Stealing the Countess by David Housewright

word.”
    â€œThe word? You think whoever stole the violin lives in Bayfield?”
    â€œNot necessarily.”
    â€œYou think he’ll sell it back for the reward money?”
    â€œIt’s been done before.”
    Lauren stared at me some more.
    â€œGet 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhat have you heard?” I asked.
    â€œAbout 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.”
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œAs good a theory as any. Listen, is Philip Speegle here?”
    â€œI just saw him behind the bar.”
    â€œWould you ask, if he has a moment, if I might speak to him?”
    â€œSure. Should I tell him…”
    â€œMy name is McKenzie.”
    â€œOkeydoke.”
    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