Free Stealing the Countess by David Housewright Page A

sounds like so much fun.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œBurglar-catching work?” she asked.
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œI thought you wanted to keep it quiet, the theft of the Countess Borromeo,” I said.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œWell,” 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.
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œMr. 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.
    â€œMs. Voight,” I said.
    â€œMrs. I’m an old-fashioned girl. You’re welcome to call me Heather, if you like.”
    â€œYour