Jelly's Gold

by David Housewright

  “You’re going to tell me everything you know, right?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Go ‘head, then. I’m all ears.”

  “Do we have a deal?”

  “What’s the split?”

  “Fifty-fifty.”

  “Then we have a deal. Start talking.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Somehow I didn’t think it would be.”

  “McKenzie …”

  “Who killed Berglund?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who do you suspect?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who else besides you and Berglund is looking for the gold?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I snatched what remained of the bagel from Heavenly’s hand, dropped it onto the plate, and took hold of her elbow. She squirmed as I led her from the kitchen to the front door.

  “McKenzie, we had a deal.”

  “I’ll keep my end when you start keeping yours.”

  “I can’t go home. They could be waiting for me.”

  “Who is they?”

  “I can’t say.”

  I opened the door and pushed her through it.

  “Where can I go? What shall I do?”

  “The Twin Cities are full of motels,” I said, although I suspected that a woman who knew the retail price of an Italian-made coffee machine probably didn’t stay in motels often.

  “You … you heel,” she said.

  “Heavenly, you’re a smart girl. You can come up with a better H than that.”

  I was tidying up the kitchen when my cell phone rang. It reminded me that I should get out of Dodge before Kelly Bressandes realized I’d played a trick on her—if she hadn’t already—and came looking for me. The ID said the call originated at Rickie’s, and at first I thought it might be Nina. Except Nina never goes in this early.

  “It’s Jenness Crawford,” the caller said.

  “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “There’s a man here. He was in the parking lot when I arrived. He asked me if I knew who you were. I said I didn’t because, well, because knowing you isn’t always the safest thing. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Tell me about the man.”

  “I told him that we don’t open until eleven. I told him I had no idea who you were or if you were going to be around. He was very nice about it. Very polite. Said he’d wait. That’s what he’s doing now. He’s in the parking lot, waiting.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He didn’t tell me his name. Only, McKenzie? I think he has a gun.”

  “Call the cops.”

  “What?”

  “Call the cops. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “Jen-ness,” I said, slowly and carefully pronouncing her name exactly as she once instructed me.

  “Yes, sir.”

  No shots were being exchanged when I arrived at Rickie’s; no one was brandishing a weapon. Instead, a man and a woman, both wearing the uniform of the St. Paul Police Department, were speaking quietly, almost amicably, to a second man who was standing next to a Honda Accord in the parking lot. The man was young, no more than twenty-five, and he was wearing a suit. Olive slacks, cream-colored shirt, green, white, and black striped tie, and a dark green and black speckled jacket—it looked much better than the description. He looked fit but soft, one of those people who can stay in shape without benefit of exercise. ’Course, he was still young. Wait until he hit thirty.

  “I am so dreadfully sorry if I frightened anyone,” he said. “I do have a legal right to carry a concealed firearm, as you know. However, I am quite content to lock it away in the trunk of my car.”

  “That’s fine, sir,” said the female officer. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” said the man. He was smiling brightly. When he saw me, he turned up the wattage. “Mr. McKenzie? Would you be Rushmore McKenzie?”

  “Yes.”

  “A true pleasure, sir.” He offered his hand. I didn’t take it. “I am Boston Whitlow. I’ve been searching oh so hard for you.”

  “With a gun?” I said.

  “An unfortunate misunderstanding, as I just finished explaining to the officers. I have since locked my handgun in the trunk of my vehicle—”

  “I heard.”

  He tapped the roof of the Honda. “So you see, I am quite harmless.”

  “Did you call in the complaint?” the female officer asked.

  “That was me,” Jenness said. She had remained in the club until she saw me drive up. She explained that Whitlow had made her nervous earlier.

  “Forgive me, dear lady,” Whitlow said. “I am mortified to have caused you alarm.”

  “It’s okay,” Jenness said.

  She looked at me, an expression of confusion on her face. I don’t know if she was unclear what to do next or if Whitlow’s language threw her off. Still, the cops were satisfied—“No harm, no foul,” the male officer said—and they went to their cars and drove off. That left the three of us standing in Rickie’s parking lot.

  “So here we are,” Whitlow said.

  “How ’bout that?” I said.

  “Would you like to come in?” Jenness said. “We’re not open for business, but I have a pot of coffee brewing.”

  Whitlow took Jenness’s hand and kissed her middle knuckle. “You are beyond kindness,” he said.

  Jenness blushed. I had never seen her blush before. She kept blushing as we crossed the parking lot and entered the club. She found a table for us and filled two mugs from a glass decanter.

  “I’m sorry I can only serve bar coffee,” Jenness said. “It’s not as tasty as our restaurant coffee. Our chef and cooks won’t be in for a while yet.”

  “Nectar,” Whitlow said after taking a sip. “Pure nectar.” Jenness blushed some more. “However, I am afraid, dear lady, that like most men, I find you to be a sweet distraction, and Mr. McKenzie and I have business to discuss.”

  “I’ll leave you, then.” Jenness gestured toward the bar. “I have work—if you need anything, I’ll be over here.”

  “I thank you most heartily,” Whitlow said.

