The Devil May Care (8 page)

“Do you know what he calls you?”

“Yes, I do.”

Mrs. Muehlenhaus laughed as if it were all a great joke.

“I have taken a fancy to you, McKenzie,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. It's not necessarily a compliment. I have appalling taste in men. Take my husband, please.”

The way she spoke and laughed, I swear she was flirting with me just as Irene Rogers had.

It seems you have a knack with little old ladies,
my inner voice told me.
I only hope you still have it when you're a little old man.

When she finished laughing, Mrs. Muehlenhaus took a sip of her lemonade, smiled brightly, and asked, “McKenzie, why are you looking for Mr. Navarre?”

“Why are you?”

“You're not married…”

“No.”

“Although you and the lovely Ms. Truhler seem to be enjoying a long and extremely stable relationship.”

“It bothers me, Mrs. Muehlenhaus, that you seem to know so much about my personal life. Scares me a little, too.”

She reached across the table and patted my knee as if she expected me to think nothing of it and kept talking.

“Ms. Truhler has an equally lovely and extremely intelligent daughter to whom you have become quite attached. Rickie is her name.”

“She prefers Erica,” I said.

“What would you do, McKenzie, if you discovered that Erica was involved with a dangerous criminal? Would you intervene?”

“Is Navarre a dangerous criminal?”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“You didn't answer mine.”

Somewhere behind the closed mahogany door a voice boomed. “Margaret. Margaret, where are you?”

Mrs. Muehlenhaus smiled.

“He only calls me that when he's upset,” she said.

The door flew open and Mr. Muehlenhaus stepped inside. He was a fairly tall man, and from the way he moved it was clear that he had no intention of ever surrendering to age.

“Dammit, Margaret. What did I tell you?”

Mrs. Muehlenhaus's eyes grew wide, her jaw clenched, and she gestured with her head at the door. Swear to God, I thought I heard her growl.

“Oh, all right,” Mr. Muehlenhaus said.

He spun around and left the room, closing the door behind him. A moment later, he knocked gently.

“Come in,” Mrs. Muehlenhaus called.

Mr. Muehlenhaus reentered the room, moving quickly. He stepped in front of his wife yet pointed at me.

“Maggie, I left specific instructions,” he told her.

“Yes, you did, dear.”

Mrs. Muehlenhaus patted the empty cushion next to her, and Mr. Muehlenhaus sat. That was the end of the argument.

“Would you like some strawberry lemonade?” Mrs. Muehlenhaus asked.

“Actually, I would prefer some of your Scotch.”

“You know where it is.”

I watched Muehlenhaus rise from the sofa and move to one of the bookcases where a massive three-volume set of Shelby Foote's
The Civil War: A Narrative
was shelved. He pulled the books off the shelf, reached in, produced a bottle of Macallan thirty-year Highland single malt Scotch whisky, and returned the books.

“How 'bout you, McKenzie?” Mrs. Muehlenhaus asked. “Care for something a bit stronger?”

“No, I'm good,” I said.

“You don't mind if I imbibe?”

“Not at all.”

Muehlenhaus returned to the sofa. Somewhere he found an extra glass. He blew the dust out of it and poured a generous amount of liquor. He then poured an inch into Mrs. Muehlenhaus's now empty crystal goblet.

“I don't know why you hide this,” he told her. “It's not even the good stuff.”

“I'm eccentric. All I need is cats.”

“You're allergic to cat hair.”

“So I'm saved from the stereotype. Lucky me.”

The crystal made a beautiful ringing sound when her goblet clinked against Muehlenhaus's glass. They drank while looking into each other's eyes, and I thought, They are genuinely in love. At their age and after all their years of marriage. For some reason, it made me less afraid of them.

“So, kids,” I said. “Why exactly am I here, again?”

“Kids?” Muehlenhaus said. “Do I look like a child to you?”

“Here we go,” Mrs. Muehlenhaus said softly before taking another sip of Scotch.

“Mr. Muehlenhaus, there are so many reasons for you to be pissed at me,” I said. “A turn of a phrase, that's what's going to set you off?”

