Bayfield Superior Marina practically glistened the way sunlight reflected off the water and the boats riding in their slips. I studied it from a metal bench in Memorial Park. The benches were all angled to look out at Lake Superior and Madeline Island beyond. Anyone watching Paul Duclos play from the gazebo on the corner would have had to sit sideways. ’Course, there had been so many people in the park that night, even those who had arrived early enough to secure seats probably ended up standing to see anyway.
The marina was tucked behind imposing breakers. Children and their parents crawled over the rocks and concrete, but there were no tourists walking the docks. The man who operated the marina explained to me that permission was required to gain access to the boats.
“Many of our guests, at least during the season, this is their home,” he said. “You’d be amazed how many people live on their boats.”
I asked if Herb Voight was on his boat. He didn’t know, but he allowed me to take a look. I walked along the docks until I reached slip number 77; the marina boasted 135 slips, and the man said 110 were rented for the season. I discovered a thirty-footer there with the name Heather II printed across the transom. I knew enough about boats to know that you don’t hop on board without asking permission first; that would be like walking into someone’s house without knocking.
“Ahoy,” I called. “Anyone aboard?”
There was no answer.
“Mr. Voight?”
“He’p ya, son?”
The question came from a man standing on the deck of another thirty-foot boat that provided full accommodations in the slip next to Heather II. He was much older than me with white hair, and so thin I was sure a heavy wind could pick him up and carry him across the lake at any moment.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I was looking for Mr. Voight.”
“Not here.”
“I guess not. Maybe I’ll find him at his mansion on Wilson.”
I tossed in that last bit so the old man would think I knew Voight personally.
“More likely he’s out getting himself some breakfast,” the old man said. “Buy ya a beer while ya wait?”
“I haven’t turned down a free beer in my life.”
“Come aboard.”
I did.
“Name’s Jack,” the old man said. “Jack Westlund.”
His way of shaking hands was to hand me a Leinenkugel.
“McKenzie,” I said.
I took the beer and drank.
“Good morning, Bayfield,” I said.
“Attaboy. So, whaddya want wit’ Voight? Can I ask?”
“I’m looking into the theft of the Stradivarius.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Isn’t that somethin’? No crime in Bayfield t’ speak of for God knows how long, and then this. ’Mazing.”
“Are you from Bayfield?”
“Me? Nah. From Fitchburg down by Madison. Retired a few years back and now come up here t’ stay durin’ the summer. Some people have lake homes. This is my home. Superior is my lake.”
“That is so cool,” I said. I meant it, too.
“I like it,” Jack said.
“May I ask how all this works?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“You rent a slip in the marina for the summer, am I right?”
“You are correct, sir.”
“Do you just come and go as you please?”
“Yeah, man. That’s what makes it fun. Go across t’ Isle Royale or Grand Marais, up to Houghton, whatever. Sometimes, I’ll just scoot over t’ the Apostles, find a protected anchorage, drop anchor, lower the dingy, barbecue on the beach, catch some rays. You’d be surprised. Some nights you’d see a hundred boats out there from all over Superior. Just one big party.”
“You don’t inform the marina when you leave?”
“Oh, oh, I see what you’re askin’. Well, yeah, sometimes. See, what you do, if you’re gonna be gone overnight or for maybe a couple of nights, you might pass the word. That way they can rent out your slip t’ some other boat while you’re gone; get yourself a few bucks rebate on your rent, you know? I do it all the time. Fixed income, what can I say?”
“How about Voight?”
“Doubt he bothers. Man has more money than God. At least the old lady does.”
“When you travel, do you file … what’s the seagoing equivalent of a flight plan?”
“Float plan.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go over t’ the Coast Guard station across the way and let ’em know what’s going on. Leastways I do. On long trips, I mean. Let ’em know if I’m crossing over t’ Canada or what. Most people don’t bother, though. It’s not required by law or nuthin’. I don’t do it myself if I’m just takin’ a short trip, huggin’ the shoreline to Duluth or someplace like that. Why bother?”
