn’t even take his name.”
“You grew up with Duclos. Philip Speegle told me that you two were king and queen of the prom.”
“It was a small prom.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“If you’re asking if Paul and I still have a relationship, the answer is yes. We’ve exchanged Christmas cards. I had dinner with him when he performed at Symphony Center in Chicago a couple of years ago. He surprised me by attending the grand opening of a restaurant I opened in Red Cliff last year. If you’re asking if our relationship has extended beyond that, the answer is no. To suggest otherwise would be base gossip.”
“Understood.”
“Did Philip suggest otherwise?”
“No.”
“Philip and I don’t always get along.”
“Is that because you own half the town?”
“I own only three restaurants, an art gallery, and a motel out on Highway 13. Oh, and a full-service gas station.”
“So just a third of the town, then.”
Heather flung back her head and laughed out loud.
“No, probably not quite that much, either,” she said. “I’ve done well, though. Not only here, but in Washburn and Red Cliff, too.”
“Has your husband helped?”
Heather’s smile softened with her answer.
“No. Herb likes playing with his boats.”
I wanted to ask more about her marriage, yet decided a different time and place would be more appropriate.
“Who thought to invite the Maestro to play in Bayfield?” I asked instead. “Was it you?”
“No, although I was very pleased when he accepted. Ask Zo, our marketing and events planning guru. I believe the idea originated with her. I could be mistaken, however. Why? Is it important?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Is it your intention to merely buy back the Countess Borromeo for Paul or are you also hoping to punish the thieves?”
“The violin comes first.”
“So you’re willing to reward the thieves for stealing the Stradivarius—the very thing Renée is loath to do.”
“I tend to deal with the world as I find it, not as I wish it were.”
“That’s an exceedingly practical attitude.”
“Look up the word in the dictionary and you’ll find my photo next to it.”
“What kind of woman is she?”
“Who? Ms. Peyroux? I spoke to her only for a few moments.”
“What is your impression?”
“Button-down, I think.”
“Does she strike you as someone who likes to have fun?”
“Define fun.”
“What would she give up for love?”
“Nothing. She would want it all.”
Heather grew quiet; her eyes focused on something on the wall that I couldn’t see.
“Why are you here, McKenzie?” she asked.
“I thought the letter made it clear.”
“No, why are you here speaking to me?”
“I’m looking for help.”
“Do you want me to tape an announcement on the front door next to the poster promoting the city’s annual fish fry? Wanted, one used Stradivarius?”
“Not that kind of help.”
“What, then?”
“Heather, why did they find the Countess Borromeo’s empty violin case on the street where you live?”
She got that faraway look in her eyes again, although it didn’t last very long.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You must have a theory.”
“Why must I?”
“Human nature. Most people like a world that’s neat and orderly and easily explained.”
“Mr. McKenzie, I have no explanation as to how the violin case ended up in front of my home, and I do not care to speculate. It has nothing to do with me.”
In the next fifteen seconds, Heather slid off the stool, patted my arm, wished me well in my endeavors, and disappeared into the kitchen of her restaurant. She didn’t offer to pick up the tab as Speegle had done at his place, but then I hadn’t expected her to.
* * *
I paid the bill, left the Hill House, and walked the two blocks to Lakeside Tavern. The music started early in Bayfield and lasted only until 11:00 P.M. I heard it through the bar’s open door from fifty yards away, a four-piece band trying hard to channel Stevie Ray Vaughan with mixed results. I stepped inside. The place was crowded mostly with younger tourists, although there were a few thirty- and forty-somethings sitting toward the back. Ellis saw me standing in the doorway and waved me to a small table that I presumed was in her section.
“Long shift,” I said.
“I don’t mind. If I weren’t working I’d probably be sitting at the bar. Oh, and I want to thank you. That was the best tip I’ve received all month.”
“I remember what it was like to be a struggling college kid.”
“Would you like another South Shore?”
“Sure.”
I settled in while Ellis fetched my pale ale. From where I sat, I could watch both the stage and the front door. There was no bouncer at the door, and I noticed some of the younger customers wandering in and out while carrying their drinks, something you never see in the Cities. A man stepped across the threshold. He and I might have been the only two men in all of Bayfield County who were wearing a sports coat. In fact, except for the color of his Dockers and shirt, he was dressed just like me. I tried not to hold that against him
He stood still while his eyes adjusted to the tavern lights. A kid brushed up against him, nearly spilling a beer on his jacket, yet he barely noticed.
That’s because he’s looking for someone.
The kids on the stage were finishing up another selection from the Stevie Ray Vaughan catalog. Three of them played drums, bass, and lead guitar exclusively, while the fourth alternated between guitar, harmonica, and electric piano. When the applause subsided, they introduced a fifth member of the band from the audience, a young woman who mounted the stage in a dress that covered only a third of her land mass. I didn’t catch her name because Ellis reappeared with my ale. She set the bottle on the table and leaned in so I could hear her.
