Jelly's Gold (31 page)

“I wonder what Kathryn wrote in the missing letter,” Nina said.

“I wonder where it is,” I said.

20

Shelly Seidel didn’t seem surprised to see me standing on her doorstep.

“McKenzie,” she said. “What brings you by this bright and sunny Saturday morning? Say, you’re not here to take advantage of a poor fishing widow, are you?”

“Not me.”

“Dang. Well, there’s always hope. Come on in.”

She held the door for me as I entered the house. It still had the sweet aroma of freshly fried donuts.

“It’s the opening day of the fishing season,” Shelly said. “Why aren’t you up at Lake Mille Lacs with the governor?”

“I wasn’t invited to share that photo op.”

“Neither was my family or a sizable percentage of the rest of Minnesota, but that didn’t stop them. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I found the letters you gave to Josh Berglund.”

“Good.”

“I turned them over to the cops.”

“Do you think I can get them back once they’re done with them?”

“Sure. Just call. Do you have Lieutenant Dunston’s number?”

“He gave me his card when he was here yesterday.”

“The thing is, Shelly, one of the letters was missing.”

“Which one?”

“You tell me.”

“How would I know?”

“Shelly …”

“McKenzie …”

“Why don’t we just call Dunston and let him sort it out.”

“Go ahead.”

I removed the cell phone from my jacket pocket. Instead of using the memory, I made a big production out of pressing numbers.

“Wait,” Shelly said.

I found her eyes. She looked away.

“Fine,” she said. “I have the missing letter.” She shook her head vigorously side to side. “I’m lousy at poker. I watch all the tournaments on ESPN and the Travel Channel. Doesn’t do me any good.”

“Why did you keep the letter?”

“I didn’t want to embarrass Katie. I don’t know how I could have; she’s been dead for thirty years. Anyway, I read through the letters when Berglund called and said he’d like to see them. There was this one—I was in college when Katie died. I remember sitting in a pew behind Nana and my mother at the service. Jim—James Dahlin—was speaking about his wife, giving a eulogy. He was bragging about how supportive and faithful Katie had been throughout their long marriage, and Nana leaned over and whispered to my mother just loud enough for me to hear, ‘Tell that to Brent Messer and Frank Nash.’ I didn’t know who Messer or Nash were, not then. I figured they were just guys that Katie might have slept with, and I remembered thinking at the time, ‘Good for you, Katie,’ which I suppose a lot of smart-aleck college girls might have thought in the mid-seventies. Only, when I read the letter, what, thirty, thirty-five years later,
I wasn’t so sure it was such a good thing. What I thought was exciting when I was a kid seemed sordid now. So I took it out of the carton.”

“May I read it?” I said.

“Do you think it will lead you to Frank Nash’s gold?” Shelly asked.

“Oh. You know about that.”

“The police said the other day that Berglund might have been killed for the gold. Funny, I don’t recall you mentioning it when you were here. Why is that?”

“Must have slipped my mind.”

“You weren’t trying to keep it all to yourself, were you, McKenzie?”

“Lady, I have more partners than I can shake a stick at.”

“Uh-huh. So one more would have been one too many, is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m sorry, Shelly.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry about it. I read the letter. I read it several times.”

“And?”

“Wait here.”

Shelly left the living room. When she returned, she was holding a small pale blue envelope. “Read it yourself,” she said.

I pulled the well-creased pages out of the envelope.

September 16, 1933

Paris—Hotel Crystal

Darling Rose:

I am taking a desperate gamble, I know, but I must have my freedom and I see no other alternative available to me. Yesterday I sent yet another missive to Brent. Again I begged him to grant me a divorce. This time, I told him if he refused, I would inform the authorities about the bars of gold he has hidden in the wall behind the desk in his office. I reminded him that President Roosevelt has made it an act of treason to hoard gold during these troubled times. Do not be mistaken for a moment, dear sister, that I have taken this course with any thought that I possess the upper hand. The knowledge and pain of Frank Nash’s murder is still fresh in my heart. Yet I am willing to risk all to be free to marry Jim Dahlin. Oh, how different my life should be if I had not met Frank, if we had not behaved with such imprudence in the bedroom above the Hollyhocks. A single reckless act resulting in so much heartache. However, I am certain we shall soon see the better side of this affair …

The rest of the text dealt with Kathryn’s love for both James Dahlin and Paris—for her, the two seemed interchangeable. I looked up from the letter to find Shelly staring at me. My heart was pounding at about one hundred beats a minute, yet she was perfectly calm.