“Were you here for the big concert?”
“Yeah, I was. Sittin’ right where you are now, sippin’ Leinie’s, the music comin’ across the water, oh man, it was beautiful. I’m not what you’d call a classical music fan. Give me Hank or Johnny, any day. The way that boy was playin’—it made me reconsider, you know?”
“Was Voight here, too?”
“That was the damnedest thing. He wasn’t here. Then he was. Then he wasn’t. What I mean—he wasn’t here for the concert. Or the big after-party, neither. Him or his boat. He didn’t tie up till—I was asleep until like close to one o’clock. That’s when I hear ’im. I peek outta the porthole. He’s got a woman wit’ him, Heather, I figure, so I roll over, go back to sleep. Next mornin’, Voight and the boat is gone. I don’t see him again till Friday afternoon. Now, they done that many times before, him and Heather just takin’ off in the boat. But after midnight? What’s that about?”
“Are you sure it was Heather?”
“Who else?”
* * *
We chatted some more, although I changed the subject—I didn’t want Jack to wonder why I was asking so many questions about Voight. He offered me a second Leinie’s. I declined, telling him that I needed to get back to it, without actually explaining what that meant. He told me to drop by anytime.
A few minutes later, I was back on shore and walking along First Street. Tourists interested in kayaking to the sea caves, boating, fishing, hiking, and other physical activities were already up and at it. Those planning a day of leisurely sightseeing and shopping, though, were mostly still at breakfast; the galleries and stores had not yet opened to greet them. Which meant the streets of Bayfield were virtually empty. Which made it ridiculously easy for me to spot the man I saw at the Lakeside Tavern the previous evening.
He was sitting on a bench outside the Bayfield Maritime Museum, and since I had switched to shirtsleeves, I could say with confidence that he was now the only man in Bayfield County wearing a sports coat. It was already seventy-three degrees with the weatherman’s promise of another ten later in the day, so I was pretty sure the jacket was meant to hide a gun. That was just a guess, though.
He buried his face in a tourist newspaper as I walked past. I pretended not to notice him. I didn’t want him to start working harder at conducting his surveillance; I found it far more comforting to know exactly where he was at all times.
Still, I had to wonder—who the hell was this guy?
* * *
The high school girl sitting behind the desk at the Bayfield Chamber of Commerce–slash–Visitor Bureau viewed my presence with alarm. She didn’t even wait until I told her what I wanted before she was on her feet and seeking assistance in the offices behind her. A woman appeared that I had not seen during my previous visit. She was tall and slim, and her brown eyes watched me as if she were afraid she might miss something important if she looked away.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Yes. I’d like to speak with Zofia McLean.”
“I’m Zofia.”
“Zo.” I smiled brightly and offered my hand like we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a while. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m McKenzie.”
She shook my hand reluctantly. People in Wisconsin were nearly as polite as those living in Minnesota, but not quite.
“I’m told that you’re the marketing and events manager for Bayfield,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Both Heather Voight and Philip Speegle suggested that I speak to you.”
“They did?”
“Is now convenient?”
“If it doesn’t take too long.”
“How ’bout outside? It’s such a beautiful day.”
“I guess that would be all right.”
I went to the front door and held it open for her. She stepped past cautiously. I didn’t know what others had told her about me, but it seemed to have made her nervous.
There was a garden outside the gray and rose-colored building with a bench in the middle of it—there were benches everywhere you looked in Bayfield. I glanced around as we sat yet didn’t see the man in the sports coat, which didn’t mean he couldn’t see me.
“I want to apologize first of all,” I said. “I certainly didn’t mean to agitate you or your colleagues when I arrived yesterday.”
“Oh, McKenzie, of course you did.”
“I’m here to help recover the stolen Stradivarius—”
“I know. I suppose everyone in Bayfield knows by now.”
“I have a letter from Paul Duclos.”
