Jelly's Gold (8 page)

“That explains why we should speak elsewhere,” I said. “Not why we should speak.”

She batted her eyelashes. “Most men don’t need a reason.”

Yeah,
I told myself, and there was a time not long ago when I would have lined up like those men. Yet despite evidence to the contrary, I was older now and more mature. At least that’s what I told myself—remember, I didn’t drop the pencil.

“I need a greater incentive than that,” I said.

“I’ll buy.”

“I’ll meet you in five minutes.”

Café Minnesota, located on the ground floor of the Minnesota History Center, seemed out of place. While all the other rooms and exhibits in the building had a kind of sylvan appeal—plenty of wood, plenty of natural fibers—the café was decidedly new age, all black and silver and shiny surfaces. I sat in a chair that might have been borrowed from the ultramodern Walker Art Center and waited while Heavenly retrieved my black coffee. I tried not to stare at her legs when she returned and set a plastic tray on top of the metal table. Along with my coffee, it held an ice cream coffee drink topped with whipped cream, and a brownie with about an inch of chocolate frosting sprinkled with chopped walnuts.

“You don’t look like a girl who eats a lot of desserts,” I told her.

“No,” she said, speaking around a bite of brownie. “I look like a girl who exercises every day because she eats a lot of desserts.”

“Touché.”

“You’re working for that asshole Josh Berglund, aren’t you?” Heavenly said.

“With,” I said. “Not for.”

“Him and that bitch Ivy Flynn.”

“Miss Flynn happens to be a friend of mine, so kindly keep your insults to yourself.”

“Hmm,” Heavenly hummed as she finished off another bite of brownie. “You object when I diss Ivy, but not Josh.”

“You might want to keep that in mind in the future.”

“I have nothing against Ivy except that she’s seeing Josh.”

“Why should you care?”

Heavenly dropped the remainder of the brownie on the plate and pushed it away as if she suddenly had no taste for it.

She hesitated, said, “Josh and I,” paused again as if she were searching for the right words, said, “We had been seeing each other. We met at the U and stayed … friends, even after I took my master’s and left and got a job working as a writer and researcher while he went for his Ph.D.”

You’re kidding,
my inner voice remarked.
Both Ivy and Heavenly, two such lovely women—there must be more to Berglund than meets the eye.

“It was while working on a project—McKenzie, I’m the one who first uncovered the intel about Jelly Nash. I’m the one who researched the bank robbery in South Dakota and learned about the theft of the gold. I’m the one who used the Freedom of Information Act to examine Treasury Department records to verify the truth of it. I’m the one who determined that the gold was still hidden in St. Paul. I asked Josh to help me find it because, because—”

“You were in love,” I said.

“Yes. At least I thought I was. Josh—he said it was like we were ancient spirits that have known each other for a millennium. To my great regret, I believed him.”

“What happened?”

“Greed happened. What else? Josh decided he wanted a bigger share. He decided that he deserved half even though I’m the one who did all the work. I thought it was unfair. Next thing, Josh takes up with that slut Ivy Flynn—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, but look at it from my perspective, McKenzie. He stole the information that I gathered and then ran off with another woman to search for the gold.”

“When did all this happen?”

“He left me three weeks ago.”

“Ivy said that she had been seeing Berglund for a few months.”

“I know that now. Not then. Back then I thought he loved me. How could I have been so blind?”

“How old are you, sweetie?”

“Don’t call me sweetie. I’m not a child.”

“No, and you’re not particularly sweet, either. Still, you’re what, Heavenly? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-four.”

“A lot of people your age use that word carelessly—love.”

“Are you discounting my feelings, Mr. McKenzie?”

“You were wondering why you didn’t see it coming. Now you know.”

Heavenly leapt to her feet, her hands clenched. She was either going to leave the café, throw a punch, or sit back down. While she was trying to decide, I said, “You didn’t bring me here to talk about a schoolgirl crush gone bad, Heavenly. You brought me here to talk about the gold.”

