Jelly's Gold (22 page)

“Really?”

“We prefer our fruit right off the tree.”

Her laughter followed me all the way to my car.

Ivy Flynn gave me coffee while I treated her to Shelly’s fabulous donuts.

“Mmmm, nutmeg,” she said.

“It’s the secret ingredient,” I told her.

Ivy chewed slowly, savoring the donut. “I needed this,” she said. “It’s been a terrible morning.” She took another bite. I let her be until she finished eating.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Josh’s parents. They came to … to collect his things. His clothes, his …” Ivy covered her eyes with her hand. After a moment, the hand slid over her mouth and finally to the top of the table. “They’re devastated by what happened to their son. I think they blame me. Somehow they think I’m responsible. Because he was here. Because he was with me.”

“When’s the funeral?” I asked.

“They said, Josh’s parents said, that the medical examiner was releasing the body late tomorrow, so the funeral won’t be until Monday. They didn’t say it, but I don’t think they want me to be there.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Ivy ate more donut and drank more coffee, but I don’t think she was getting as much pleasure from it as before.

“McKenzie,” she said. “From what Shelly Seidel told you, do you think Boston Whitlow broke into the apartment the other night looking for the letters? Do you think he killed Josh when we caught him?”

“It’s as viable a story as any.”

“Are you going to tell the police?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I want to find the letters first.”

“So we can get the gold?”

“So we can get the gold,” I said.

“Do you think Whitlow has the letters?”

“No. He came to me looking for them, remember? For some reason he thought I had them.”

“But you don’t.”

“Ivy, have you searched the apartment? I mean really searched it?”

“Do you think Josh hid them here somewhere?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Ivy shook her head. “It’s not that big a place, and I’ve been—I’ve been collecting all of his things for his parents, going through all the drawers and closets. If the letters were here, I would have found them.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve been thinking—McKenzie, ever since you left the other day I’ve been thinking about Josh and me. You believe he was lying to me; you
believe that he was just using me until he found the gold and then he and the gold would be gone and I wouldn’t have anything. It isn’t true.”

“I’ve learned a few things about Josh during the past couple of days,” I said. “He wasn’t always the most scrupulous guy.”

“You’re wrong about him, McKenzie.”

I came very close to telling her about Genevieve Antonello but quickly changed my mind. What was the point? Instead, I nodded my head as if I might agree with her.

14

I tossed a penny into the reflecting pool and made a wish. There were two preschool children wading in the water on the far side of the pool while holding the hems of their shorts up with their hands. Their young, well-dressed mother watched them vigilantly from one of the wide pebbled-concrete steps that led to the pool. I guessed that they were waiting for the children’s father, who probably worked in one of the steel and glass towers that loomed overhead, creating the skyline of downtown Minneapolis. The kids were laughing and hopping up and down in the cool water and their mother was smiling and I wished that they would always be as happy as they seemed. I guess I’m sentimental that way.

The mother and her children weren’t the only people seeking relief among the shade trees, angular waterfalls, and cascading fountains of Peavey Plaza. Others also sat on the steps leading to the rectangular pool. Some were catching an early dinner, eating the hot dogs and Polish sausages a street vendor sold from his cart. Others, by the way they craned their necks, were obviously waiting for companions. Still others
sat quietly contemplating the water. Perhaps they were waiting for rush hour traffic to clear before heading home, or maybe they were waiting for their heads to clear.

Peavey Plaza is located on Eleventh Street and Nicollet Mall on the south side of downtown Minneapolis, and most people think it’s part and parcel of the acoustically magnificent Orchestra Hall that stands adjacent to it. Certainly the Minnesota Orchestra uses the plaza for many musical events, including its July Sommerfest concert series and Macy’s Twenty-Four Hours of Music, an all-day jam featuring just about every musical genre you could think of and a few you can’t. Actually Peavey Plaza is a Minneapolis-owned park, and most of the bands that play there are hired by the city. Unfortunately, the Tunes at Noon and Alive After Five concerts wouldn’t begin until June.

I wanted to make another wish, only I’d run out of pennies. Instead, I tossed a quarter into the reflecting pool and watched it settle to the bottom.

