Stealing the Countess by David Housewright Page A

were murdered,” she said. “They say—the Ghost Lady says that some of their spirits still haunt Bayfield.”
    She doesn’t care for a high-profile burglary, my inner voice said. But cold-blooded murder and ghosts—that’s something she can get behind?
    We were so intent on what Cassie had to say that we didn’t notice when Connor reentered the dining room.
    â€œOh, no,” he said. “You’ve been on one of Maggie’s ghost tours.”
    Cassie sat back in her chair. She seemed embarrassed.
    â€œIs any of it true?” Alice asked.
    â€œNot very much,” Connor said. “But Mags was never one to let the facts get in the way of a good story. I’ll give her credit for one thing, though—she knows more about what’s going on in Bayfield than anyone.”
    â€œPerhaps she knows what happened to McKenzie’s violin,” Heavenly said.
    *   *   *
    I was a little surprised that Heavenly was the first to leave the dining room. Soon the remaining guests followed suit, leaving me alone. When Connor retired to the foyer to help the sixty-something couple check out, I made my way into the kitchen. I found a woman cleaning pots and pans while she hummed to herself.
    â€œBreakfast was wonderful,” I said.
    â€œThank you. But…” She wagged a finger at me. “No recipes.”
    Her smile made me smile.
    â€œI wouldn’t dream of trying to re-create your meal,” I said. “I don’t handle failure very well.”
    â€œOh, it’s not that hard.”
    â€œHave you been working here long?”
    â€œA couple of months. I cook Wednesday through Saturday in the mornings here and then at Hill House in the evenings.”
    â€œLong days.”
    â€œNo, no,” she said. “I’m here starting at about six and done by nine-ish. I’m at the restaurant from four through ten at night, when we stop serving, so it’s only a nine-hour day with a six-hour lunch break, and I get Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday off.”
    â€œWere you responsible for the garlic chicken penne I had last night?”
    â€œI wasn’t cooking, but … it is my recipe.”
    â€œDelicious.”
    â€œWe’re going to be real good friends, I can tell.”
    â€œMy name is McKenzie.”
    â€œConnor mentioned you. You’re investigating the violin thing.”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œWhat can I do for you?”
    â€œYou said you arrive here at six?”
    â€œUsually. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, depending on how complex the menu is that day.”
    â€œYou were here at six when the Stradivarius was stolen?”
    â€œThe cops asked me that. So did the FBI. I was here at six, well, more like a quarter to. I didn’t see anything, though; I didn’t hear anything, either. Sorry. I was too busy battering pots and pans. Besides, I almost never leave the kitchen.”
    â€œDid you see any strangers lurking about? Perhaps when you arrived that morning?”
    The cook spread her hands wide.
    â€œSorry,” she said again.
    â€œAbout the chicken penne recipe.”
    She laughed heartily.
    â€œNice try,” she said.
    *   *   *
    I returned to the Peacock Chamber and reviewed the police reports that Mr. Donatucci had given me, just to be thorough. Everything the cook said coincided with what she had told the authorities.
    I was deciding on what to do next when I heard a knock on my door.
    â€œWho is it?” I asked.
    â€œCaroline Kaminsky.”
    â€œCome in.”
    The door opened and Heavenly swept into the room—it was the correct word, swept. She closed the door and leaned her back against it. Damn, she was a fetching lass.
    â€œGood morning, Caroline,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
    â€œMcKenzie,” she said.
    Heavenly opened her arms wide and came toward me. She hugged me and I hugged her back because, well,