Stealing the Countess (4 page)

I didn't know what to say to that. G. K. filled the silence that followed.

“Honest to God, McKenzie, there's no talking to you sometimes. Just remember—what's the first rule?”

“Never lie to the police.”

“Never. Ever. You don't have to talk. The Fifth Amendment protects you. But if you do talk…”

“Don't lie.”

“They'll nail your ass for obstruction.”

“Always a pleasure chatting with you, Genevieve.”

“Why do I get the feeling I'll be hearing from you again real soon?”

*   *   *

The Maestro answered his phone on the second ring.

“I'm going after the Countess,” I told him.

“Thank you, McKenzie,” Duclos said. “Thank you.”

“What I need is a letter signed by you and notarized stating that I am acting on your behalf in case this all goes sideways.”

“Certainly. Of course. Anything I can do.”

“I'd like it early tomorrow morning before I drive to Bayfield.”

“Swing by the house. It'll be waiting.”

The Maestro gave me the address.

“Tell me about the money,” I said.

“Do you think it'll be enough—$250,000?”

“It is what it is. But you'll need cash. The thieves aren't going to take a check, they're not gonna go through PayPal. The question—how long will it take you to get it together?”

“I've already spoken to some people. It'll be tough doing it without Renée finding out, but they said … three days, does that work?”

Experience had taught me that three days was about right. Most people think you can simply walk into a branch office, make a withdrawal, and walk out again with a million bucks stashed in an attaché case—that's what TV and the movies have taught us. In reality, no bank has that kind of cash lying around, and it takes time to negotiate the bureaucracy. What's more, a quarter of a million dollars in twenties and fifties weighs twenty-three pounds and will fill an airline carry-on bag, the kind with wheels and an extended handle. I explained it to the Maestro.

“Once you get it together, keep it in a safe place until I contact you,” I said. I nearly added
a safer place than you kept the Countess Borromeo,
yet kept the dig to myself.

“Aren't you going to take it with you?” he asked.

“Hell no.”

 

THREE

I drive a Ford Mustang GT with a 435-horsepower V-8 engine and manual gearbox. And no, I'm not having a midlife crisis, although …

I used to drive an Audi S5 until it was smashed beyond repair on the freeway during a blizzard. I had been planning to replace it, test driving a couple of other Audis, a few BMWs, a Mercedes. The day before my birthday, though—I won't tell you which one—Nina called me down from the condo. I found the Mustang at a parking meter on the street adjacent to the building, the sun reflecting off the black paint; I had to bring my hand up to shield my eyes. Nina was leaning against it and dangling the key fob from her finger.

“I hope you don't mind that I drove it first,” she said.

I reacted pretty much the same way as I had when I was sixteen and my father brought home a used 1965 Mustang—with unabashed glee. The car was over twenty years old at the time, light blue with a 170-cubic-inch straight-six engine, 101 horsepower, three-speed transmission on the floor, AM radio—not even FM—and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My father taught me how to drive a stick in that car; I knocked out three transmissions before I finally caught on. Once I did, he gave it to me, tossed the keys nearly the same way that Nina had, and said, “Drive carefully”—exactly as Nina had.

“I hope you have better luck with it than the last Mustang you owned,” she said.

Nina meant that she hoped I didn't spin it out on Mississippi Boulevard near the Lake Street Bridge and bust the A-frame like I had with Betsy. Yes, I called my first car Betsy.

“I don't know what to say,” I told her.

“And you thought I didn't listen to all those stories you told about when you were a kid.”

So, to repeat—if Nina wants to live in a high-rise condominium in Minneapolis, we're going to live in a high-rise condominium in Minneapolis.

*   *   *

I was thinking about Betsy the next morning as I drove along Mississippi Boulevard well south of Lake Street to the address Duclos had recited to me. It was located near a large white house with Greek columns and a breathtaking view of the river that had once sheltered the Hollyhocks Casino, where St. Paul's finest dressed in tuxedos and gowns and mingled with the most notorious gangsters of the Jazz Age.

I parked at the top of the horseshoe driveway and walked to the front door. I rang the bell and waited. I was about to try the bell again when the door was yanked open.

“Good morning, McKenzie,” Duclos said. “Come in.”

I followed the Maestro inside. It was a very nice house and well furnished, yet I felt somewhat disappointed. Where were the servants? Where was the fountain in the foyer?

He led me to the kitchen. It was large, and I noticed an oversized stove with two ovens, two dishwashers, and a refrigerator big enough to chill a live cow. Still …

“May I offer you a cup of coffee?” Duclos asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

He filled a mug and slid it across the counter toward me, and I thought, Where's the cook?

I guess I was expecting more extravagance in the home of one of the world's foremost concert violinists and his spectacularly wealthy wife. 'Course, this was Minnesota, where conspicuous consumption has never been in fashion. We have world-class museums, the most theaters per capita outside of New York, so many arts organizations that no one has ever been able to pull together a definitive list, and top-shelf performance venues like the Ordway Center for the Performing Arts and Orchestra Hall—most, if not all, made possible by the state's well-to-do. Yet we're the world leaders in thrift, guilt, and luxury shame. Which isn't to say Minnesota's wealthy don't like to spend their money. After all, I once bought Nina a $60,000 piano, and she bought me a $35,000 sports car. It's just that, for the most part, we do it quietly.

The Maestro chatted about the weather. It was surprisingly pleasant for mid-July in Minnesota, with temperatures hovering in the high seventies to low eighties. He felt we deserved a break after the brutal winter we had just survived. I reminded him why I had come.

“Of course,” Duclos said. “Just a moment.”

He set his coffee mug on the counter and left the kitchen, leaving me to casually study the expensive china stacked behind the glass doors of the cabinets.

