The Devil May Care (3 page)

The living room was filled with white furniture; white rugs were strategically positioned on the gleaming hardwood floor. I walked around the rugs for fear of soiling them. Even the baby grand piano in the corner was white. The lid was open, and the way sheet music was arrayed above the keyboard suggested that it had been played recently.

The living room flanked a formal dining room, where I found a table that could easily seat two dozen beneath an honest-to-God crystal chandelier. The dining room opened onto an immense kitchen that was so opulent and so clean that I would have feared to cook anything in it. There was a door next to the refrigerator. The three-car garage was on the other side of it. A BMW 328i convertible was parked there, and nothing else—no rakes, no shovels, no lawn mowers, and no snow blowers; nothing that you might expect to find in a garage in Minnesota. I checked the Beamer. It was this year's model; there couldn't have been more than a few hundred miles on the odometer.

On the far side of the kitchen I found an informal dining room—it sat only eight—which led to a sunroom filled with more wicker furniture. Thick panes of tinted glass stretching from floor to ceiling served as walls and faced south and west. A family room lay beyond and featured both leather and upholstered furniture arranged in front of an HDTV just slightly smaller than the scoreboard at the Xcel Center.

Every surface in the house was fastidiously cleaned, dusted, vacuumed, or polished; every pillow, tapestry, quilt, comforter, and rug was artfully arranged; every collectible, antique, artifact, and work of art was displayed to maximum effect. There were no newspapers, magazines, or books littering sofa cushions or tabletops; no jackets, sweaters, or sweatshirts draped over the back of chairs; no mail, umbrellas, shoes, or keys discarded near doorways—nothing to suggest that someone actually lived there. The wastebaskets were empty, and so was the dishwasher. Even the food in the refrigerator looked as if it had been meticulously organized by an art director guiding a photo shoot.

I wandered up to the second floor. The staircase divided the upstairs more or less in half. I went to my right and discovered four bedrooms and three baths, each so pristine that at first glance you would have doubted that they had ever been used. I looked closer, however, and discovered that the bathroom off of what I assumed was the master bedroom contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash, shaving cream, a razor, extra blades, shampoo, conditioner, hair spray, deodorant, cologne, and other articles needful to a man who prized personal hygiene. Yet it all felt new and was so neatly arranged on shelves and in drawers that I suspected the owner suffered from an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

That theory was reinforced when I examined the bedroom. The king-sized canopied bed was perfectly made; the coverlet was so smooth it looked as if it had been ironed. Across from the bed was a polished bureau. Eight watches with brand names like Hublot, Omega, Glashütte, and Breguet were carefully arranged across the top according to the color of their wristbands. The drawers contained mostly socks, boxers, handkerchiefs, and short-sleeve polo shirts made by Ralph Lauren, Brooks Brothers, and Fight Club, all immaculately folded. In the bottom drawer there was an orange sweatshirt with the name Macalester College emblazoned in fading blue letters across the front; its cuffs and neckline were frayed. It looked as if it had been worn every day for the past ten years, and if it hadn't been so neatly stored away I might have thought there was hope for Mr. Navarre yet.

The walk-in closet had more of the same. High-end suits, costly sports jackets, dress slacks, casual pants, jeans, dress shirts—all on wooden hangers, all arranged by color, and all with approximately two inches of space between them as if Navarre were frightened that they would somehow contaminate each other if they should ever touch. Dress shoes, boots, sneakers, and Top-Siders were just as precisely organized and set on the floor against the far wall of the closet, the back heel of each hard against the molding. Above the shoes were shelves filled with dozens of folded dress shirts; the shirts were also arranged by color. None of them looked as if they had ever been worn before. In fact, the only thing I discovered that seemed to have any age to it at all was a creased and scuffed gray leather satchel with the silver initials CBE riveted to the side. I assumed the initials indicated the name of the manufacturer, yet I wrote them down in a small spiral notebook I carried just the same.