“I know that, too.”
So much for being nervous, my inner voice said.
“You seem to think that the theft of the violin is a good thing for Bayfield,” Zofia said. “You are so wrong.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. However”—I held up a finger to emphasize my point—“recovering it could only be to your advantage, am I right?”
“What is it that you want?”
“I’m told that you’re the one who invited the Maestro to play in your Concert in the Park series.”
“Yes—regrettably.”
“How did that come about?”
“I contacted the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, and they put me in touch with a man who put me in touch with another man who put me in touch with Duclos.”
“Yes, but whose idea was it?”
“Mine.”
“You knew that Duclos was a Bayfield native?”
“Certainly.”
“Are you from Bayfield?”
“No. I’m originally from Milwaukee. I attended Marquette University. When I graduated, I moved up here and took the assistant’s job that Amy has now. When my boss—the woman who was the city’s marketing director before me—when she moved on I was promoted into her spot. That was three years ago. Since then I’ve often been told that the great Maestro grew up in Bayfield and that I should arrange to have him return for a concert, only he’s a world-class violinist and I have a limited budget.”
“Who told you?”
“About Duclos? Heather Voight, for one. The mayor, Lauren Ternes, dozens of people.”
“Did you know that Heather and Duclos were high school sweethearts?”
“It’s no secret. There’s a photograph of the two of them in Egg-Ceptional.”
“Egg-Ceptional?”
“Egg-Ceptional Breakfast and Bakery. It’s one of Heather’s restaurants. Just up the street. I’m surprised you haven’t been there. It’s probably the most popular spot in Bayfield.”
“How did the concert come about?”
“It was the result of pure desperation. Have you ever heard of Big Top Chautauqua?”
“No.”
“How do I explain those guys? Big Top Chautauqua is a kind of weekly down-home variety show performed mostly in an eight-hundred-seat circus tent on top of Mount Ashwabay some miles south of here. I say mostly because Big Top also tours. Excerpts of their performances are broadcast across the country in an hour-long radio program called Tent Show Radio, usually on public stations. It’s very popular. They’ve had artists like Johnny Cash, B. B. King, Lyle Lovett, and Willie Nelson sitting in.
“For our concerts, we try to book a variety of acts—folk, bluegrass, country-western, jazz, whatever—mostly from around the region, mostly lesser-known artists who meet our budget. Sometimes, though, we’re able to lure the better-known artists who come up here to do Big Top Chautauqua. They’re going to be in the area anyway, and if they can fit us into their schedule, some figure why not? They’re entertainers, after all. They like to entertain. We play up the venue, too—the open-air park, the gazebo, the lake. A lot of musicians seem to really like that. One group actually recorded their performance for a live album, although I never did hear what happened about that.
“Two weeks ago, well, closer to three now, the group that we had scheduled, who was also scheduled to play Big Top, canceled on both of us. Something about a car accident. Big Top had the resources to deal with that; all they needed to do was pick up a phone. Only there was no guarantee that their replacement act would have had the time to play Bayfield, or even that it would want to. So I needed to find someone else who was going to be in the area and who had an empty date on their calendar. That’s when I thought—why not give Duclos a try? I knew he was going to be in Duluth with the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra; WHWA-FM, the local public radio station, had been promoting the concert. I made my calls, and damn if he didn’t agree. For free, even.
“The people at Big Top were very jealous, but everyone else was excited as can be. And everyone did what I wanted; I hardly needed to ask. The local radio stations, even Real Rock J96, played up the concert. Flyers went up everywhere. Heather agreed to host both a welcome-home dinner and the postconcert reception at Hill House. Connor Rasmussen agreed to put up the Maestro at the Queen Anne on Wednesday and Thursday nights at no charge. I was a hero. Then the Stradivarius was stolen and now I’m not.”
“What about Geoff Pascoe?”