“Yes,” she said. She slowly returned to her chair.

“Well?”

“The gold belongs to me,” Heavenly said. “It’s my gold.”

“Seems to me the gold belongs to whoever finds it first. Assuming anyone finds it. Assuming it even exists.”

“I’ll sue in court.”

“That’s certainly an option. Only what is it they say, possession is nine points of the law? Besides, I have access to the best lawyers money can buy.”

“There are other possibilities.”

“Are you referring to your friends outside?”

“You saw them?”

“Of course. Red Chevy Aveo. Do you want the license plate number?” She shook her head. “Let me guess. They called you on a cell as soon as they saw me enter the History Center. That’s how you knew it was me in the library.” Heavenly sighed like a roulette player who keeps betting red and keeps spinning black. “I’m not impressed,” I said.

“No, I don’t suppose you are.” Heavenly scooped a dollop of whipped cream off her drink and slowly licked it off her finger. “What are we arguing about?” she said.

“About whether or not you’re going to get your way,” I said. “I’m guessing that you nearly always do.”

“Nearly always,” she said. “McKenzie, why don’t you and I form a partnership?”

“Your friends might object.”

“Acquaintances. The way you handled them yesterday, I doubt they’d be a problem.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Twenty-five percent.”

“Ivy and Berglund offered me a third.”

“I’ll go as high as a third.” Heavenly rested her hand on top of mine. “Perhaps I can provide additional incentives as well.”

I brought her hand to my lips and kissed a knuckle.

“How many presidential elections have you voted in?” I asked. “One? Two? I make it a rule to only get involved with women who have voted in at least four.”

Heavenly pulled her hand away. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe so, but it’s kept me out of a lot of trouble over the years.”

“With who?”

“Mostly my girlfriend.”

From the expression on her face, she seemed to have a tough time believing me. “How many presidential elections has she voted in?”

“We stopped counting after five.”

“Oh, wow.” Heavenly began to chuckle as if the idea that I would reject her for an older woman was just too humorous to contemplate. “Really,” she said and chuckled some more. “I guess we’ll have to do it the hard way.”

“Is there any other?”

Heavenly stood. “I’m warning you,” she said. “I’m going to find the gold first, and you had better not get in my way.”

“Fair enough.”

“Fair has nothing to do with it.”

“Then may the best man win.”

She sniggered, turned, looked back at the table, snatched up her ice cream drink, and walked away. I watched her sway as she headed for the door.

“Heavenly,” I called. The hem of her skirt swished as she spun toward me. “I don’t want to see your … acquaintances when I leave here.”

Heavenly shrugged as if it were no big deal and went through the door.

Goodness gracious, but she’s a fetching lass,
my inner voice said.
Oh, well.

I went back up the stairs and resumed my search through the History Center’s archives. I tried to get a line on Nash’s accomplices; he didn’t move nearly nine hundred pounds of gold bullion by himself. I couldn’t find a single name. Eventually I turned my attention to addresses. I found six by the time a librarian tapped me on the shoulder.

“You don’t have to go home,” she said, “but you can’t stay here.”

I gathered up my notes and headed for the door. On the way out I used my cell.

“Are you dropping by the club?” Nina asked. “We have a terrific dinner special tonight. Monica really outdid herself.”

“Would that be Monica who studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris and worked for Wolfgang Puck at 20.21 in Minneapolis?”

“Yes, it would.”

“She’s overrated.”

“Bite your tongue, you Philistine.”

“Actually, Nina, I was wondering if you could sneak away tonight.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I thought you might like to do a little treasure hunting.”

“Really? Oh, I’d like that very much.”