I moved to the rooms to the left of the staircase. There I found a fourth bathroom. This one featured a large walk-in shower and a whirlpool bath. Fluffy white towels, each impeccably folded and smelling as if it had been washed with lemon-scented soap five minutes ago, were stacked on a white shelf. A door between the shower and bath led to a fully equipped exercise room that smelled of applewood. There was another white shelf with more white towels.

I left the exercise room and followed the corridor to an office. Riley Brodin had said that Navarre was an entrepreneur. If so, he conducted all of this business without the use of paper. Or computers either, for that matter, although I did find a couple of cable outlets in the walls and a router. I searched the room and discovered only two things that interested me. The first was an empty silver—and I mean
real
silver—picture frame lying facedown on the desktop. It was the only thing in the room that seemed askew. The second was a seven-year-old yearbook. Like the sweatshirt, it was from Macalester College, an expensive, private liberal arts school in St. Paul.

I tried the trick of opening the book and letting it fall to see what page it landed on. That didn't work unless Navarre spent a lot of time reliving a speech Walter Mondale had delivered to the student body. I searched for his name and came up empty. I tried Riley Brodin and discovered her name and photo listed under “Freshmen.” Her hair was longer then and dark brown, and her expression was so damned serious it made me smile.

Just for giggles, I checked for a name that fit the initials CBE, but there were no matches to either students or teachers.

I left the book as I found it and continued down the corridor until I discovered a room that was empty except for a Celestron NexStar telescope set near a large window. Careful not to jostle it, I peered through the eyepiece. The telescope was trained on a large estate on the far side of Crystal Bay. Like Navarre's place, the estate was predominantly white and built to recall the architecture of the antebellum South; there were six Greek-like columns flanking the front door. The house commanded a bluff that overlooked a couple hundred feet of shoreline. There was a dock with slips for four boats; one of them had to be at least sixty feet long. A purple flag flew from a high pole at the end of the dock, and I thought it might carry the emblem of the Minnesota Vikings or maybe even Northwestern University, but no, it was just a purple flag.

I studied the estate the way Navarre must have. All in all, it made his place look like a starter home in the suburbs. It was because I was so occupied that I didn't hear her until she shouted, “What are you doing here?”

I must have leapt three feet into the air. When I came back down, I spun to face the woman. I took two steps backward and one to the side. My hand went to the spot behind my right hip where I would have holstered my gun if I had thought to bring it.

She stood in the doorway. Her fists were pressed against her hips. Her hair was reddish blond, her eyes were hazel, and she had an ample bosom that she accentuated beneath a crisp white shirt and dark blue blazer. Her skirt matched her jacket and ended a tasteful half inch above her knees. Her face was artfully made up to look younger than it actually was. I might not have noticed except she was trying awfully hard to appear assertive if not downright stern. Still, I could detect just a hint of alarm behind her eyes.

“I'm a friend of Navarre's,” I said. “Who are you?”

“What are you doing here?” she repeated.

“Looking for Navarre.”

“He's not here.”

“I can see that. Who are you?”

“How did you get in?”

I reached into my jacket pocket. The woman's body tensed and then visibly relaxed when I withdrew the key and held it up for her to see. “Juan Carlos gave me a key.” The use of Navarre's first name seemed to mollify her a bit.

“He gave you a key?”

“Actually, Riles gave me the key. Riley Brodin, Navarre's girlfriend.” The woman didn't speak, but her eyes widened with recognition, so I kept on. “Do you know Riles?”

“I know of her.”

“She's Walter Muehlenhaus's granddaughter.” She looked away for a moment, and I wondered if the name Muehlenhaus had that effect on everyone. “Navarre gave the key to her, and she gave it to me because Navarre didn't have any other extras. I was supposed to meet him here.”

“Did Juan Carlos give you the code to the alarm system?”

That slowed me down. I hadn't actually thought of that—I had a security system at my house; surely Navarre must have had one, too. Yet I didn't see a console when I entered the house. I wondered briefly if I had tripped a silent alarm when I unlocked the door, then dismissed the idea. I had been in the house far too long without being shot at for that to be true.