“That was the one condition from Duclos. He wanted someone to play piano with him. Someone really good, although he didn’t specify what that meant. I knew Pascoe because he had played for us once before; he had a master’s in music from UMD and played with the Duluth Superior Orchestra. I gave him a call, and he jumped at the chance to accompany the great man. I didn’t learn until later that he actually canceled a job so he could do it. He said he’d perform for free, too, but I gave him a stipend anyway.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He lives in Superior. Do you want his phone number and address?”
“Yes, please.”
Zofia went into the building. While she was gone I wandered the garden and pretended to look at the flowers while searching for the man in the sports coat. I couldn’t find him. I was surprised by how apprehensive that made me feel. Zofia returned with a square of paper that she thrust into my hand. I think she was anxious to be rid of me. I moved her back to the bench just the same.
“Did you spend much time with Duclos?” I asked her.
“I didn’t let him out of my sight from the moment he arrived. I escorted him to and from the Queen Anne, to the dinner, sight-seeing around Bayfield the next day, to the park for rehearsals, to the reception. I did everything but tuck him in at night, and I might have done that, too, if he had asked.”
My, my, my, my inner voice chanted.
“Are you telling me he was never alone?” I asked aloud.
“Not before the concert, anyway. After the reception, he said he was going to bed early, and when I offered to drive him to the Queen Anne he told me to stay and enjoy myself, and, yeah, I wasn’t there when he went for his walk the next morning, either. I should have been. People say I should have been.”
“That’s because they’re looking for someone to blame. It isn’t you, Zofia. From what I’ve heard, you were fabulous.”
“That might not help. My contract comes up for renewal at the end of summer.”
“Who did Duclos see while he was here?”
“Everybody.”
“Everybody?”
“Ev-er-ry-bod-y. The mayor shook his hand, the common council members, most of the chamber; old friends from when he used to live here; neighbors who knew his family before they moved away—I never saw so many selfies being taken in my life. I thought the Maestro would get annoyed after a while, but if he did, he didn’t show it. He was lovely to everyone he met.”
“Was he more lovely to anyone in particular?”
“You mean besides Heather? I don’t think he was ever more than a dozen feet away from her either at the welcome-home dinner or the postconcert reception the next evening. I told you about the prom picture—it must have been a helluva night, because it’s almost forty-five years later and they were still all touchy-feely. My date to prom, I hope he falls off a mountain.”
“Did anyone show particular interest in the violin?”
“Not that I noticed. You know what, though? I knew it was a Stradivarius. I knew it was worth a fortune. Yet I didn’t pay a moment’s attention to it from the time he arrived. I don’t remember anyone else asking about it, either. It was just a violin; something he carried, you know?”
“I know.”
“Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“Not as odd as I thought a couple days ago.”
“McKenzie, some people—at least people in the chamber—they’re upset that you’re here. They want all this business to just go away. If you actually do find the violin, though, it might save my job.”
“I’ll do my best.”
* * *
Now that I was armed with Zofia’s note, my first thought was to give Geoff Pascoe a call and arrange a meeting. Yet when I moved from the bench to the sidewalk in front of the tourist bureau, I was able to read a sign just up the street—EGG-CEPTIONAL BREAKFAST AND BAKERY—and two facts collided in the back of my head, causing me to change my mind. The first was Jack Westlund telling me that he thought Herb Voight had gone to get breakfast. The second was Zofia telling me that the Egg-Ceptional was the most popular spot in Bayfield.
I walked the half block. A bell tinkled above my head when I entered, adding to the noise inside. There was a kitchen, a half-dozen glass cases filled with bakery goods, and plenty of tables with picnic-style tablecloths. Most of the tables were occupied. I asked the woman behind the cash register if Voight was around. She pointed behind me. There was a hole in the wall. Apparently, Egg-Ceptional had expanded from that one room to the building next door. There were about a hundred framed photographs on the wall between the two rooms. I found one with Heather Voight dressed in a soft blue shift-dress and wearing a wrist corsage. She was posing with Paul Duclos, who was dressed in a fawn-colored tuxedo with dark brown lapels and a tie that reminded me of the arms on a windmill. They were both smiling happily, and I wondered, Were they ever really that young? Was I?
