Jelly's Gold

by David Housewright

  “I remember,” I said.

  “Because of it, some local newspapers and TV stations did stories about the haunts of the old-time gangsters. We were interviewed a couple of times because most of the other businesses from back then, like the old Plantation nightclub on the other side of the lake, had been demolished. Somehow, people got it into their heads that we had stolen money, we had jewelry, we had dead bodies buried in our cellar—”

  “Gold?” Nina said.

  “Sure, why not? The cellar—it was a dirt floor. A hard-packed dirt floor. Back when Guardino’s was built—that was over a hundred years ago, and they didn’t always lay concrete in the basements. We’d say it was nonsense, but the rumors, they persisted, and while they persisted, we noticed that business increased. So we started to play up the fact that gangsters used to come in—you knew Guardino’s was a great restaurant because Baby Face Nelson ate here, that sort of thing. Later, when we put in a new furnace, we decided to put concrete down, but first we dug up the basement floor. I’ll be darned if we didn’t find a dozen cases of Jim Beam bourbon.”

  “No gold,” Nina said.

  “No gold, but what publicity. The newspapers came back out, and so did the TV people. My father and I had our pictures taken with the whiskey. People offered us a lot of money for it, too, including the Jim Beam people. Instead, my dad put it on the menu—sixty-five-year-old bourbon—we sold it by the glass, made a fortune. Dad advertised it as Al Capone’s Bourbon; I doubt Al Capone was ever here, but then, you never know, he could have been. Oh, yes. We’ve been promoting the fact that Guardino’s had been a gangster hangout ever since. Bring in customers with the gangsters, keep them with the food—that’s been pretty much our business model.”

  “Where did the bourbon come from?” I asked.

  “Grandpa Joe buried it in the basement when they passed Prohibition and simply forgot about it.”

  Amazing, we all decided. We chatted some more, but nothing much came of it. I ordered the mostaccioli and it was excellent; Nina had grilled chicken cappellini and had to admit it was pretty good as well. Only her heart wasn’t in it.

  “We still don’t know where the gold is,” she said.

  “We know where it isn’t,” I said. “For example, we know it’s not in the basement of Guardino’s Italian Restaurant.”

  “Big deal.”

  “Something else we know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The woman in the photo with Frank Nash that Rosemary showed us—that is not Frank’s wife.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve seen two photos of Frances. She had shortish dark hair and a round face, and she wore glasses.”

  “Do you think Frank was cheating?”

  “Not necessarily. It could have been anybody—”

  “If we find out who his mistress was—”

  “Back in those days, people had photos taken with gangsters—”

  “Maybe he stashed the loot with her—”

  “The way they have photos taken with actors and ballplayers today—”

  “She could lead us to the gold—”

  “Nina, you’re not listening.”

  “What? Yes, I am. We’re talking about Frank Nash’s mistress.”

  “We don’t know he had a mistress. Nina, you are taking this way too seriously.”

  “I am?” She thought about it, then grinned. “I guess I am, but you know what, it’s fun. Anyway, it’s a lot more fun than most of the stuff you’ve been involved in. No one has been kidnapped or assaulted or killed.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said.

  We clinked glasses and sipped our Chianti, and Nina suggested that we buy a bottle and take it home with us, and I said I thought that was a good idea, and then, as often happens when you’re sitting and smiling and thinking life has been pretty good lately, the phone rang.

  “McKenzie,” Ivy said. “Oh God, McKenzie—”

  “Ivy, what is it?”

  “He’s dead, he’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead? Ivy—”

  “Josh. They killed him. I was, I was … we came down the corridor … they killed him. They shot him in the face.”

  “Ivy, where are you?”

  She told me.

  “Have you called the police?”

  “I … yes, I … I can hear the sirens. They’re coming. Oh, McKenzie—”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  I deactivated my cell phone and shoved it into my pocket. Nina watched me from across the booth.

  “Josh Berglund has been murdered,” I said.

  She stared at me for a few beats, then nodded her head as if it were bad news she had been expecting all along.