“I heard some guys talking about the Stradivarius, but I can’t tell you about it right now,” she said. “I’ll tell you later. Okay?”
“Sure.”
Ellis left again just as the woman began singing “Angel from Montgomery.” She did a nice job of it except her voice was young, strong, and crystal clear and conveyed none of the pain the song was meant to communicate.
Only Bonnie Raitt should be allowed to sing this song, my inner voice announced.
Still, the lady received a nice ovation when she finished.
I had finally changed my ringtone, swapping Ella Fitzgerald’s timeless cover of “Summertime” for Louis Armstrong’s famous syncopated opening to “West End Blues,” a fifteen-second cadenza that literally changed American music. It played to me in the brief lull that followed. I glanced at the cell’s caller ID before answering.
“Hey,” I said.
“How are you?” Nina asked. “Staying out of trouble?”
“Just barely. How ’bout you?”
“Typical Tuesday. Nice crowd, not huge.”
“Who’s in the big room?”
“The Willie August Project.”
“Are they going all epic tonight with flutes and vibraphones?”
“No, it’s just the trio.”
“Tell them to play ‘Chilly and the Mustangs’ for me.”
“Do you expect me to hold the phone up so you can listen?”
“Now that you mention it.”
“I hear music. Where are you?”
For some reason, the question nudged me into looking around the bar as if my subconscious needed to confirm my location. The man in the sports coat was now sitting on a stool near the door and drinking from a white coffee mug.
“I’m at the Lakeside Tavern listening to some kids play the blues,” I said.
“Anyone I should hear?”
“Not yet. Maybe in a couple of years after they learn their craft.”
“What’s the name of the band?”
I told her, and she paused long enough to write it down. Nina liked to keep track of talent and over the years had managed to give a boost to several unknown acts that hadn’t stayed unknown for long. Esperanza Spalding came to mind.
“When are you coming home?” Nina asked.
“In a couple of days. If I haven’t heard anything by then … It’s a bit of a long shot, anyway. People keep telling me that the thieves who stole the Stradivarius are probably long gone, and they’re probably right.” I glanced at the man in the sports coat again. “There are a couple of things that don’t quite jibe, though.”
“There are always a couple of things that don’t quite jibe.”
“True. Very true.”
I noticed Philip Speegle standing at the side of the stage. He was attempting to catch my eye without catching the eyes of everyone else. I gave him a head nod.
“I have to go,” I said. “The club owner wants to speak to me.”
“Is she as pretty as I am?”
“He most certainly is not, but then who is?”
“Good answer. Call me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
* * *
I slipped past Ellis, telling her I’d be right back, and made my way to the side of the stage. Speegle took my arm and led me down a short corridor to a small office. He shut the door behind us, effectively muffling most of the noise.
“Do you like this music?” he asked.
“If aliens invade the Earth, it won’t be for our technology. They’ll be coming for the blues.”
Speegle wagged his finger at me.
“I like that answer. I don’t believe it, but I like it.”
Are you going to tell him that you stole the line from Wynton Marsalis? my inner voice asked. I didn’t think so.
Speegle moved to a credenza that was shoved against the wall behind his desk. A bottle of Booker’s and a stack of glasses were on top of it. He filled two glasses and handed one to me without asking. I said, “Thank you,” and took a sip of the bourbon because I’m nothing if not polite.
“Any progress?” Speegle asked.
“I expect major developments at any moment.”
“That’s what the cops said. I didn’t believe them, either.”
“Give me time, I’ve only been here seven hours.”
“Have you spoken to Heather? What did the Great Lady have to say?”
“I take it you don’t like her much.”
“Truth is, I like her very much. Don’t tell her I said that.”
“You’ve had your ups and downs, though.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That you’ve had your ups and downs.”
“We were born six hours apart on the same day in the same hospital, God’s truth—the same doctor and nurses delivered us. Did she tell you that?”
“No.”
“You’d think that would have created a bond between us.”
Speegle finished his drink with one giant gulp, turned his back on me, and reached for the Booker’s. A moment later, he spun back and let me see him drink half of the bourbon he had poured into his glass.
“I’ve been thinking how I can help you,” Speegle said.
“I appreciate that.”
“I think you should speak to Zofia McLean. She works for the chamber; handles our marketing and events.”
“You told me that already, although not her name.”
“I did? Huh. Must’ve forgotten.”
Speegle took another pull on his bourbon.
“Tell me about the Great Lady,” I said.
“Heather…” He drew the name out as if it were a lyric to a song. “You know who you should talk to, really talk to? Herb. Herb Voight. He can tell you a thing or two.”
“Was he here when the theft took place?”
“No, he wasn’t here, I don’t think. That’s cuz he was out on his goddamn boat like usual. But Herb, he sees things. He’s the nicest guy in the world, but he sees things.”