“He never said anything about an alarm system,” I said.

“I checked when I arrived. It's been turned off.”

“Not by me.”

“By whom, then?”

“I don't know. Ask Navarre.”

“He's not here.”

“I know he's not. Who are you, lady?”

“Anne Rehmann.”

I flashed on the sign at the end of the driveway. “Rehmann Real Estate?”

“That's right.”

“What's that about?” I asked. “Navarre didn't say anything about moving.”

“When did you talk to him last?”

“He called Saturday. He was supposed to meet Riles and me for lunch at Casa del Lago. He called and said he couldn't make it.”

Anne sighed, and with the sigh I saw the anxiety draining from her body. Everything I told her seemed to fit what she already knew—which is a trick they teach you at the police academy when it comes to conducting interrogations. Tell suspects what little you know in just the right manner, and they'll come to believe that you know everything.

“I don't know what Juan Carlos told you, but he doesn't own this house,” Anne said. “He's leasing with an option to buy. The house actually belongs to Mrs. Irene Rogers. After her husband died, she decided it was too big for her, so she bought a condo at Club Versailles. Somehow she met Juan Carlos and agreed to let him stay here until I could find a buyer. I came over because I wanted to ask if he decided to make an offer. If not, I wanted to arrange a time to show the estate to a couple of prospects.”

“So you don't know where Navarre is, either,” I said.

She shook her head.

“That's odd,” I said.

Anne snorted at the remark.

“A lot of people on Lake Minnetonka live according to their own private calendars,” she said. “Screw the rest of us.”

Dissatisfaction,
my inner voice reminded me.
You can use that.

“You'd think people would show a little consideration,” I said. “I don't care how much money they have.”

“The rich are different from the rest of us,” she said, repeating a line often attributed to F. Scott Fitzgerald. “Haven't you heard?”

“Yes, they have more money,” I said, quoting Ernest Hemingway's famous reply.

Anne snorted again and asked, “The Audi in the driveway, is that yours?”

“Yep.”

Anne nodded her head. I knew exactly what she was thinking: You drive an Audi S5 coupe; you must have plenty of dough lying around. I waited for the question I knew was coming.

“Are you in the market for a home on Lake Minnetonka?” Anne asked.

“I am. In fact, the more Navarre talks about it, the more I like the idea. Tell me, how much are you asking for this place?”

“Five-point-four million.”

I made a hissing sound. “That's a little out of my price range.”

“What is your price range?”

“One and a half.”

Anne nodded her head as if she knew it all along. “I have a few properties you might be interested in. Do you have a card?”

I didn't, but I gave her my name and cell number, and she dutifully jotted both down. I was sure that before sundown she'd know my net worth down to the last nickel—which would be a helluva lot more than I knew.

Anne gave me her card.

“Perhaps we can talk later this week, Mr. McKenzie,” she said.

“Perhaps we can have lunch or dinner or drinks or all of the above.” I gave her my best George Clooney smile, the one that suggested I was talking about more than business. “But only if you drop the mister. McKenzie is fine.”

I smiled again. She smiled back.

Anne asked more questions along the lines of where I was living and what I did for money. Her interest seemed professional rather than personal, though, so I figured the smile wasn't working and decided to give it up. We made some noises about getting together later and said our good-byes with the promise that if either of us came across Navarre, we'd inform the other. I drove the Audi down the driveway and stopped at the main road. I waited for the traffic to clear while I contemplated my next move.

I had intended to visit Navarre's restaurant. It was located on Gideon Bay on the south side of the lake, which was easy to get to by boat, not so much if you drove. Yet I also wanted to chat with Mrs. Rogers, who apparently had a place at Club Versailles. According to my GPS, the club was just as hard to reach by car as the restaurant. It was more or less in the same direction though, so I decided to stop there first.

I checked for traffic. That's when I noticed that the red Sentra was gone, replaced by a black Cadillac DTS with silver wheels. The young driver stared straight ahead as I maneuvered onto the main road, but I saw him tilt his head to check me out in his rearview when I drove past.