“Do you want me to tell you who you remind me of, McKenzie? I'll tell you. You remind me of those goddamned French bastards that guillotined Louis and Marie Antoinette yet couldn't be bothered to burn down Versailles, that didn't so much as torch a single brick of the place.”

“I'm a true Republican.”

“No, that was a Democrat thing to do.”

“Now you're just calling names.”

“You resent people who are wealthy and who are in charge, yet you want to be wealthy and in charge yourself.”

“I am wealthy.”

“What have you done with your money? Tell me?”

“A couple days ago I bought a TV remote that looks like Dr. Who's sonic screwdriver. Does that count?”

“That'll make the world a better place, I'm sure.”

“You know, dear,” Mrs. Muehlenhaus said, “this is why I wanted to talk to McKenzie alone.”

“It's not my fault,” Muehlenhaus replied. “You can't have a civil conversation with fucking McKenzie.”

“I heard that's what you call me,” I said. “Do you want to know what I call you?”

“Oh, by all means, tell me.”

“
Mr.
Muehlenhaus.”

“Yes, well, that's what you should call me. I'm pretty sure I earned it.”

“I'm pretty sure I've earned whatever you call me, too. That doesn't answer my question, though. Why am I here?”

“Riley.” Mrs. Muehlenhaus caught her husband's eyes and held them. “You remember Riley, your granddaughter?”

“Yes. Of course. Please forgive my outburst,” Muehlenhaus said, although he clearly didn't care if he was forgiven or not.

“McKenzie,” Mrs. Muehlenhaus said, “we are concerned about Riley. We believe she is involved with the wrong people.”

“Define wrong people,” I said.

“Do we need to spell it out?” Muehlenhaus said.

“Please.”

Mrs. Muehlenhaus glared at her husband some more.

“McKenzie,” she said. “I do not concern myself with whether or not Juan Carlos is rich or poor. I don't care if he's Hispanic or white. I don't care if he's a Democrat or Republican, a member of the Tea Party or supports the ACLU—I really don't.”

“Neither do I,” Muehlenhaus said, but I didn't believe him.

“What I do care about is that we are unable to learn anything about the boy.”

“He claims to be the son of wealthy parents,” Muehlenhaus added. “Only his parents died seven years ago and he has no other family. Don't you think that's a little convenient?”

I was surprised at how suddenly the anger formed in the pit of my stomach and shot up to my throat. Some other time and place I might have given it voice—being an orphan is no reason to denounce someone. But the Muehlenhauses weren't people you went off on, especially in their own home, so I fought it down and spoke as carefully as possible.

“Both my parents are dead, and no, I don't find it the least bit convenient.”

“Yes, well,” Muehlenhaus said.

“Despite what you think of us—or at least what my husband believes you think of us—we are concerned only with the child's welfare,” Mrs. Muehlenhaus said. “My family has been hurt by deceivers before. My daughter, Sheila…”

Mrs. Muehlenhaus didn't finish the sentence. Her husband reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“You aren't worried about social fallout from Riley's involvement with
that immigrant,
” I said.

“Hmmph,” Muehlenhaus said.

Mrs. Muehlenhaus smiled, but not much.

“We don't concern ourselves with such matters,” she said.

“Look, kids,” I said, adding the “kids” to annoy Mr. Muehlenhaus some more. “The young lady asked me to find her boyfriend who's gone missing. When I do, I'm supposed to deliver a simple message. That's it. If along the way I find evidence that proves Navarre is a louse, I'll be happy to pass it along. I'll be telling her, though, not you.”

The way he glowered, I knew that Mr. Muehlenhaus not only wanted what he wanted, he wanted it exactly his way—Mrs. R's definition of a spoiled child. Mrs. Muehlenhaus, on the other hand, seemed more interested in the end result than how it was achieved.

“That's fine,” she said.

“Is it?”

“Riley is our granddaughter, and we love her so much. We're just trying to look out for her. If you'll be kind enough to do the same…”

“I will do the same.”

“Thank you, McKenzie. That's all I ask.”