“What does he see?”
“Things. Things. They say the husband is always the last to know. That’s not true. He’s always the first to know, just the last one to admit it.”
“Are you saying that Heather is cheating on him?”
“I didn’t say that. I never said that. Don’t be putting words in my mouth, McKenzie. I didn’t say that about Heather.”
“My mistake.”
“Goddamn right. But McKenzie. You should talk to him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Speegle. It’s kind of you to help.” I finished the Booker’s and set the empty glass on his desk. “Thanks for the drink, too.”
Speegle slumped in the chair behind the desk and balanced his glass on the arm.
“’Sokay,” he said.
I left the office, being sure to tightly close the door behind me.
* * *
Ellis caught my arm as I was heading back to the table.
“What I said before, about some guys talking about the Stradivarius?” she said. “One of them came back. There were three of them, and they left before the band came on. Now one of them is back, and he asked me, did I know McKenzie?”
“What did you say?”
“I said yes but that you weren’t here.”
“Is he still around?”
Ellis turned and looked down the length of the bar.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you know his name?”
“Curtis Shanklin. He works summers as a guide for Apostle Island Adventures outside town; gives kayak tours of the caves. This is his third year. Otherwise, he’s at a school somewhere in Southern California.”
“He goes there?”
“No, he teaches.”
“Ellis, you are worth your weight in gold.”
She actually patted her stomach as if she were wondering if she should put on a few pounds.
“Give me a minute to get back to my table,” I said. “Then tell him who I am, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Bring me another South Shore, too, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
I returned to my table. The band was on a break. A couple of the musicians were leaning on the stick and drinking bottled beer. A half-dozen guys were vying for the attention of the singer. I didn’t blame them. If I had been twenty years younger, the dress she almost wore would have seized my attention as well.
Only a couple of moments passed before a young man approached my table. He looked as if he had been out of college for about three years; his hair was sandy and his face windswept like he spent a lot of time on the water.
“McKenzie,” he said. “I wanna talk to you. Outside. Now.”
Shanklin moved toward the door. He stopped when he realized that I wasn’t following him. He quickly returned to the table.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he asked.
“Manners,” I said, “is how we show respect to one another.”
“Huh?”
Ellis appeared with my ale. She dropped a napkin with the bar’s name and logo in front of me and set the bottle of South Shore on top of it before removing the empty. Not once did she look at Shanklin or me.
I pointed at an empty chair.
“Sit,” I said.
I deliberately refrained from using his name or what little else I knew about him. Knowledge really was power, and I wanted to hit him with it when it would do the most good.
“I said outside,” Shanklin said.
“I said sit.”
He set one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the tabletop. He leaned in close. His breath was scented with nachos and beer.
“If you ever want to see the violin again, you’ll do exactly as I say,” he said.
“Yes, but then I’d be an idiot. Look here…”
I removed the bottle from the napkin and pulled a pen from a pocket. I carefully wrote my e-mail address on the napkin and slid it across the table toward him.
“Take a photo of the violin and send it to me. If it looks like the real thing, maybe then I’ll go with you.”
“You can come see it now. It’s outside.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Shanklin’s expression suggested that I had genuinely hurt his feelings. He stuffed the napkin in his pocket.
“Do you have the money?” he asked. “The $250,000?”
I made a show of patting my pockets.
“Not on me,” I said. “You can tell that to your two friends outside in case they decide to jump me when I leave.”
Shanklin flinched when I mentioned his friends.
“Where is the money?” he asked.
“You haven’t done this sort of thing before, have you? The money’s not in Bayfield. I can get it, though, in a reasonable amount of time, half in twenties and half in fifties, if you actually have the Stradivarius.”
“I have it.”
“Then I’ll be delighted to conduct business with you. Now, off you go. Oh, and in the future—behave like a professional and not a thug, okay?”
Shanklin didn’t like that at all. Any other time he would have made it a test of strength between us. He might have tried it anyway except for the way I smiled at him.
“You’re one fucked-up old man,” he said.
Old man?
He left. I watched him go, but only so I could search for the man in the sports coat while pretending not to. He was still sitting on the stool near the door, except now he was playing with his smartphone. I wondered if he took a pic of the kid. I had no doubt he already had mine.
* * *
The band came on for its final set, only by then I had already heard enough. I paid cash for the ale, once again leaving a hefty tip for Ellis, and headed for the door. The man in the sports coat did a nice job of not noticing.
I stepped outside and stretched while taking in a lungful of cool, clean air. Bayfield had quieted down considerably by then. I saw only a handful of people on the street and only a few vehicles, all of them on the main drag.
I headed west toward the Queen Anne. I walked only a couple of blocks, yet downtown had already become a blur of lights in the distance. Lamps still burned in some of the homes I passed, and occasionally I saw the flickering blue-gray hue of a TV, but most of the houses were dark. Early to bed, early to rise, I thought. I already missed the city.
