Jelly's Gold (24 page)

“You know plenty.”

“What do I know?”

“You know that Josh Berglund wrote that he had passed off the letters to me—that’s what you told Dahlin; that’s why you arranged to meet me at Rickie’s the day after Berglund was killed. The only way you could have known is if you broke into Ivy Flynn’s apartment and tore the page from Berglund’s log.”

“I didn’t—”

“Hey!” I leaned in close again. Whitlow pressed his head back against the cushion to avoid my stare. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I mean—I took the page and some other stuff, but I didn’t break in. Ivy gave me a key.”

That made me back up.

“You didn’t know that, did you?” From his expression, Whitlow seemed empowered by having information that I didn’t possess. He actually grinned.

“Tell me about this,” I said.

Whitlow made me wait while he repositioned himself on the sofa, sitting up straight, ignoring his pain, reaffirming his manhood.

“I went to Ivy last week,” he said. “I knew that Berglund abandoned Heavenly. I knew that he had absconded with her research and, if I may so assert, my research as well. My impression was he was far ahead of us in the race for Jelly’s gold, and I grew concerned that he might discover its whereabouts before we did. I began to follow him. I learned that he was speaking to someone at the nursing home, but I could not determine whom. I also learned of his relationship with that little slattern Ms. Antonello.”

“What did you call her?”

The tone of my voice must have startled Whitlow, because it took him a few extra beats before he answered.

“A student at an evangelical Christian university gives a man oral sex behind a tree near Lake Valentine so she can tell her husband she’s a virgin when they marry,” he said. “However, I’ll defer to you for a label.”

“I don’t like labels,” I said, even as my inner voice was chanting,
Dammit, dammit, dammit,
and then,
Poor girl.
I had no doubt that Berglund was responsible for her corruption.
Poor Genevieve.

“Keep talking,” I said.

“I conspired to meet Ms. Flynn without Berglund’s knowledge. I informed her that Berglund was using her as he had Heavenly, as he was using Ms. Antonello—”

“You felt the need to do that.”

“I admit to being desperate.”

“Go on.”

“I convinced Ms. Flynn to ally herself with me. I assured her that
together we would not only acquire the gold, we would make sure that Berglund received the reward he so justly deserved, the reward being nothing but the knowledge of his own failure. Ms. Flynn agreed. She began feeding me information. She told me that Berglund discovered the existence of Ms. Seidel’s letters. Alas, I was too late to intercept them. So we arranged for Ms. Flynn to take Berglund to the cinema while I searched the apartment, gaining entry with a key that Ms. Flynn gave me.”

“Was it your plan or hers?”

“Mine.”

That didn’t make Ivy any less culpable, but I felt better about it.

“Later, you panicked when they came home, and you killed Berglund,” I said.

“Certainly not. You must believe me, Mr. McKenzie. I completed my task quickly. I had departed the apartment long before Ms. Flynn and Berglund returned.”

“Did you tell the police that?”

Whitlow’s reply came in a series of hems and haws and mumbles.

“I’ll take that as a no,” I said.

“I was terrified that I would implicate myself in Berglund’s murder,” he said.

“A reasonable fear.”

“What happens next? Are you going to—”

“Do you still have the key to Ivy’s apartment?”

He nodded.

I didn’t tell him how utterly stupid that was. Instead, I told him to give it to me. He did. I put the key into my pocket.

“What are you going to do?” Whitlow said. “Are you going to the police?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

I had nothing more to say to Whitlow, so I left him sitting on the
sofa. Once outside the apartment, I reached up and screwed the bulb until the light above my head flicked on. It didn’t give me any ideas.

Ribbons of light flared on both sides of my driveway, leading me to the garage that I opened by remote control. I parked, shut down the Audi, closed the garage door, and made my way to my house, entering through the back door. Once inside, I managed to punch my code into the security system before it activated. A couple of weeks after I had it installed, I accidentally “forgot” to set the code to see how long it would take the St. Anthony Police Department and a private security firm to respond to a home invasion. Four minutes, eleven seconds by my watch. I was very impressed. I was even more impressed by the bill they sent me for triggering a false alarm.

