Jelly's Gold (21 page)

PEDERSON, ROSE
Date of Birth:
11/13/1908
Place of Birth:
Minnesota
Mother’s Maiden Name:
Conlick
Date of Death:
10/18/1977
County of Death:
Ramsey

I returned to the microfilm room, where I looked up Rose Pederson in the
St. Paul Pioneer Press
obituaries. I found her listed on October 20, 1977.

Pederson
—Mrs. George (Rose Mable), age 69, formerly of 137 Montrose Place. Survived by daughter Mrs. John P. (Shelly) Seidel, three grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Services Thursday 2:00
P.M.
from JOHNSON-DAMPER Funeral Home, 678 S. Snelling Avenue. Interment Roselawn. Friends may call from 4:00 to 8:00
P.M.
Wednesday. Memorials are preferred to the American Cancer Society.

An older, balding, slightly overweight gentleman was sitting behind the desk just inside the microfilm room, an air of expectation about him, as if he were waiting for someone to ask for his assistance. I went up to him.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “Would you happen to have a phone book?”

I didn’t find a John P. Seidel, but I did find a Shelly.

The woman answered with a happy, singsong voice that suggested there was nothing she enjoyed more than speaking on the telephone.

“Mrs. Shelly Seidel?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s McKenzie.”

“Good morning, McKenzie.”

“Good morning. Mrs. Seidel, may I ask if you are related to Rose Pederson?”

“She was my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother? I thought you might be her daughter.”

“No, no, grandmother. My mother, also called Shelly Seidel, died some years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I was named after Mom. Which is odd, I know. You get a lot of sons named after fathers, but not many daughters named after mothers. I’m sure there’s a truly sexist reason for that.”

She thought that was funny and laughed heartily.

“First name
and
last name?” I asked.

“I kept my maiden name when I married,” she said. “I’m an emancipated woman, McKenzie. Besides, my husband’s name is Geretschlaeger. If you had a choice, would you call yourself Shelly Geretschlaeger? I should say not.”

“Mrs. Seidel—”

“Call me Shelly. After all, we’ve been through so much together.”

She thought that was funny, too. I decided I liked her.

“Shelly. I was wondering if you know anything about some letters your aunt Kathryn Dahlin might have written to your grandmother?”

“Oh, goodness gracious, McKenzie. Don’t tell me you want Katie’s letters, too. You’re the third person I’ve spoken to about it in the past three days. What the heck is going on?”

“I’m not sure. Who were the other two—”

“I really can’t talk on the phone right now. I kinda have my hands full. I’m making donuts.”

“Donuts?”

“You like donuts?”

“I love donuts.”

“Why don’t you come over? We’ll talk.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Homemade donuts straight from the deep fryer, McKenzie.”

“I’m on my way.”

13

I returned the phone book to the man behind the desk—he seemed relieved that I found what I was looking for—and I stepped into the comfortable corridor between the Ronald M. Hubbs Microfilm Room and the Weyerhaeuser Reference Room. My cell informed me that someone had left a voice mail message while I was chatting with Shelly, and I accessed it as I moved to the exit.

A calm voice said, “Mr. McKenzie, the young man delivered your message. I would very much like to speak with you. Call me at your convenience.”

The voice left a number, and I quickly punched it into the keypad. The phone rang twice before it was answered. “This is Timothy Dahlin,” the voice said. It was just as calm as before.

“Mr. Dahlin, this is McKenzie. I was hoping I’d hear from you.”

“It would seem that we have mutual interests, Mr. McKenzie. Would you care to discuss them?”

“I would indeed, Mr. Dahlin. Preferably face-to-face.”

“Would my office suffice?”

“I’d prefer a more public place.”

Dahlin chuckled at that. “Do I frighten you, Mr. McKenzie?”

“Of course.”

“You must tell me why.”

“When we meet.”

“Peavey Plaza, just outside Orchestra Hall. It’s in downtown Minneapolis. Do you know it?”

“I’ve been there many times.”

“Excellent. Shall we say five o’clock? There’ll be plenty of foot traffic, people leaving their jobs, so you will feel secure.”