I stepped through the hole in the wall and found more tables filled with customers and waitresses serving them. No waiters, I noticed.
There was a sixty-something man sitting alone at a small table by the window reading a copy of the Ashland Daily Press over the remains of his meal. I took a chance and went up to him.
“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.
Connor was waiting for me in the foyer.
“Do you always have this effect on women?” he asked.
“I’d say maybe three out of four. By the way, have you seen Caroline Kaminsky?”
“Not since breakfast. Why? Are you going to insult her, too?”
“You never know.”
“She’s not who she claims to be, is she? She doesn’t work for the DNR.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You’re friends. I could tell by the way that you looked at each other, the way you spoke to each other. I’ve been doing this a long time, McKenzie, running B&Bs, a motel in Door County. I’ve seen people meet unexpectedly before.” He air-quoted the word “unexpectedly” with his fingers. “Except the meetings aren’t unexpected, are they? Most of the time they’re very carefully arranged by people who want to be together without anyone knowing. You two—you and Caroline were actually surprised to see each other at breakfast; the meeting wasn’t arranged. That doesn’t change anything, though. You’re still friends.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Caroline is looking for the Stradivarius, too, isn’t she? She thinks I stole it. That’s why she’s staying here. I didn’t do it, McKenzie. Why won’t people believe me?”
“I believe you.”
The way he turned and walked away, I knew he thought I was lying.
* * *
A few minutes later, I was safely ensconced in the Peacock Chamber, my shoes off, and sprawled out on the king-sized bed. My smartphone was pressed against my ear. It rang four times before Vincent Donatucci answered.
“Did you find the violin?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Is there anyone in the insurance business who’s pleasant to talk to?”
“I didn’t mean it that way. When I saw your name on the caller ID I thought you might have had good news.”
“Well, news, anyway. Tell me—Midwest Farmers didn’t fire all of its investigators, did it?”
“Of course not. It still has field agents; it still has a special investigative unit.”
“Then what is Midwest’s chief investigator doing in Bayfield telling me to go away and not come back?”
“Maryanne Altavilla is in Bayfield?”
“She confronted me at the bed-and-breakfast. Threatened to lock me up and throw away the key.”
“Maryanne knows better than that. I trained her, for God’s sake.”
“Nonetheless…”
“Besides, she has people who can do that, do the heavy lifting; people who are good at it.”
“Exactly.”
“Something must have happened. Maryanne is a busy woman. At least she should be. For her to drop everything and go up there personally—what did you do?”
“All I’ve done so far is make my presence known to the local cops and a couple of Bayfield bigwigs.”
I gave him details because I knew he’d want to hear them. He paused long enough before replying that I thought my network might have dropped the call.
“Heavenly Petryk is in Bayfield, too?” he asked.
“I thought you’d remember her.”
“Oh, I remember, all right. What does she know about the theft?”
“Probably a lot more than we do, but she’s not saying.”
“That’s our girl.”
“She doesn’t worry me, though. What worries me is Altavilla. It can’t be the money, can it? Midwest can’t be concerned that if I recover the Countess and corral the thieves, it’ll have to pony up the quarter-mil reward?”
“No, hell no. These guys are always concerned about the bottom line, but the reward money, it’s insured.”
“For the record, I purposely leaned on Altavilla, leaned heavily. She didn’t give an inch.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just making an observation.”
“She’s an amateur. She doesn’t know the job.”
She’ll learn, my inner voice said.
“Something else,” Donatucci added. “From what you’re telling me, Maryanne is all but saying that Midwest Farmers and the Peyroux Foundation don’t actually want to recover the Stradivarius.”
“Seems no one cares. Except the Maestro. And you.”
“And Heavenly Petryk.”
“Yeah, her, too.”