The farther I moved away from downtown, the darker and quieter it became. My shoes on the pavement made the only sound I heard until— Tap. Tap. Tap. The noise startled me. I stopped walking and listened.
Tap. Tap. Tap. It reminded me of the dripping of a faucet. I pivoted slowly to determine where the sound was coming from and failed.
Huh.
I continued walking. The sound became louder; it reverberated almost like an echo. I stopped again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
What the hell?
Granted, I was feeling a little light-headed by then—after all, I had consumed five beers, two glasses of wine, and a shot of bourbon since late afternoon. Still … My first thought was that Shanklin and his pals were stalking me, yet there was no sign of them.
The man in the sports coat? Officer Pilhofer?
I couldn’t see them, either.
My hand went to my hip where I would have holstered my gun, but what I had told Chief Neville earlier was the truth—I wasn’t carrying in Bayfield. Instead, my nine-millimeter SIG Sauer was nestled against the spare tire in the trunk of the Mustang. I kept walking.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Up ahead I spied a dim light. It disappeared, reappeared, disappeared, and then I saw it again. I slowed my pace. The light seemed to be attached to a shadow. The shadow moved beneath a yellow streetlamp. It was a figure of a woman. She was wearing a dark cloak with the hood pulled over her head and carrying a lantern. In her hand was a walking stick—no, a staff with some kind of crystal fixed to the top. I called to her even as I sped up.
“Miss? Excuse me. Miss?”
The shadow passed through the streetlamp’s circle of light and disappeared into darkness.
I started jogging. I reached the streetlamp and kept going in the direction of the shadow. I could no longer see the lantern. I stopped.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I moved forward again. I thought I saw the light up ahead, yet when I reached the spot, it was gone.
“Miss?”
I seemed to be alone at the edge of a park; there was an iron bridge spanning a deep gorge and plenty of trees.
Tap. Tap …
The noise stopped.
I waited for it to continue; heard only silence.
Minutes passed.
This is what comes from mixing your drinks, my inner voice told me.
* * *
It was 11:00 P.M. when I returned to the Queen Anne. I saw no one and heard nothing as I climbed the wooden steps and went to my room. I was more than half in the bag, but at least I knew it. I set my alarm and lay down fully clothed on the bed. It took me about two minutes to fall asleep.
The alarm went off at exactly 3:00 A.M.—the “witching hour,” although I’d be damned if I knew why demons would prefer that time of night; the shadow I had encountered earlier was wandering the streets closer to ten thirty. I silenced the alarm as quickly as I could for fear of waking my neighbors. Afterward, I stepped into the washroom and threw water on my face. I dried off and moved to the door. I put my ear against it. Heard nothing. I opened the door and stepped through it. I wasn’t singing bar songs, yet I wasn’t being particularly quiet either. Instead, I walked down the stairs and out the front door as if I owned the place.
The streets of Bayfield were empty; there was no pedestrian traffic and no vehicles of any kind. I walked slowly around the block. No one asked who I was or where I was going, no dogs barked, and I heard no tap, tap, tapping, only the sound of leaves trembling in the light breeze.
I reentered the Queen Anne. This time I moved slowly and carefully, as a thief might. I mounted the wooden stairs, transferring my weight from foot to foot in search of a creak. There was none. I walked all the way up to the third floor. The door to the Queen Anne Suite was at the far end of the corridor. It was closed, as I would have expected. I carefully gripped the doorknob and tried to turn it. It was locked. I rested the flat of my hand against the wood and counted slowly to ten. No one shouted, no one screamed, no one demanded to know who was out there. I stepped back and slowly made my way to my own room. I had heard no one, and apparently no one had heard me.
It could have been done like that, my inner voice told me. Assuming Paul Duclos wasn’t a light sleeper, the Countess Borromeo could have been taken just that way.
So why didn’t I believe it?
* * *
My alarm went off again. This time it was 6:00 A.M. I opened my door and stepped into the corridor. There was movement in the room occupied by the sixty-something couple. I liked the idea that they were getting some early morning delight; I thought it spoke well for my future.
I took the staircase up. There was a morning news program playing softly from a TV behind the door of Victoria’s Room, yet nothing from the Queen Anne Suite.
I took the staircase all the way down. This time I heard noises emanating from the kitchen and a woman’s voice singing that she was all about the bass, the bass, no treble. Not Connor, I decided. Probably a cook he hired to prepare breakfast. I would have to learn when she arrived in the morning and what her routine was.
I returned to my room. True, I didn’t see anyone, and no one saw me, yet the likelihood of encountering traffic made breaking into Duclos’s room and stealing the Stradivarius while he was on his morning walk less viable. ’Course, I never cared for that theory anyway.