“Five it is.”

Dahlin hung up without saying good-bye.

By then I was stepping outside the History Center and making my way to the parking lot. I found Greg Schroeder’s number in my cell’s memory and hit Call. Sometimes Schroeder answered his own phone, sometimes a receptionist did—it depended entirely on how good business was. This time I had to go through a receptionist (“Schroeder Private Investigations, how may I help you?”)
and
a secretary (“Mr. Schroeder’s office”).

When I finally got through, I told Schroeder, “Keyhole peeping must be a lot more lucrative than I thought.”

“It’s the Internet,” Schroeder said. “You got your identity theft, illegal spamming, e-mail harassment, downloading of copyrighted material. Plus, you got a serious increase in employee background checks.”

“It’s all good, then.”

“It’s fucking boring is what it is. I spend most of my time looking over the shoulders of these whiz kid geeks working computers; I don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Tell me you’re calling ’cause you got something good, McKenzie. Tell me you got something fun.”

“If you have anyone free, I could use some air cover.”

“Fuck, I’ll do it myself. What, when, where?”

I gave him the details.

“Do I get to shoot anyone?” Schroeder asked.

“God, I hope not.”

“There’s the possibility?”

“I suppose.”

“Cool.”

You have to like a man who enjoys his work.

Shelly Seidel had already made six dozen cake donuts when I arrived and was intent on making at least six dozen more. Not to mention donut holes. I sat at a table in her bright, spacious kitchen and watched her work. If she had been a dancer, it was many years and about thirty pounds ago. Yet her moves were fluid and smooth as she waltzed from the counter where she was cutting out the donuts to her deep fryer to the table where she set the donuts to cool before slathering them with homemade chocolate frosting.

“Hmmm, nutmeg,” I said as I ate the second of about a half-dozen donuts she forced on me, although I have to admit I didn’t resist all that much.

“My secret ingredient,” Shelly said. “ ’Course, how secret can it be? Everyone can taste it. You’re supposed to taste it.”

“A dozen dozen donuts is a lot of donuts,” I said.

“A gross.” Shelly paused. She held her dough-and flour-encrusted hands away from her body while brushing auburn hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist. “I hate that word, gross. It sounds so—gross.” She laughed, as freely and effortlessly as she had over the phone. Shelly had the rare gift of making complete strangers feel as welcome and comfortable as lifelong friends, and unlike some politicians I could name, she didn’t misuse her power to further her own agenda.

“The donuts are for the fishermen,” she said. “The old man and kids and brothers-in-law and nephews. I make them every year, and they take them when they all go up north for the fishing opener—it’s this week end.
They stuff them in their pockets to eat while they sit in the boats and on the docks and along the shore or wherever it is they sit while waiting for poor defenseless fish to bite their hooks.”

“I take it you’re not a big fan of fishing.”

“A little boring for me, but anything that gets the old man and kids out of the house at the same time is a good thing.” Shelly chuckled as she swept the hair off her forehead again. “While they’re gone, me and the girls like to go out to the clubs and flirt with young men.” She quickly raised and lowered her eyebrows Groucho Marx—style as if she couldn’t think of anything more fun.

“Who’s the old man?”

“My husband.”

“You call your husband the old man?”

“Well, he is three years, four months, and twenty days older than I am.”

“Does he ever call you the old lady?”

Shelly made a fist, punched the flat of her left hand, and ground the knuckles into the palm. “Not if he’s smart,” she said and chuckled. “We’ll be married thirty years in December.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

She brushed the acknowledgment away with a cloud of flour. “Don’t do that, congratulating someone just because they didn’t get divorced. It’s no big deal. Not like I won the Twin Cities Marathon or something.” She stopped; thought about it for a moment. “Actually, maybe it is,” she said and laughed some more. She dropped four donuts into her deep fryer and watched them intently, flipping them with a wire spatula after about a minute, then removing them a minute later.

“Ever think of doing this professionally?” I asked.