“You’re wasting your money,” a voice called out behind me. I turned to find Timothy Dahlin standing alone on a pebbled step, his arms flung wide, as if he were claiming the entire plaza for himself. He was short and round and revolved toward me as he eased off the step like the globe on a kid’s desk.

“Why’s that?” I said.

“Wishes don’t come true. I’d think a grown man would realize that. Besides, late at night homeless people, bag ladies, scoop the coins out of the pool and use the money to buy alcohol and drugs.”

“Or food?”

He smirked as if I were just too dumb to comprehend what was being said to me and sat on the step. I proved he was correct by tossing the rest of my change into the pool, making half a dozen splashes. He smirked some more.

I moved to where he sat. Dahlin was wearing a suit that probably cost more than my car; his shoes were shiny and unscuffed. So was his
face. Dahlin had spent a lot of money to disguise his age, yet you could tell he was fast approaching seventy-five years; you can always tell.

Allen Frans, the young man who had been following me in the Corolla, was sitting two steps up and about ten yards to the left of Dahlin. He was watching me intently. Greg Schroeder was sitting three steps up and about fifteen yards to the right. He was eating a chili dog and acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“I believe you called this meeting, Mr. McKenzie,” Dahlin said. “What can I do for you?”

I gestured toward the young man. “I do not want Allen following me, for one thing.”

Dahlin glanced over his shoulder at the young man. “Does he make you nervous, Mr. McKenzie?”

“Not particularly. I’ve dealt with his sort before.”

“Surely you would not compare Allen to Ms. Petryk’s associates.”

He knows about them,
my inner voice said.
The man gets around.

“Allen appears a good deal smarter,” I said, “but no tougher. In any case, I find his presence disconcerting.”

“Why should that trouble me?”

“I was thinking of Allen’s welfare. If I catch him following me again, he’s going to get hurt.”

I glanced up at Allen as I spoke. He didn’t so much as arch an eyebrow. I turned back to Dahlin.

“Allen can take care of himself,” he said, “as you will soon discover if you continue to involve yourself in matters that do not concern you.”

“What matters would those be?”

“My family.”

“I have absolutely no interest in your family—or you, either, for that matter.”

“In that case, I expect you to return my property.”

“Your property?”

“The letters my mother wrote.”

“Actually, those letters belonged to your aunt’s daughter’s daughter. That would make her your what—second cousin?”

“A very silly girl,” Dahlin insisted.

“She’s not a silly girl. She’s a woman. I like her. I like her a great deal better than I like you—but why quibble?”

“Why quibble, indeed, Mr. McKenzie? I will pay you for the letters.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“That’s not much money,” I said. “Especially when you consider that people have died for them. Josh Berglund comes to mind.”

“Others could die as well.”

“A pretty good threat, Dahlin. Nice and subtle. Except it would only work if I was convinced that you were involved in Berglund’s murder. Are you saying that you were involved, Mr. Dahlin?”

“I most certainly am not saying that.” Dahlin glanced around as if he were looking for a TV camera.

“No, I wouldn’t imagine that you would.”

“I want those letters, McKenzie.”

“What makes you think that I have them?”

“I am aware that Mr. Berglund passed the letters on to you before he died and that both Ms. Petryk and Mr. Whitlow have made you offers to secure the letters.”

“Who told you that?” My eyes were fixed on Allen.

“So far you have resisted their entreaties,” Dahlin said. “Do not make that mistake with me.”

“What exactly are you afraid of, I wonder.”

“Do not be presumptuous, Mr. McKenzie.”

“It’s just that, from what I know, you seem to be going to a great deal of trouble for a not very good reason.”

“My reasons are my own.”

“Mr. Dahlin, are you aware that your father was blown up in a car in 1936 just weeks before you moved to St. Paul?”

Dahlin’s face grew tight and red and his eyes became alarmingly bright, even as his voice grew cold and colorless. “My father died in his sleep in February 1975, three months after my mother died in her sleep,” he said.

His response made me feel like a jerk. Dahlin was right. Whatever emotional wounds he was suffering because of his parentage belonged to him and him alone. I had no business picking at them.