“I don’t suppose you know where Brent Messer’s office was located,” I said.

In response, Shelly gave me a thick, heavy coffee-table book—
Lost Twin Cities
by Larry Millet, the former architecture writer and critic for the
St. Paul Pioneer Press.

“Page two-sixteen,” she said.

I turned to the correct page and began reading about the palatial Guardian Life Insurance Building on the southwest corner of Fourth and Minnesota streets in downtown St. Paul. It was originally dubbed the Germania Life Insurance Building; however, its name was changed following our entry into World War I.

“This is where Messer kept his offices?” I said.

“Yes, on the sixth floor,” Shelly said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

According to Millet, the base of the building was
rusticated walls of red granite framing tall, arched windows,
while the upper floors were
faced in rugged Lake Superior sandstone
in the
fashion of the Renaissance Revival.
Supposedly, the building proved that aging architect Edward Bassford
could still hold his own with St. Paul’s young Turks. Well, good for him, I thought.

The only part of the chronicle that really interested me was the last paragraph.

I read it twice.

The building itself survived until 1970, when it was demolished for the Kellogg Square apartment complex.

When I finished, I gazed up at Shelly.

“Ain’t that a kick in the head,” she said.

Shelly Seidel watched me walk to my car, fold my arms over the roof, rest my chin on my wrists, and stare at nothing in particular until she became bored with it and closed the front door of her house, leaving me alone. I wasn’t depressed exactly. Dejected, discouraged, disappointed, certainly, yet not depressed. At least no more depressed than I had been many times before when I left the Metrodome or the X or the Target Center after one of my teams lost the big game. If there was a difference, it was in knowing that the season was over, that there wouldn’t be another game tomorrow.

I had really wanted to find Jelly’s gold, and it stung to learn that it had been lost to me decades earlier, that I had been drawing dead, as the poker players say. Everything I had been through with Ivy and Berglund and Genevieve and Heavenly and Whitlow and Dahlin and Allen and Ted and Wally had been a monumental waste of time and effort and emotional upheaval. You know what—I was depressed. I had the feeling that somewhere Frank Nash was laughing hysterically.

Him and Brent Messer.

Bastards.

I turned my head to the left.

Ahh, c’mon,
my inner voice said. Parked about a half block down the street was a beige Toyota Corolla. I had no doubt Allen Frans was behind the wheel.
Give me a break, wouldja?

I turned my head to the right. Parked about a half block up the street—and facing the wrong direction—was a red Chevy Aveo with two figures in the front seat.
Ted and Wally,
my inner voice said.
You gotta be kidding me. I admire perseverance as much as the next guy, but now it’s just getting silly.

I stayed there, draped over the roof of my Audi, resting my chin against my arms, and contemplated the many ways I could mess with these guys. There were a few neighborhoods on the East Side of St. Paul and the North Side of Minneapolis where I could strand them—that would be fun. Or I could lead them north to my lake home, get them lost in the woods near the Canadian border. It seemed like more effort than it was worth.

I backed away from the Audi and went into my pocket for my cell phone. I found Timothy Dahlin’s number in my cell’s memory and hit Send.

“It’s over,” I said when he answered.

“What’s over?”

“It is.”

“What are you—”

“Call off your dog,” I said. “In fact, call off everybody.”

“I don’t—”

“I have the one letter, the original, that you’re most afraid will fall into someone’s hands. I have copies of all the other letters Kathryn wrote. I have information that reveals who killed Brent Messer. I know what happened to Jelly’s gold. I’m willing to share. Call off Allen. While you’re at it, contact your ghostwriters. I’ll tell everybody everything, and then we can all go back to our humdrum lives. Whaddaya say?”

