Stealing the Countess (25 page)

How incredibly awful, I thought but didn't say.

“Do you think that might have influenced some of my life choices?” Heavenly asked.

I didn't respond to that either.

“Best French,” she said.

“Le Papillon in Toronto near the Hockey Hall of Fame.”

“Is that why you went there, because it was near the Hall of Fame?”

“I was in the neighborhood, what can I say? Best Mexican?”

Before Heavenly could answer, though, my smartphone pinged. I read a text sent by a cell with a Duluth phone number.

Go to Wade Stadium and wait.

“We're on,” I said.

 

FOURTEEN

It was a ten-minute drive from Canal Park to Wade Stadium, where the Duluth-Superior Dukes minor league baseball team used to play. I parked in the deserted lot. To kill time, I told Heavenly about watching Ila Borders pitch for the Dukes against the St. Paul Saints when both teams were in the Northern League.

“Second woman to start an NCAA men's college baseball game and the first to play pro ball since Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier,” I said. “She was very good at locating her pitches, but you're not going to make it to the Show with an eighty-mile-an-hour fastball.”

“This is silly.”

“A woman playing professional baseball? I don't know. Someday.”

“I mean moving us around like this. What does Ruland hope to accomplish?”

“Probably wants to see if we're being followed.”

“The man's never heard of GPS? Cell phones? You could be making a call right now on the car's system without taking your hands off the steering wheel. Who is this guy anyway?”

“I told you; thinks of himself as a master criminal. Are you sure you never heard of him?”

“Why would I?”

“Well, you are competitors.”

“I am not a criminal, McKenzie. I wish people would stop calling me that. Especially insurance companies.”

“What are you, then?”

“I'm a salvage specialist.”

My smartphone pinged again.

Miller Hill Mall. Walk the concourse. Don't look for me. I'll see you.

*   *   *

Much of Duluth is built on the side of a steep hill facing Lake Superior, not quite as bad as San Francisco, but close. The Miller Hill Mall, as the name suggests, is located at the top of the hill. It has over a hundred stores, a food court, and several chain restaurants; it resembles for the most part every shopping mall you've ever been in. We wandered the concourse as instructed. I thought there would be more kids hanging around. The fact that there weren't actually made me feel better.

Instead of a ping, my cell played “West End Blues” just as we passed Pink, a store owned by Victoria's Secret that Nina wouldn't have been caught dead in but Erica seemed to like, judging by the sweatshirt she sometimes wore.

“I'm here,” I said.

“Who's the girl?”

“What girl?”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“My friend.”

“Doesn't mean she's mine.”

“On the contrary, she hates Vincent Donatucci almost as much as you do.”

Ruland—I assumed it was Ruland—thought it over for a moment before chuckling.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he said.

“Exactly right.”

“Fitger's Brewhouse—ever hear of it?”

“I'm familiar.”

“That's your next stop.”

“You know, Trevor”—I deliberately used his first name—“I'm not trying to jam you up.”

“Others might. Donatucci comes to mind.”

“Okay.”

“Don't lollygag, McKenzie.”

Ruland hung up. I slipped the smartphone into my pocket. Heavenly had a what-now expression on her face.

“Mustn't lollygag,” I told her.

“Wouldn't think of it.”

*   *   *

We found Fitger's Brewhouse attached to the upscale Fitger's Inn at the bottom of the hill on the north side of downtown Duluth. I knew from experience that it served pretty good pub food and craft beers, but the PortLand Malt Shoppe next door—I liked it better.

I parked in an empty space in the lot between the two businesses and was debating which direction to go—toward a Bourbon Barrel Aged Stout or Black Raspberry Truffle Shake—when my cell rang again.

“McKenzie,” I said.

“You're doing fine.”

“Good to know.”

“Now I want you to take the Lakewalk.”

“Take it where?”

“To the Old Standby Lighthouse. You can see it from where you're standing.”