  7

  I was stopped at the entrance to the apartment building by the SPPD uniform who carried the attendance log that noted the names of everyone who visited the crime scene. His name tag said FONTANA. I explained who I was and that Ivy Flynn, one of the victims, had summoned me. He called someone on his handheld radio while his partner, a ten-year veteran tagged MANNING, and I waited. There weren’t many people to keep back, only a few neighbors attracted by the flickering light bars on top of the cop cars and the inevitable yellow crime scene tape. We both knew that would change in a hurry when the TV van pulled up and the driver started adjusting his satellite dish—God knows where he was pointing it. Next came the lights. Followed by a camera. Suddenly a crowd appeared seemingly out of thin air. A stunning woman with honey-colored hair and dressed in a cream suit stepped out of the van and began fiddling with her earpiece and microphone. People waved at her, called her name. She acknowledged her audience, but it was a halfhearted gesture. She reminded me of a ballplayer fighting crowd noise to keep her head in the game.

  “Kelly Bressandes,” Manning said. “Best legs on television.”

  The rest of her didn’t look too shabby, either, I had to admit. She was almost pretty enough to get me to start watching TV news again—almost.

  I glanced at my watch. Ten twenty-two. No way did Bressandes have enough time to do a live remote for the evening newscast, and somehow I couldn’t see the station breaking in on Leno for anything less than a tornado warning. Which was probably a blessing. Now Bressandes could take the time to do some actual reporting—assuming she was a journalist and not just another pretty face.

  Fontana returned and lifted the yellow tape for me to duck under. “You’re okay,” he said.

  “Heady praise, indeed,” I said.

  “How do you spell your name?” I recited it letter by letter as he wrote it down on the clipboard.

  “Hey,” Manning said. “Are you the McKenzie that caught that embezzler a while back, became a millionaire?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “Nice,” he said. ‘Very nice. I wish I knew some embezzlers.”

  “Next time I meet one, I’ll give you a call.”

  “If only,” he said.

  “Loo says for me to walk you upstairs,” Fontana said. “He said that you’re not to touch a fucking thing—those are the lieutenant’s words, not mine.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  Fontana led me to the front entrance. Behind us we heard a woman call, “Officer, Officer.”

  Bressandes was approaching at a trot, armed with a microphone and covered by a man with a camera. Manning held his hands up like a crossing guard halting traffic. He was smiling brightly, and I knew if Bressandes stuck a microphone in his face and gave him a look—you know the kind I mean—he’d spill his guts on any subject she wanted to chat about.

  “You better not leave him alone too long,” I said.

  Fontana shook his head more out of amusement than distress. “That Al, he likes the ladies.”

  Don’t we all, I thought but didn’t say.

  It was a three-story apartment building, and Fontana and I took the wide, carpeted stairs up. We stopped at the second-floor landing. Fontana nudged me forward, but I wouldn’t move. Berglun
d’s body was slumped against the wall twenty feet down the corridor, and the sight of it froze me in place. The way his body was twisted, I could easily see the bullet hole just below his right eye. The scene activated my gag reflex. I’ve never been one to flinch at the sight of blood, but death—I spun away from it and stared at the steps leading down to the ground floor, yet made no effort to use them. Instead, I just stood there, filling my lungs with air and slowly exhaling until my stomach settled. Fontana watched me suspiciously. I could see the unspoken question on his face: “You used to be a cop?”

  “I don’t spend much time looking at dead bodies these days,” I said. “I’ve lost the knack.”

  He nodded his understanding, yet in my mind’s eye I could see him skipping down the stairs to Manning, telling him, “The millionaire ex-cop you like so much—what a wuss.”

  I took a deep breath, turned again, and moved down the corridor, trying to walk as if there were no place I’d rather be. Fontana kept pace. Two men were examining the body as we approached. I recognized Lieutenant Robert Michael Dunston; the other was an ME I knew only as Danko.

  “No drag marks,” Danko said. “He died where he fell.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. He looked up at the small splatter of blood and gray matter on the wall directly above the slumping body.