I killed time waiting for Nina by watching
SportsCenter
followed by a rerun of
Scrubs.
Afterward, I laid out a spread of bread and cheese from Panera and opened a bottle of 2003 Clos Beauregard Merlot blended with grapes from the Pomerol region of France. The wine cost me forty-two bucks. Why it was better than a ten-dollar Merlot from, say, Sonoma Valley, I couldn’t tell you, but Nina liked it.

A few minutes later, she rang my front door bell; Nina had a key and my security code—IMSPARTACUS—but she never used either. I opened the door to find her balancing a huge bubble-pack envelope against one shoulder while holding the outer screen door open with the other. The envelope was the kind you buy at the post office.

“I found this jammed between your doors,” Nina said. “What, you don’t pick up your mail?”

“I came in through the back,” I said.

I held the door open for Nina, taking the envelope from her as she passed.

“You didn’t buy another kitchen gadget from Europe, did you?” Nina said.

My address had been printed by hand. I checked the return address. The envelope had come from Josh Berglund. The postmark said it was mailed Tuesday.

“I don’t believe it,” I said and rushed to my dining room table. I pushed the plate of bread and cheese aside to make room.

“What is it?” Nina said.

“In his log, Berglund wrote that he passed the letters on to me. This must be what he meant.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He must have known he was being followed, followed by Whitlow. To keep them safe, he mailed the letters to me.”

I tore open the envelope and slid out a carton about the size of a large shoe box. The carton was old and had a kind of spongy feeling even though it wasn’t wet. I pulled off the top. Inside were dozens of envelopes, most ivory, but many were light blue and pink, as well. I withdrew one at random and held it up to the light. It was addressed to Rose Pederson. The return address written on the back flap read
KATHRYN MESSER, HOTEL CRYSTAL 691 RUE ST. BENOIT, PARIS, FRANCE.

I reached out and grabbed Nina by the wrist with my other hand.

“We got them,” I said. “Kathryn’s letters. We’ve got them.”

16

Penmanship has become a cultural artifact. These days most people are uncomfortable writing by hand; we find it clumsy and exhausting. Instead, we keyboard—we type e-mails, type reports, type essays, relying on computer software to correct spelling and grammar mistakes. I read that only 15 percent of SAT essays are written in cursive; the rest are printed in block letters. That’s because students learn to write cursive when they’re in the fourth or fifth grade—if at all—and never use it again; it isn’t required in school and on most jobs, so they forget. Kathryn came from a time when cursive writing was a cornerstone of American education; it wasn’t just taught, it was demanded as evidence of industry, intelligence, and maturity. Yet in her hand, writing with a fountain pen, it became more than a practiced skill. It was an art form. Long, fluid letters, with neat loops and tight flourishes, danced gracefully across the pages with style and grace. It made me embarrassed for the scarcely legible scratches and squiggles bearing only a passing resemblance to the letters of the alphabet that I called handwriting.

Nina and I scooped the letters out of the carton and arranged them in chronological order. We counted seventy-three letters spanning approximately three years. They were written on personalized stationery with Kathryn’s name and her 337 Summit Avenue, St. Paul, Minnesota, address printed at the top. However, she struck out the address and filled in her current location in each letter. We read them to one another, first Nina and then me.