The canal I told you about, the one that separated Minnesota Point and Canal Park and allowed freighters to sail from Lake Superior into the Duluth Harbor Basin? The lighthouse was located at the far tip of the north pier, giving the ships a dependable landmark to steer by. It wasn't more than a couple hundred yards from the restaurant where we started.

“I see it,” I said.

“On your way.”

I hung up the cell phone.

“We're walking,” I said.

“Walking where?” Heavenly asked.

“Back to Canal Park.”

“Okay, now I'm starting to get miffed.”

“It's only a mile and a half.”

*   *   *

We took a concrete and iron staircase from the parking lot down to the Lakewalk, a pedestrian and bike path that closely followed the shoreline of Lake Superior for pretty much the entire length of Duluth. We caught it at about the midpoint and followed it south.

I noticed Heavenly wince a few times, adjust her sling, and roll her shoulder as if seeking relief.

“Does it hurt to walk?” I asked.

“It doesn't help.”

“Could be worse. You could be wearing heels.”

“Shut up, McKenzie.”

We kept walking, first along the edge of downtown and, after we angled east, past a couple of hotels with expensive views of the lake. There were plenty of benches to sit on, most of them occupied by tourists, and huge rocks to crawl over. I asked Heavenly if she wanted to rest, but she declined.

The north pier, which completed one side of the canal, was built of concrete and steel and was very long. Tourists strolled the length of it to the lighthouse, took turns snapping photographs and selfies with the Old Standby and the big water behind them, and walked back to Canal Park. We joined the parade. I tried not to stare at the visitors sitting on benches or lingering at the concrete railing as we passed, yet couldn't help wondering if any of them were staring at me.

Once we reached the lighthouse, I asked Heavenly if she wanted me to take her photo.

“You can send it to your mom,” I said.

“Very funny.”

“I'm serious.”

She didn't believe me, though. I don't know why.

We hung around for a few minutes. My smartphone neither rang nor pinged. We drifted to the railing. I leaned against it; Heavenly stood as straight as possible. I knew she was in pain yet trying hard not to show it. Pride, I guess. We gazed across the water toward the city. And waited.

“Maybe he changed his mind,” Heavenly said.

“Maybe.”

I was watching with my peripheral vision a man sitting alone on a bench just a few yards from us. People tended to dress casually Up North. Probably that's true of people everywhere who live outside the big city, or in our case, the Cities, what people who don't live there call Minneapolis and St. Paul. Yet this gentleman was wearing a silk suit, silk shirt and tie, and black brogues. He looked like he was waiting for a limo to take him to the Concert Hall at the Ordway to listen to Paul Duclos and the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra play.

I kept watching while he slowly ate mini-donuts from a bag and wiped the sugar on a linen napkin that was draped across his knee. Eventually, he noticed me noticing him and grinned like a celebrity who didn't mind being recognized by his fans. He tipped the open bag toward me while looking straight ahead. I closed the distance between us and helped myself to a mini-donut.

“One of my many vices,” he said.

“Mine, too. I actually own a machine.”

“Do you?”

“Belshaw Donut Robot Mark I, capable of making one hundred dozen mini-donuts per hour, although I seldom eat that many.”

“I'm Trevor Ruland.” He spoke his name like he enjoyed saying it.

“McKenzie.”

Ruland wiped his fingers on the napkin before shaking my hand.

“A pleasure,” he said.

“This is Heavenly Petryk.”

Ruland handed both the mini-donuts and the napkin to me as he stood. He took Heavenly's hand and kissed her knuckle.

“A very great pleasure,” he said. “But you're injured. Please, Ms. Heavenly, take a seat.”

Ruland ushered her to the bench and helped her sit. Afterward he sat, angling his body so that he was facing her. There was little space left on the bench for me. I sat anyway, working my butt until Ruland gave me room. I cleared my throat, but his attention was solely on Heavenly—big surprise.

“Whatever happened?” he asked.

“I was shot,” she answered.

“Surely you're joking.”

“I am not joking, and please don't call me Shirley.”

