Jelly's Gold (10 page)

“Frank and Frances Nash lived in one of these houses.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know; the information is sketchy. All I know is that they lived on Mahtomedi between Rose and Spruce. We can eliminate the pretend log cabin and the redwood house because they were built after 1940. All the others were built between 1901 and 1930.”

The houses were located on the east side of White Bear Lake in the City of Mahtomedi, about two miles from Nina’s own home and ten miles from the St. Paul city limits. The gangsters had used the area as a kind of vacation hideaway. When they weren’t on the lake, they gambled at the Silver Slipper roadhouse and drank at Elsie’s speakeasy and ate at Guardino’s Italian Restaurant, all within easy walking distance. Or they crossed the lake and danced at the Plantation nightclub.

“If I had to choose, I’d pick the red and yellow cottage,” Nina said. “It’s the cutest.”

“Somehow, I don’t think Frank Nash went for cute.”

“I bet Frances did.”

She had me there.

“Was he living here when the gold was stolen?” Nina asked.

“Something else I’m not sure of.”

“If they were living here when Nash robbed the bank, why would they stay at Vernon Street with Karpis and the Barkers?”

I shot a finger at her. “Good point. Maybe he was afraid the cops were after him and he felt the house wasn’t safe.”

“Except, if he thought it wasn’t safe, it’s unlikely he would have stashed the gold here.”

“Another good point.”

Nina sighed heavily. “We’re no closer to the gold than when we started, are we?” she said.

“You didn’t think we were going to just drive over and pick it up, did you?”

“Yeah, I kind of did. Was hoping anyway. I’m being silly.”

“That’s because you’re weak from hunger. C’mon. We have one more stop.”

958 Mahtomedi Avenue

To reach the entrance to Guardino’s Italian Restaurant we had to climb up three concrete steps and slip between two brick walls. On one wall was a faded poster of an Italian flag. On the other was a detailed map of Mahtomedi—also faded—with a star designating where we were. A mesh screen door recently painted black stuck when I pulled but came free with a jiggle of the handle. The big glass interior door was already opened. We stepped inside onto a slightly warped plank floor that had been sanded so often it seemed to be nearly worn through. Right away we were assailed by the strong aroma of garlic, homemade sausage, and marinara sauce.

I took a deep breath. “Ambrosia,” I said.

Nina rolled her eyes at me, but then she had been eating too much of Chef Monica’s cooking lately and had become spoiled.

There was a tiny bar with only three stools in the corner next to a door leading to the kitchen; the rest of the room was filled with comfy beat-up chairs, ancient wood tables, and worn booths. The walls were decorated with the photos of Italian heroes: Frank Sinatra, of course, Dean Martin, Joe DiMaggio, Martin Scorsese. In one, Tony Bennett had his arm around the shoulders of a small elderly gentleman with silver hair. The man was wearing an apron with the name of the restaurant on it; the photo was taken just outside the front door.

“Tony Bennett ate here?” I asked.

The waitress who distributed the place mats, silverware, and water
glasses in front of us nodded. “Oh, sure,” she said. “A lot of famous people did. That photo with Tony, it was taken in 1958, ’59—it was one of Grandpa Joe’s fondest possessions. For weeks after he ate here, all Joe would play was Tony Bennett records. And then the night Rosemary Clooney ate here—where is that photo?”

The waitress found it hanging in the booth next to ours. It was nearly identical to the Bennett photo, except this time Joe had his arm around Rosemary and was beaming like a man who had just fallen in love. The waitress was laughing heartily when she gave it to us to examine. “Grandpa Joe,” she said. “What a character.”

“He was your grandfather?” Nina asked.

“Oh, yes,” the waitress answered. She offered her hand first to Nina and then to me. “I’m Rosemary Guardino, and before you ask, yes, I was named after Rosemary Clooney.” She laughed again as if it were a joke she had heard for the first time.

“A lot of gangsters ate here, too, I hear,” Nina said.

“Oh, yes. Plenty of them.” She waved at the walls of the small restaurant. “We have pictures all over the place, but we didn’t start putting them up until the mid-eighties.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“How do I explain it?” Rosemary sat next to me in the booth as if we were old friends; I scooted over to give her room. “This whole area”—Rosemary waved her hand in no particular direction—“used to be a kind of resort area for the gangsters who stayed in St. Paul.”

I smiled like a kid whose outlandish story had just been confirmed by a higher authority. Nina rolled her eyes some more.

“John Dillinger ate here. So did Homer Van Meter, Harvey Bailey, Bugsy Siegel, Machine Gun Kelly—all those badmen.”

“Frank Nash,” I said.

“Oh, yes, him and his wife. They used to live about a half mile down the road.”

“Between Rose and Spruce streets.”

“That’s right. You know about him?”

“Do you know which house he lived in?” I asked.

Rosemary shook her head. “I really don’t. Here—” Rosemary left the booth and crossed the restaurant. “Hey, how you doing?” she asked the couple eating in a booth near the front window. “Everything all right? Do you need anything? Be sure to give a shout if you do.” She removed a photograph from the wall above the man’s head and returned to us. She gave me the photo, holding the frame so she wouldn’t smudge the glass.

“That’s Frank Nash and his wife, Frances,” Rosemary said.

I studied the picture of a balding Frank Nash and a lovely, stylish brunette with long, wavy hair, a narrow face, and eyes that seemed to sparkle even off a seventy-five-year-old black-and-white print. I handed the photograph to Nina.

“Was that taken here?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Rosemary said. “It could have been taken—you know, it could have been taken in the booth where you’re sitting now.” For some reason I glanced around as if looking for proof of it. “Most of the photos we have were taken somewhere else by somebody else and we just put them up, but my father says this one was taken right here. He was only a kid when it was taken, but he says he remembers. He says Frank Nash was a very nice man, very polite to him and Grandpa Joe and especially to my grandmother. That’s why they took the picture, because he was such a nice man. They didn’t take pictures of the others. I guess they weren’t so nice.”

“You display the photos,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” Rosemary said. “I was telling you that story. Remember when Geraldo Rivera did that TV special where they opened Al Capone’s vault and there was nothing in it? It was over twenty years ago.”

“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.