“What? Work for a living?” Shelly prepared another batch. “So, McKenzie. You want to talk about Katie’s letters?”

“Yes.”

“They’re the letters Katie sent to my grandmother when she was in Europe in the thirties, so actually they’re really Nana’s letters.” Shelly
shook her head. “We called my grandmother Nana. Isn’t that precious? If my grandkids ever call me Nana—” Shelly punched her hand and ground her knuckles. “Anyway, I don’t know why the Minnesota Historical Society would want them.”

“Who said they did?”

“Josh Berglund. When he called and asked if I had anything, letters, diaries, that belonged to Katie. He said that Katie had been involved in a lot of civic work in the thirties, during the Depression, and the Historical Society was putting together archives about that period. I told him that there was nothing in the letters about that. I read the letters. I kind of inherited them when my mother died. She died of cancer fourteen years ago.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said.

“It was very hard,” Shelly said. For the first time the music in her voice became somber. “Watching her die.”

“My mother also died of cancer,” I said. “I was twelve.”

“I was thirty-nine.” Shelly brushed her hair up and off her forehead again. “It’s starting to be a long time ago.”

“That’s what I tell myself, too.”

“We move on.”

“We try.”

“I read the letters,” Shelly said. “There wasn’t much in them. Some family stuff. Katie was unhappy in her marriage, but then she met a guy and it all worked out.” Shelly’s laugh returned. She pointed at me and said, “You men do have a way of boosting a girl’s spirits. After that, mostly the letters were about her travels through Europe. I suppose there might be some historical significance to that, comparing old Europe to new Europe, but otherwise, I don’t know why anyone would find them interesting.”

“How many letters were there?”

“Seventy-four. Enough to fill a nice-sized carton. Katie wrote every two weeks like clockwork. She would have written more frequently except for the mail back then. She explained it in one of the letters. She’d
write Nana—it would take about a week for the letter to arrive from Europe. Then Nana would write back, another week, and so on and so on.”

“Did you give all of the letters to Berglund?”

“Yes, I did—for the Historical Society. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but then—I swear not an hour went by before someone else knocked on the door asking me for the same thing. Letters from Katie. I figured someone at the Historical Society must have gotten their wires crossed, sending out two guys, so I told him that I already gave the letters to Berglund.”

“You used Berglund’s name?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

“This second man, did he tell you his name?”

“Yeah, I remember I thought it was a sissy name.” Shelly chuckled. “Don’t tell anyone I said so.”

“What was the name?”

“Boston Whitlow. You know, he reminded me of Robert Preston, the actor who played the traveling salesman in
The Music Man.
Boston Whitlow, he was just as slick as Professor Harold Hill was.”

Very slick,
my inner voice said.

“What can you tell me about Timothy Dahlin?”

“Kathryn’s son? He’s pretty slick, too, I guess, but I hardly know him. When I was a kid I would see him from time to time at family gatherings, only I was a lot younger than he was and he didn’t bother with me. I remember seeing him at a couple of funerals—Katie’s, and his father’s, and Nana’s. He sent a card and some cash when I was married, and he sent a bouquet of flowers when my mother died, but he didn’t show up either time. Why do you ask?”

“I think he wants the letters, too.”

“What the heck is in those letters?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Just some family stuff that took place over seventy years ago. I mean, who cares? The people it involved are all long dead.”

It was then that Shelly started asking the hard questions. I answered them as best I could without mentioning Jelly’s gold. I told her about Berglund’s murder and the missing letters. I suggested that the cops might be contacting her but she shouldn’t worry about it. I told her that Lieutenant Bobby Dunston was a good guy, but if he didn’t treat her with the utmost courtesy and respect she should give me a call and I’d kick his ass.

“Oh? Do you often battle the police?”

“It’s getting to be a habit.”

I thanked Shelly for her time, as well as the plastic bag filled with donuts that she insisted I take for the road. When I was going out the door, I said, “I wish you’d give me a call when you and your friends go clubbing. I’d like to buy a few rounds.”

“Oh, McKenzie,” she said as she patted my arm. “Nothing personal, but you are far too old for us.”