“I am so impressed that you're able to make light of such a traumatic event. You are incredibly brave. At the risk of seeming sexist, may I also say, Ms. Heavenly, that you are the most extraordinarily attractive woman?”

Heavenly smiled through the pain in her shoulder.

“You're very kind,” she said.

I cleared my throat again. Ruland still didn't seem to notice.

“May I inquire … does your wound have anything to do with the theft of the Countess Borromeo?” he asked.

“We believe so,” Heavenly said.

I spoke loudly.

“I am willing to pay $250,000 for the violin's safe return, no questions asked.”

That caught Ruland's attention.

“Yes, yes, I understand,” he said. “Publicly the insurance company announced it will not negotiate with criminals, yet privately we all know that it is more than willing to do so.”

Given Ruland's previous experience with the company, I was convinced I would receive more cooperation from the man if I explained that I was
not
working for Midwest Farmers, despite what I told him yesterday on the phone.

“I represent Paul Duclos, not the Peyroux Foundation and certainly not the insurance company,” I said. “In fact, the less they know of what we're doing, the better.”

That caused Ruland to smile. Actually, he never stopped smiling; the wattage just went up and down depending on his reaction to what was spoken.

“Still, I'm not surprised that you have come to me with this matter, given my reputation,” he said.

“What reputation?” Heavenly asked.

The intensity of Ruland's smile dipped, although not by much. Donatucci was correct; he was grandiose if not downright pompous, and I thought it would be better if I did nothing to contradict his inflated opinion of himself. After all, I was convinced the only reason he agreed to meet with us in the first place was so he could share his exploits, such as they were, with an appreciative audience. Instead of calling him out, I attempted to feed his ego.

“Mr. Ruland is a highly regarded professional thief,” I said. “Do you mind if I call you a thief?”

“Not at all.”

“If I'm not mistaken, he specializes in objets d'art and antiquities.”

Ruland bowed his head in my direction.

“Among other things,” he said.

Heavenly must have caught on to what I was doing, because she reached out a hand and rested it on his forearm.

“How exciting,” she said.

“It can be,” Ruland told her.

“However, sir,” I said, “I am not here because of your reputation.”

“No?”

“I'm here because you stayed at the New Queen Anne Victorian Mansion Bed and Breakfast in Bayfield, Wisconsin, three days before the theft of a four-million-dollar Stradivarius violin from the New Queen Anne Victorian Mansion Bed and Breakfast in Bayfield, Wisconsin.”

“Ahh.”

“And because of your reputation.”

Ruland grinned broadly. He was having a wonderful time.

“I assure you, Mr. McKenzie, my presence in Bayfield was merely a coincidence,” he said.

“I don't believe in coincidences.”

“Yet they occur every day.”

Heavenly squeezed his arm.

“Trevor,” she said. “How did you do it?”

“But I assure you, Ms. Heavenly, I did not.”

“My offer for the safe return of the Countess still stands,” I said. “I can have the money delivered in three hours.”

“My friends, my friends.” Ruland glanced upward and spread his arms as if seeking divine guidance. “How can I make you believe me?”

Heavenly took hold of his arm again and squeezed.

“If you didn't do it,” she said, “can you tell us how it might have been done?”

Ruland rested his hand on top of Heavenly's hand.

“This is all speculation, of course,” he said.

“Of course,” she told him.

“I suppose an enterprising young man, upon hearing that the great Maestro Paul Duclos was bringing a priceless musical instrument to Bayfield, might book a room in the same bed-and-breakfast where he was expected to stay in order to … get the lay of the land, you might say. I suppose he might also have made copies of the keys for said bed and breakfast.”

“Yes, he might have,” I said.

Ruland sighed deeply.

“However, upon closer examination the enterprising young man might have decided that making his move in the Queen Anne would have been ill advised,” he said.

“How so?”

“There was no way to predict the movements of either the staff or the guests. He could easily have been seen and perhaps identified. There was the possibility that he might also have been trapped in there, as well.”