  Jenness turned, walked smack into a table, glanced at Whitlow and smiled because Whitlow was smiling, and carefully threaded the rest of way to the bar and the office beyond. She looked back twice during the trip. Granted, Whitlow was a reasonably good-looking guy—did I mention that he was reasonably good-looking?—but still.

  C’mon, girl, my inner voice said. Get a grip.

  “Very attractive,” Whitlow said.

  “Yeah, she’s a peach,” I said.

  “Is she married? Is she seeing anyone?”

  Oh, for cryin’ out loud, my inner voice said.

  “What is it with you kids?” I said aloud. “Can’t any of you just get to the point?”

  “I’m not a kid,” Whitlow said.

  Ahh, geez. “You said you were looking for me. Here I am. What do you want?”

  “I can see, sir, that you are a man of action. No walking in on little cat’s feet for you.”

  “God help me, you’re another English major, aren’t you?”

  “Why, sir, an excellent observation. I have a master’s from the University of Minnesota.”

  “Do you know Heavenly Petryk and Josh Berglund, or is that a foolish question?”

  “I am … acquainted with Ms. Petryk, certainly. I was aware of Mr. Berglund, but we had not met. It was tragic what happened to him. Tragic. Do you not agree?”

  “I do indeed agree.”

  “Still, I am reminded of the chorus employed by Kurt Vonnegut whenever he wrote a passage dealing with death.”

  “‘So it goes,’ ” I said.

  “You are familiar with his work.”

  “Also with death. Tell me, Whitlow—”

  “Boston, please. Call me Boston.”

  “Tell me, Whitlow, where were you last night?”


  Whitlow’s smile dimmed for a moment before returning to full wattage. “You are quite blunt,” he said.

  “So are the cops.”

  “Why would they be interested in me?”

  “Because I’m going to tell them all about you.”

  “But why?”

  “What kind of gun do you carry?”

  “My gun is locked—”

  “What is it?”

  “A … a .32, an Undercoverette they call it. Charter Arms.”

  “That’s a revolver, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Berglund was killed with a revolver.”

  That erased the smile from his face. “Mr. McKenzie, surely—” he began, then stopped. The smiled returned slowly. “You are deliberately attempting to provoke me.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “You believe it will give you the upper hand in our negotiations.”

  I said nothing. Instead, I took a long sip of my coffee while my inner voice asked, Negotiations?

  “I have a business proposition to lay before you,” Whitlow said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “The letters—I wish to purchase them.”

  Letters?

  “I’m not sure they’re for sale,” I said.

  “They hold no value for you, Mr. McKenzie. You could not possibly decipher their meaning.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I went to college, too.”

  “Mr. McKenzie, unlike our dear friend Heavenly, I am not ruled by avarice. I am prepared to be generous. I will give you a healthy share of the proceeds.”

  “How healthy?”

  “A third.”

  “Heavenly offered me half this morning.”

  “Half? From Heavenly? Surely you did not accept such an unlikely bargain.”

  “I’m not saying I did, I’m not saying I didn’t.”

  “Speaking from experience, I can assure you that any contract with Ms. Petryk will be summarily nullified the moment she lays hands on the letters.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  ‘Then, sir, you can do no better than by allying yourself with me.”

  “There’s Ivy.”

  “Ahh, yes, the lovely Ms. Flynn. I ask you, sir, what can she offer? Besides the obvious?”

  “People keep insulting my friends. It’s beginning to annoy me.”

  “Mr. McKenzie, I will match Ms. Petryk’s offer. I will give you half of what we realize on Mr. Nash’s gold. However, whatever agreement you have with Ms. Flynn must be satisfied through your share. Now, sir, is that not equitable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let us discuss the letters.”

  “Let’s.”

  “Do you have them?”

  “I can get them.”

  “When?”

  “When I’m ready.”

  “There’s no time like the present.”

  “How did you know to contact me? How did you know I have access to the letters?”

  “I have my resources.”

  “You wouldn’t care to elaborate?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “Do you think the contents of the letters will lead us to Jelly’s gold?”

  Whitlow seemed surprised by the question. He leaned back in his chair and took the coffee mug in his outstretched hand. He turned the mug slowly on the tabletop until the handle had made three complete revolutions.

  “Mr. McKenzie, who wrote the letters?” he asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Whitlow said. “You haven’t read them. You don’t possess them.”

  “I said I could get them.”

  “At the risk of being insulting, sir, I question your veracity.”

  “Do you?”

  “It would seem I have committed the great sin—I have assumed too much. I had thought the late Mr. Berglund had shared the letters with you. I now believe that until I spoke so carelessly, you did not know they existed. So it goes.” Whitlow stood abruptly. “No, sir. I do not believe that we can continue doing business along these lines. If, however, you should indeed secure the letters in question, contact me.” He took a loose business card from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Until then, I bid you good morning.”

  Whitlow turned and walked swiftly from the club. I didn’t know if he was angry or embarrassed. I read his card as he went. Boston Whitlow, with the words WRITER RESEARCHER printed in smaller letters beneath followed by phone numbers and an address.

  Jenness appeared next to the table. “He was kinda cute,” she said.