“I apologize, sir. Allow me to rephrase the question? Are you aware that Brent Messer—”

“I didn’t even know he existed until three months ago,” Dahlin said.

“Do you believe that he was Frank Nash’s partner, that he was his fence?”

“It is all about the gold with you, isn’t it? The gold you people think is hidden in St. Paul.”

“Yes, it is.”

“The gold doesn’t exist.”

“You’re probably right. Still—”

“What can I do to convince you to walk away from this, this”—Dahlin gestured at the reflecting pool—“this silly wish? What’ll make you stop?”

“The arrest and conviction of Josh Berglund’s killer, for one.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“So you’ve said.”

He looked at me as though his eyes were focusing on something inside my head. He spoke very slowly. “I can break you, McKenzie.”

“No, I don’t think you can. I’m not some poor schnook who’s worried about feeding his family, paying his mortgage, sending his kids to school. You can’t take my job away or blackball me in my profession. Nor can you foreclose on my house, condemn my property, repossess my cars, or push me into bankruptcy. As for other, more subtle weapons that might be at your disposal, if you come after me, pal, you’ll find I have more than enough money and resources to fight back. You won’t like how I fight.”

“There are other ways, less subtle.”

“Such as?”

“Allen.”

Dahlin turned his head and watched Allen rise from his perch on the step. He turned it again to see how I would react as Allen slipped his hand under his coat and moved toward me. I don’t think he expected me to smile. When I did, Dahlin looked back to see Greg Schroeder pressing the business end of a .40 Glock into Allen’s ear.

“Can I shoot him?” he said. “Can I, can I, huh, huh?”

“What about it, Mr. Dahlin?” I said.

Dahlin seemed more disappointed than angry. “You made your point,” he said.

“You got guys with guns, I got guys with guns, and my guys are scarier than your guys.”

“I said you made your point.”

“This doesn’t need to be an adversarial relationship, Mr. Dahlin. We can help each other if only you get past the idea that this is personal. It’s not. This is about who killed Berglund and about Jelly’s gold. That’s it. I know your monumental ego can’t deal with the reality of it, but I’ll tell you just the same. Nobody gives a crap about you. You could live or die or move to Wisconsin, no one gives a shit. No one cares who your parents were or who they weren’t. No one is trying to embarrass you. You threaten people to protect your name. What name? I could shout it at the top of my lungs and all the people wandering around Peavey Plaza will go, ‘Who?’ Honestly, I don’t get it, why you’re so bent out of shape over this. You’re the one writing a book, another rich white guy screaming, ‘Look at me, look at me.’ If you really want to get noticed, put it in. Tell the world about your parents, about Brent Messer. That’s what’ll get you on Oprah.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, McKenzie,” he said.

“Then enlighten me.”

“Are we done here?”

Dahlin was standing now and looking up at Allen and Schroeder. I
gestured at Schroeder to lower the Glock. He did, concealing it under his jacket but holding on, ready to draw it again. Why the dozens of pedestrians streaming by didn’t notice that he had been pointing it at Allen and go screaming for the cops I couldn’t say.

Dahlin began walking across the plaza. Allen quickly joined him. I heard him say, “I apologize, Mr. Dahlin. I didn’t see him coming.”

Schroeder and I stood silently until Dahlin and Allen disappeared into the traffic.

“What do you think?” I said.

“This guy, what’s-his-name, Dahlin—he doesn’t strike me as a quitter.”

“No, I don’t suppose he is.”

Schroeder and I lingered in the plaza together for a few minutes, talking it over. When he left I pulled out my cell phone and called Bobby Dunston. He said I’d saved him the trouble of contacting me.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“The log book Ivy Flynn gave us. Turns out Josh Berglund wrote with a nice, strong hand. Forensics was able to raise the letters on the page beneath the one that was torn out. Know what it says?”

“Milk, eggs, bread—”

“It says that he passed the letters on to you.”
That’s almost exactly what Dahlin said,
my inner voice reminded me. “Berglund wrote that he met SS as scheduled and secured Kathryn’s letters. Then he wrote, and I quote, ‘Passed letters on to McKenzie.’ Do I need to get a search warrant for your house?”