  The medical examiner said, “Look here.” He used the eraser end of a number two pencil to point at black stains on the dead man’s face. “There’s tattooing around the wound, but no abrasion collar. The shooter was probably six to twelve inches away when he fired.”

  “For someone to get that close—think the vic knew his killer?”

  “That’s where I’d start.”

  Professional detachment, I thought. To Bobby and Danko, Berglund was a puzzle to be solved. They didn’t care if he was a nice guy who lectored at church, served meals to the homeless at the Dorothy Day Center, or drove his ailing mother and her friends to the bingo parlor—they didn’t want to know anything about the victim that wouldn’t help them find out who shot him. I used to be that way, too. Except, like I said, somewhere along the line I lost the knack. Looking down on Berglund now, I could think only that I should have treated him better than I had, with more respect; that it was jealousy that made me dislike him, and how did a guy who looked like him manage to seduce both Ivy Flynn and Heavenly Petryk, anyway?

  Bobby stood. He stretched, arching his back and pressing his hands against his spine as if it took an enormous effort to straighten up.

  “You don’t get enough exercise,” I told him.

  “Three women in my house and none of them can open a jar—I get too much exercise,” he said.

  “How are Shelby and the girls?”

  “Same as when you saw them Saturday.”

  Bobby nodded with his chin. That was enough for Fontana to pat my shoulder in good-bye and return to his duties.

  Bobby pointed at the body. “Anyone you recognize?”

  “Josh Berglund. He was a graduate student at the University of Minnesota,” I said. “American lit.”

  “Why is it you know so many of the victims I find at murder scenes, McKenzie?”

  Good question. I didn’t answer it.

  “Where’s Ivy Flynn?” I asked.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Of course, but Bobby, listen—I’ll tell you everything I know, only I want to see Ivy first. She called me—”

  “I was wondering what you were doing here.”

  “She asked for my help.”

  “What help can you give her?”

  “I don’t know. I only know if Ivy hadn’t called me, I wouldn’t be here now and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “You won’t mind if I listen in while you chat with your friend, will you, McKenzie?”

  “Would it matter if I said I did?”

  “Seeing as how you’re not her attorney, no.”

  “Where is she?”

  Bobby pointed at the apartment door with his thumb. It was open. I moved past him and stepped across the threshold, Bobby following close behind. When I stopped abruptly, he bumped into me. I turned and looked out of the apartment, noting the bloodstains on the wall directly opposite from the door.

  “Whoever shot him was standing inside the apartment,” I said.

  Bobby folded his arms across his chest. His exasperation was obvious.

  “Whose apartment is this, anyway?” I asked.

  “The lease is under Flynn’s name, but she claims Berglund was living with her,” Bobby said.

  While he spoke, I examined the lock and door frame without touching either.

  “No forced entry,” I said.

  “Wow,” Bobby said. “You should be a cop. Oh, wait…”

  I stepped deeper into the apartment. Jean Shipman was hovering above Ivy and writing in a small notebook. She was wearing surgical gloves. There were several other investigators rummaging through the apartment—they were all wearing gloves, too. Ivy was sitting in a stuffed chair but turned sideways so she was facing the window instead of the door. It took a moment before she saw me. She called my name, came out of the chair, and hugged my neck.

  “Terrible, terrible, it’s so terrible,” she said. “I thought it would be fun, but it’s not. Oh God, how terrible.” Her voice was hoarse from weeping. I held her tight for a few moments, then gently eased her away so I could look into her face. Her eyes were swollen, and her cheeks were stained with tears.

  “What should I do?” she asked. “Should I call a lawyer? Please, tell me what to do.”

  I drew her close again and whispered in her ear—I hoped Bobby didn’t hear me. “If you’re innocent, tell them everything. If you’re guilty, don’t even tell them your name. I’ll call a lawyer.”

  She nudged me back, this time so she could look into my face. “What about the gold?”

  “Gold?” Shipman said.

  “Don’t even think about that,” I told Ivy.

  “What gold?” Shipman said.