Muehlenhaus's foot began tapping a quick rhythm on the carpet. I don't think it was impatience so much as restless energy. It was as if he were finished with me and now his body felt the need to be up and doing something else.

“I decided I don't want to have any more conversations with you unless your wife is present,” I told him.

“Why is that?” Muehlenhaus asked.

“I think you're less likely to shoot me in front of her.”

“Oh, McKenzie.” Mrs. Muehlenhaus rose from the sofa and offered me her hand. “Many people have made that mistake.”

A few minutes later, Muehlenhaus escorted me to the front door of his house. He didn't offer to shake my hand, merely said, “I'll be in touch,” as I passed through the doorway. He was smiling, though, like a magician with an endless supply of rabbits and hats.

SIX

I heard the floorboards creak when I stepped onto the old-fashioned wooden porch that ran the length of the front of the house, and it occurred to me that they had
always
creaked. They creaked when Bobby and I were at the University of Minnesota and before that at Central High School and even before that when we both attended St. Mark's Elementary School just a few blocks away. They creaked when we hung out at Merriam Park across the street and when we were rookies with the St. Paul Police Department and when Bobby bought the house from his parents after they retired to their lake home in Wisconsin. I found myself walking across the porch listening to the varying tones the floorboards gave off. Step in the right places in the correct order and I was sure you could play Beethoven's “Ode to Joy.”

The door opened abruptly and Katie Dunston, Bobby's younger daughter, poked her head out. “What are you doing?” she asked.

I bounced up and down.

“Hear that?” I said. “Hear how the floorboards creak?”

“They always creak.” Katie disappeared back into the house, leaving the door open for me. I heard her shout, “It's McKenzie.”

I entered the house, closing the door behind me. Shelby Dunston called from the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I was just putting away the leftovers.”

“I'm good, thank you,” I called back.

A moment later she appeared, a dish towel in her hand.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.” I moved toward her. She lifted her cheek for a kiss, and I gave her one. “What's going on?”

The look she gave suggested that the question was in poor taste and she was disappointed in me for asking it. Shelby left the living room and returned to the kitchen without speaking. I glanced at Katie and mouthed the same question.

Katie pointed upstairs and mouthed back, “Victoria.”

I moved toward the thirteen-year-old and whispered. “What about Victoria?”

“She got caught cheating in school.”

“What? No way. Victoria doesn't cheat. She has a four-point-oh average, for God's sake.”

“She wasn't actually cheating. What she did, she let a boy copy off of her paper.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. Mom is—she's freaking out. Yelling at Vic for letting a boy use her like that. I mean she said stuff you only hear on the FX Channel, you know?”

“Where is Vic?”

“Banished to her room until she's twenty-one and if she doesn't like it she can move out right now.”

I heard Shelby's voice behind me. It was loud and clear.

“What are you doing, young lady?” she wanted to know. “Telling family secrets?”

Katie took a step backward.

“No, ma'am,” she said. “I was just telling McKenzie that I'm an independent woman and no guy is ever going to make a damn fool out of me.”

“Are you swearing in my house?”

Katie seemed confused. “You did.”

“Go up to your room right now.”

Katie glanced up at me. She was almost smiling. “See,” she said.

Shelby watched while Katie retreated upstairs. She called to her, “And I don't want to see you again until you've done your homework.”

Katie called back, “I've already done my homework.”

“Don't you sass me, young lady.”

Shelby turned and glared at me.

“Do you have something to say, McKenzie?” she asked.

Ever since she wed my best friend, it seemed as if Shelby's main goal in life was to see me married with children. It annoyed her to no end that Nina and I had been together for so long without benefit of matrimony. I was tempted to ask her what she thought of the institution now, only I didn't have the nerve.

“Is Bobby here?” I asked instead.

“He's downstairs watching a ball game, the coward. Tell me something. When did the woman become responsible for disciplining the children? When I grew up it was always the man. My mother, whenever we screwed up she would say, ‘Wait until your father gets home,' and when he got home we would get it. You know what Bobby did when he came home? He hugged her. Hugged. Her. Asked Vic if she understood how big her mistake was and why we were so angry.”