June 24, 1933

Aboard the Carmania somewhere in the Atlantic

Dearest Rose:

I am lying naked in my stateroom aboard the good ship Carmania as I write this, a bucket next to my bed. I am nauseous, my body trembles, and my head aches, yet I do not believe I am suffering from seasickness. The ocean is quite calm, and a fog has engulfed the ship, so we are moving at a sedate pace. No, it is fear that has brought me to this distressed condition. Fear of my uncertain future. I am now a woman alone, a mean and pitiful thing. I long for it to be otherwise, only it is impossible to go back, to return to the comfort of my previous existence. Not after what Brent has done. Not after what I have done. The foghorn blows at regular intervals. My head throbs. Oh, what a wretched thing I have become …

June 26, 1933

Aboard the Carmania

Dearest Rose:

A fine day although overcast as I continue this letter. The fog has lifted, the air is clean and mild, and the sea is still very smooth. It seems everyone is on deck, happy and busy, and when I join them I find I feel happy as well. Remaining a prisoner in my stateroom and feeling sorry for myself will avail me nothing in any case. Yes, I know I sound just like Father. The purser tells me that the ship is making excellent time and we are expected to make Le Havre on schedule. I shall be glad to see land again.

July 1, 1933

Le Havre, France

Dearest Sister:

A beautiful sight as we steam into the harbor. There are old houses on a hill that are very picturesque. It took us a while to anchor, for we were directed around a fleet of battleships. It took even longer before I could sort out my luggage. Porters were very much in demand, and I am afraid Father would be appalled at how much I tipped one of them to help me load my baggage aboard the boat train. After much red tape with passports, visas, and customs, the train left at 11:00 A.M. There were four young American men in our compartment. They were very kind and solicitous and seemed quite concerned when they learned that I was traveling alone. We all had a good lunch in the restaurant car, where two maids and a butler served everyone. One of the young men, I do not recall his name, insisted that he treat me. I am somewhat embarrassed to admit how much I enjoyed their attention. It reminded me of those days before I was married when the boys gathered in our parlor and I left you and Mother to entertain them while I feigned indifference …

3:00 P.M. Reached Paris at last. Great excitement, flurry and noise. Once again everyone scrambling for porters, but my four young men took me in hand and, after some difficulty hailing a taxi, sped me on my way. The taxi drove me to three different hotels, but I had no reservation and each was reluctant to provide me with a room. I wonder if they were concerned, as I am, that I am a woman traveling without escort? Finally, I was referred to a small but comfortable establishment, the Hotel Crystal, on the Rue St. Benoit, where I engaged two rooms. So I have arrived, dear sister, a stranger in a strange land, facing a future I cannot imagine. Give Mother and Father my love, especially Father, for he has been so kind and generous toward me. Please write soon and tell me what St. Paul is saying about my abrupt departure.

Your loving sister,
Kathryn

July 16, 1933

Paris—Hotel Crystal

Dearest Rose:

It has been raining a good deal in the past weeks and misting, but it has not interfered with my walks. I walk every day now, much more than I ever did at home, and I enjoy it very much. In the excitement of strolling through the funny, narrow, winding streets, seeing the old, curious houses and historic places, I find I forget everything. Many times now I have left the hotel and walked to the river, past the Louvre, often stopping for coffee at a sidewalk café. Or I will walk along Blvd. des Capucines to the opera. Or I will take the taxi to the Champs Elysées. Last week I hired a car and driver and drove through rural France, where no new houses seemed to have been built in centuries, where gardening is a fine art, and where the farm buildings are awful—cows, chickens, and people evidently living together. I am quite pleased with the Hotel Crystal. The franc is worth only 3.65 cents! I am paying what amounts to 60 cents of Father’s American money a day for my two rooms. At first I was kept awake by the noise of rats in the walls and ceiling, but I have since made the acquaintance of a great black cat named Georges who is entrusted with the task of keeping the vermin at bay. After a long and energetic conversation with him, I can report that the rats have ceased their infernal racket. I am grateful that you have kept my whereabouts a secret from Brent. It is sad that one should be frightened of one’s husband, but as you know, I have just cause. In any case, I shall soon make my intentions known to him. In the meantime, please write. The days between your letters seem so long and I am so lonely.

Your loving sister,
Kathryn