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You don’t suppose he’s gay, do you?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “The way he dresses, the way he talks.”

  I thought about his gun—an Undercoverette, for God’s sake—yet decided not to hold it against him. “I know a lot of guys who are gay,” I said. “Some dress well, some don’t; none of them speak like Whitlow.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “If you must know, he did ask if you were attached.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Geez, McKenzie. A little help.”

  “If I hear from him again, I’ll tell him you’re interested.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “Make up your mind.”

  “He was a little odd. What do you think?”

  “Hell, Jen, I don’t know. Maybe he’s from Canada.”

  I pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my sports jacket while Jenness returned to the bar. We had come to an understanding. If Whitlow asked about her, I was to tell him that she’s interested. If not, then say nothing. I asked her if she wanted me to slip him a note, like in high school—Do you like Jenness? Circle one below: Yes No Maybe. She whacked the side of my head with a bar towel.

  I found the appropriate number stored in my cell’s phone book and hit Send. A few moments later the call was answered.

  “Lieutenant Dunston,” a voice said.

  “Hey, Bobby, it’s me.”

  “McKenzie, you are such a jerk.”

  “What?”

  “Sending Kelly Bressandes to my office. I’ve been up all night with this and you give me a pushy reporter. Because of your phone call, the woman thinks I’m holding you as a material witness in Berglund’s homicide and deliberately keeping you from speaking to the media. The more I say it’s not true, the more she refuses to believe me. Thanks, pal.”

  That made me laugh. Bobby said it wasn’t funny. I asked him if my alibi checked out.

  “Yeah, much to everyone’s disappointment.”

  “I’m allowed to leave town, then.”

  “Need a ride to the airport? There are a lot of angry and bitter people over here who’d be happy to take you.”

  Now it was Bobby’s turn to laugh, although I didn’t get the joke.

  “What else did you and Kelly talk about?” I asked. “Her big brown eyes or yours?”

  “Stop it.”

  “I liked the way she called you Bobby instead of Lieutenant.”

  “C’mon, McKenzie,” he said. “I don’t necessarily like these people, but it doesn’t hurt to have friends in the media. Sometimes they can be quite helpful to us.”

  “Really? I’m sure Shelby will be happy to know that Kelly Bressandes is your friend in the media. Handsome woman, our Kelly.”

  “The less said to Shelby the better, okay?”

  That made me chuckle.

  “What do you want?” Bobby said.

  “I have another suspect for you.”

  “I don’t need another suspect.”

  “You’ll like this one.” I described Boston Whitlow and told Bobby that he was looking for some letters that he thought Berglund had shared with me and carried a .32 wheel gun.

  “Anything else?” Bobby asked.

  “Yes. Whitlow said he didn’t know Berglund, said they had ne
ver met, yet he described Ivy as ‘the lovely Ms. Flynn.’ ”

  “So? She is, isn’t she?”

  “How did he know what Ivy looked like?”

  Bobby thought about it for a moment. “I love it when you give me these little tidbits of information,” he said.

  “Just doing my civic duty, Officer.”

  “I wish you’d stop.”

  9

  I picked up the tail almost immediately after I pulled out of Rickie’s parking lot. I couldn’t guess if he was Whitlow’s man or Heavenly’s, but he seemed to know his business. He drove a beige Toyota Corolla—is there a vehicle that’s any more ubiquitous?—and stayed well back, alternating between the left and right lanes, while allowing other cars to come between us. He even disguised his license plate so I couldn’t get a read. Very smart. I might not have noticed him at all except that it’s extremely difficult to maintain a loose tail with only one car if the subject is suspicious, and I’d been suspicious for two days now.

  “I am so damn tired of being followed,” I said aloud.

  Still, I didn’t want him to know I had spotted the tail. That would make it harder to find him next time. So I drove normally until I stopped at the light at the intersection of Selby and Snelling, not far from the apartment building where the cartoonist Charles M. Schulz grew up. There were two cars between us, all four turning right off Selby. In Minnesota you can make a right turn on red, and that’s what I did at the first opportunity. The traffic on Snelling was brisk, and the other cars couldn’t immediately follow. I accelerated, took three quick rights, and managed to get behind the Corolla just as it also turned right onto Snelling. This time I went left.

  I continued on, halting twice to see if other cars would stop with me or drive by and try to pick up my Audi a couple of blocks down the road. None did.

  Ivy Flynn opened the apartment door as if she were expecting someone. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Sorry, McKenzie. I was sure it was the police, again.”

  She wrapped her arms around me, but it had none of the exuberance of her hug two days earlier. This time it felt like she needed something to hold on to to keep from falling. Ivy seemed exhausted. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face was swollen, and she was wearing the same clothes as the day before. I directed her to a chair.

  “The police were here for a long time,” she said. “They kept asking me questions, the same questions over and over again. Did you and Berglund have an argument, were you seeing other people; they even asked me about life insurance. They dusted for fingerprints, too. Took my fingerprints so they could eliminate them from, well, from the other fingerprints, I guess. They searched everywhere, went through all of my things. I told them they could, didn’t say they couldn’t, but—they were searching for a gun, weren’t they? They think I killed him, don’t they?”