The sun hung just above the horizon despite the hour—a gift of daylight saving time—when I stepped from the History Center and crossed its emerald lawn to the parking lot. The red Aveo driven by Heavenly’s acquaintances was now all alone in the back tier, as obvious as a smudge of spaghetti sauce on the front of a white shirt. The sight of it made me scowl, made me think that Heavenly didn’t take my threats seriously. Well, we couldn’t have that. I was about a third of the way across the lot with the thought of confronting the Aveo’s occupants when I noticed the attendant’s booth at the exit.

What are you thinking?
my inner voice wanted to know.
It’s a gated lot.

“Screw it,” I said aloud. “Nina’s waiting.”

I retreated to my own car parked in the front row. It was a fully loaded silver Audi 225 TT coupe with a four-cylinder turbocharged engine that could go from zero to sixty in the time it takes you to say it. The Aveo, on the other hand, was probably the least expensive car built
in America and had a power plant about the size of a nine-volt battery. I could outdrive it on a Segway.

I drove to the booth. It was manned by an elderly gentleman wearing a three-piece suit. I mentioned that I had never seen a better-attired parking lot attendant.

“You should see us during special events,” he said.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said.

I gave him a twenty. I wasn’t a member of the Minnesota Historical Society, although I planned to join now that I had visited its marvelous building, so I had to pay the full hourly rate. There wasn’t much change, and I told him to keep it.

“Have a good evening,” the attendant said.

He raised the control arm, and I drove under it. He lowered it behind me, trapping the Aveo inside the lot. The driver of the car had a bill in his hand that he waved excitedly out of his window at the attendant. I don’t know if that encouraged the old gent to move any faster or not. I accelerated out of the lot and hung a left, a right, a left, then another hard right, driving at speeds that mocked the traffic laws. I never saw the red Aveo again.

“Amateurs,” I said.

6

1095 Osceola Avenue

It was possible to confuse the Edgecumbe Court Apartments with the St. Paul Tennis Club and Linwood Elementary School just down the block—all three of them had nearly identical redbrick facades and similarly constructed windows, although Edgecumbe Court seemed better kept up. Four apartments were located in the basement, with six more on the first floor and another half dozen on the second floor. The building had a security door with a telephone system that I doubt had been in operation seventy-five years earlier. I parked the Audi. Nina and I got out and circled the building. I thought Heavenly’s acquaintances might try to pick me up at Rickie’s, but they were nowhere to be seen, and I had been watching carefully.

“What are we looking at?” Nina asked.

I didn’t have a specific answer for her. Instead, I told her the story as well as I knew it.

May 29, 1931

Jimmy Keating and Tommy Holden took turns hugging Frank Nash and slapping him on the back.

“Man, what are you doing here?” they wanted to know.

“After I walked away from Leavenworth—”

“Walked away, I don’t fucking believe it,” Keating said.

“I took a vacation down in Hot Springs until I got a call from Jack Peifer. He said that the heat was off up here, that I should come on up. I’ve been staying at the Senator Hotel in Minneapolis.”

“The hell with that,” said Holden. “You’re staying here. We’ll put you up.”

“Now, boys, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I don’t even know what that means, impose,” said Holden. “You’re staying here. This is a good deal. Best furnished apartments in the city, only eighty-five a month. Quiet. No one to bother you. Kids down the street will wash and wax your car for a buck. The owner, old man Reed, has his head up his ass, doesn’t know anything. Whaddaya say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Frank, we owe you more than we can repay for helping to bust us out,” Keating said. “You gotta let us put you up. At least until you start earning again.”

“You know, Jimmy and me, we have some jobs lined up if you’re interested,” Holden said. “We could always use a good hand. Any advice you want to give us …”

Both Keating and Holden were pleasant, intelligent, friendly, well-behaved high livers who dressed well and spent freely—just his kind of people—so Nash relented and moved into the Edgecumbe Court Apartments under the name Frank Harrison. Despite his initial misgivings—he never cared for the language his new partners used—he relished his stay there. He even struck up a friendship with the owner,
a retired banker named Henry Reed, congratulating him on how well he kept up the apartment building and telling him that he enjoyed living there very much.