Dahlin didn’t say anything.

“Seriously,” I said. “Let’s put a period to all of this.”

A few more moments passed. I was getting ready to hang up when Dahlin said, “Yes. I will arrange a meeting of all interested parties. I will call you back.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Dahlin hung up. I returned my cell to my pocket and rounded the Audi to the driver’s side door. First I waved at Allen Frans, then I turned and waved at Ted and Wally. I entered my car, shut the door, and sat there listening to KBEM-FM, the local jazz station, until Dahlin called.

There are about one hundred seventy-five houses in the City of Sunfish Lake, and all of them have big yards. City ordinances dictate that no house can be built on a lot smaller than two and a half acres—not counting lakes, ponds, and other wetlands—and most are constructed on parcels bigger than that. Except for four churches, the entire city is zoned for single-family dwellings; there is no commercial development of any kind, not even a Starbucks. There is land set aside for a city hall but no plans to use it because there are no city offices or city employees. All services including police protection are provided by outside contractors.

A couple of those contractors—they were driving a patrol car in the colors of the City of West St. Paul—stopped me when I crossed South Robert Trail heading for Windy Hill Court. (Don’t you love street names like that?) I didn’t even notice them until their lights flashed in my rearview. Their names were Tom and Chris, they wore crisp, well-pressed uniforms, and they said “sir” a lot while they politely inquired after my business in Sunfish Lake. I asked them how they got on me so quickly. Did I trip a sensor when I crossed the city limits? Were there cameras perched in trees that I didn’t see? It couldn’t have been the Audi—it was only two years old, and I had patched all the bullet holes last September. They didn’t say, and they didn’t let me pass until I explained I was an invited guest of Timothy Dahlin, and even then they followed me closely to make sure I turned onto the correct driveway. There was a red reflector on a post at the curb, which gave them permission to follow me up the driveway to the house, but they stayed back. It was a long, wooded
drive, and at the end of it, surrounded by about a thousand trees, there was a hundred-and-forty-year-old house that looked like it had been built last week. There was a four-car garage in front and a pool in the back and cobblestones leading to the front door. I parked and carried a large manila envelope to the door while fighting off a tremendous urge to remove my shoes. I used the bell. A few moments later, it was opened by Allen, who looked no worse for his stay with the St. Anthony Police Department.

“This way,” he said.

Allen turned and walked deeper into the house, fully expecting me to tuck the envelope under my arm and follow him. When I didn’t he turned back. “What?”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Were you expecting something more?”

“How ’bout ‘Thank you, Mr. McKenzie, for getting me out of jail, although we both know that’s where I deszerve to be’?”

He didn’t reply.

“You know, a jolt in the joint would have done you a world of good.” I pointed more or less past him. “Lead the way.”

He led me through a marble vestibule, across a room that looked like the lobby of a hotel you might find on the National Register of Historic Places, and past two French doors. To Allen’s annoyance, I slowed along the way to admire Dahlin’s furniture. I might have asked him where Dahlin bought it, but we weren’t speaking.

On the other side of the French doors we found Dahlin’s library. There were floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books that seemed to be selected based on their covers. The last time I had seen that many matching volumes was in the Hamline Law Library. “It is kind of you to come,” Dahlin called to me when I entered the room. He was sitting behind a desk that was so big it looked like the house had been built around it. Heavenly was sitting in one wingback chair in front of the
desk, and Whitlow was sitting in another. Allen remained standing near the doors.

“Looks like the gang’s all here,” I said.

Whitlow jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. He might have come for me except he was angry, not stupid.

“Did you see Heavenly’s face?” he asked.

I gave her a hard look. The left side seemed a little swollen, but not too badly. She had done a remarkable camouflage job with her makeup.

“Looks better than I thought it would,” I said.

“They hit her and you did nothing about it,” Whitlow said.