“Excuse me,” a voice called. It belonged to a handsome woman with hair the color of maple syrup. I knew that she was in her late fifties, early sixties, the same age as Duclos, but she sure didn't look it. She was standing beneath the arch that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Who are you?”

She had a young voice. If I had met her over the phone, I would have said she was twenty.

“My name is McKenzie. I hope I didn't startle you. I'm waiting for the Maestro.”

“Let me guess, you're a fan-boy.”

“Truth is, I've never heard him play. I'm more of a jazz guy.”

She thought that was funny.

“Truth is,” she said, “I'm a little bit rock and roll.”

She entered the kitchen, brushing past me on her way to the coffeemaker. I watched as she took a white china cup and matching saucer from the cabinet—no mug for her—filled the cup with coffee, added cream and sugar, and stirred it with a small spoon.

“I'm Renée Peyroux.” She took a sip of the coffee and returned the cup to the saucer. “Technically, the Countess Borromeo belongs to me.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said just to prove I was listening.

“I know why you're here.”

“Ma'am?”

“You're here to sell the property you stole back to my husband. And don't call me ma'am.”

“No, Ms. Peyroux, I am not.”

“Then he hired you to buy the violin back from those who did steal it.”

“Is that such a terrible thing?”

“I will not reward the people who robbed me.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

She took another sip of coffee and stared at me over the rim of her upraised cup. She was about to speak when Duclos returned to the kitchen.

“Oh,” he said. “Renée. Sweetheart. I thought you went to the office an hour ago.”

“I did,” Peyroux said. “The first call I received was from our banker informing me that immediately after my husband deposited $250,000 into our checking account, he wrote out a withdrawal slip for the same amount in cash, so I came home.”

Duclos gazed at me as if he couldn't believe he got caught.

“This is why my girl and I keep our finances separate,” I said.

“Why would you do that, Paul?” Peyroux asked. “Behind my back. And don't you dare lie to me.”

“You made it clear that you didn't want to negotiate for the return of the Countess,” the Maestro said.

“Oh, and you do, is that it? Tell me—where did the money come from? Paul? Where did it come from?”

“I make money. A great deal of money, even by your standards.”

“And it all rolls into our joint accounts. Doesn't it? Paul?”

“Ms. Peyroux,” I said, “it's an irreplaceable work of art.”

Peyroux pointed her tiny spoon at me.

“This is none of your business,” she said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well? I'm waiting.”

“I love her,” the Maestro said. “I need her. I don't know if I can go on without her.”

“It's a goddamn violin.”

“She's more than that and you know it.”

“You—McKenzie. Why are you involved in this?”

“I told you. The Countess is an irreplaceable work of art.”

“Yeah, you look like an art lover.”

“Ma'am—”

“I told you, don't call me ma'am. And don't pretend that you're anything but a mercenary.”

“Since I'm not earning a nickel for this, I must beg to differ.”

“You're telling me you're doing this for free?”

“Yes, Ms. Peyroux. That's what I'm telling you.”

She didn't know how to respond to that. Instead, she set the china cup and saucer on the counter and strode out of the kitchen.

“That went well,” Duclos said.

He might have said more, except he was interrupted when Peyroux returned. She stood under the arch, her fists pressed against her hips. She spoke between clenched teeth.

“Goddammit. Do what you think is best, but if this blows back on my family's foundation, there will be hell to pay.”

She left again.

“I like her,” I said.

“Yes, but…”

“What?”

“She cursed. Three times. She never does that unless she is very, very upset.”

I smiled.

“You think that's funny, McKenzie?”

“My girl is the same way. She starts swearing, it's best to duck and cover.”

“Easy for you to say. You're going to Bayfield. I'm staying here.”

Duclos handed to me a white number 10 envelope. I opened it, read the letter, returned it to the envelope, and put it into the inside pocket of my sports coat.

“If someone does offer me the Stradivarius, how can I tell if it's authentic?” I asked.

“There will be a label inside the violin that reads
Antonius Stradiuarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1727.
You can tell if it's a fake if the cursive
u
in ‘Stradiuarius' reads as a
v.
The Roman
v
didn't replace the
u
until after 1730.”

“Forgers who know their business will probably know that, too. That's not the point, though. How can I tell if it's the Countess Borromeo at a glance, because that might be all I get—a glance.”

Duclos considered the question for a moment. His gaze went to the arch that his wife had disappeared under while he reached for his back pocket. He had photographs of the violin in his wallet. He showed one to me, a close-up. I didn't notice any photographs of Renée Peyroux in there, but let it slide without comment.

“If you look closely, here, between the F-hole and the corner, you'll see a tiny nick in the wood that's shaped like the lightning bolt on Harry Potter's forehead,” Duclos said.

“Harry Potter?” I said.

“Haven't you read the books?”

“No.”

“There's a lot of dead time traveling from concert to concert.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to keep the photograph?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Duclos slipped it out of the plastic sleeve and gave it to me.

“Bring her home safe,” he said.

“I'll do my best.”

“Please, for both our sakes, don't screw up. My wife has never made an idle threat in her life.”

*   *   *

It took two hours to drive I-35 north to Duluth, located at the far western tip of Lake Superior. I stopped for a couple of “Medieval” gyros at the Duluth Grill and proceeded on U.S. Highway 53 across the bridge into Wisconsin. For another two hours, I headed east along U.S. 2 and Wisconsin Highway 13, hugging the south shore of the big lake. Along the way, I used my Mustang's SYNC System to make a hands-free phone call.

“Hi,” Nina said.

“Hi, yourself.”

“Are you on the road?”

“I am. Are you sure you don't want to come with? I could always turn around and get you.”

“I'd love to, but I told you last night—with both my assistant manager and head chef on vacation, someone needs to keep an eye on things.”