  “The gold that Jelly Nash stole seventy-five years ago,” Ivy said. “That’s why Josh was killed. I know it.” She brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. The rawness of her skin made me think she had been doing that a lot since Berglund was shot.

  “I’ll tell them everything,” she told me.

  “Good for you,” I said.

  “Gold from seventy-five years ago,” Shipman said. “McKenzie, is that why you searched our files this morning? For gold?”

  “You gave McKenzie access to our files?” Bobby said.

  “Only from 1930 through 1933,” Shipman said.

  “I don’t care if it’s 1733, you don’t show McKenzie our files. You don’t even show him the way to the restroom. In fact, you know what? We’re instituting a new policy. Starting today, McKenzie is no longer allowed in the building unless he’s wearing handcuffs.”

  “That’s harsh,” I said.

  “It’s because of the files,” Ivy said. “What McKenzie found out—it confirms that Frank Nash brought the gold he stole back to St. Paul, that it’s still here. That’s why Josh was killed, I’m trying to tell you.”

  We were all watching her now.

  “Ms. Flynn,” Bobby took her elbow and directed her back to the stuffed chair. “Please sit.” She sat, and he squatted next to her and looked up into her face. “Now I need you to tell me everything, starting with what happened here tonight.”

  “It’ll take a while.”

  “No one is going anywhere,” Bobby said. He was looking directly at me when he said it.

  Ivy gestured toward Shipman. “I already told her about the shooting.”

  “I know,” said Bobby. “Let’s talk some more.”

  There wasn’t much to it. Ivy and Berglund had dinner in the apartment and then decided to go to the movies. They went to see Johnny Depp at the AMC-14 movie theater in the Rosedale Shopping Mall. “Wait a minute,” Ivy said. She dove into her purse and started pulling out items—her wallet, he
r checkbook, and a set of keys on a USA key chain. Finally she retrieved two ticket stubs stamped with the name of the theater, the film, and the time of the showing. They corroborated her story. Afterward, she said, she and Berglund returned to the apartment. They parked their car in the lot next to the building. They walked down the hallway to their door. She didn’t remember what they were talking about or even if they were talking. Berglund had his keys in his hand and was about to unlock the door. Suddenly the door flew open. A man, dressed in black, was inside the apartment. He was holding a pistol. He pointed it in Berglund’s face. Berglund stepped backward. He didn’t say a word. Neither did the man. The man squeezed the trigger. The force of the bullet slammed Berglund’s head against the wall and he slumped down. Ivy was petrified, too frightened even to scream. The intruder stepped around her and walked down the corridor toward the exit. “He walked so slowly, and he used the wall for support, like he was sick or something,” Ivy said.

  I know the feeling, my inner voice said.

  “I called 911,” Ivy said. Then she called me.

  “Can you describe the man?” Shipman said.

  “He was”—Ivy pointed at me—“about McKenzie’s size.” I wish she hadn’t said that. “A couple of inches shorter, maybe, and very thin.” I felt better. “Other than that—he was wearing a mask. A ski mask, I guess it was.”

  “You couldn’t see his face at all?” Shipman said.

  “No,” Ivy said.

  “He had eye holes?”

  “Eye holes?”

  “In the mask.”

  “Yes.”

  “You saw his eyes.”

  “Not really. I mean, I don’t remember what color they were.”

  “The rim of his eyes. Was he white, black—”

  “White. I think.”

  “You’re sure it was a man?”

  “Yes?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because—that’s just the impression I had. I guess I don’t know for sure.”

  Shipman took that moment to report to Bobby.

  “We canvassed the apartment building,” she said. “No one heard any shots, which isn’t surprising. A single shot, a smaller caliber gun, people hear an odd noise, they listen, they don’t hear it again, they forget about it. No one saw anyone matching the unsub’s description enter or leave the apartment building at any time. The foyer doesn’t have a security camera. We searched the apartment, the apartment building, and the grounds but couldn’t find a weapon. We’re still looking. Since the unsub escaped immediately after firing, we believe he used a wheel gun—we couldn’t find a spent cartridge, and he didn’t have time to pick it up.”