Jelly's Gold

ALSO BY DAVID HOUSEWRIGHT

Featuring Rushmore McKenzie

Madman on a Drum
A Hard Ticket Home
Tin City
Pretty Girl Gone
Dead Boyfriends

Featuring Holland Taylor

Penance
Practice to Deceive
Dearly Departed

Jelly’s Gold

DAVID HOUSEWRIGHT
                           

MINOTAUR BOOKS
NEW YORK
                      

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

JELLY’S GOLD. Copyright © 2009 by David Housewright. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Housewright, David, 1955—

Jelly’s gold : a McKenzie novel/David Housewright.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-37082-4

ISBN-10: 0-312-37082-2

1. McKenzie, Mac (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—
Minnesota—Fiction. 3. Ex-police officers—Fiction. 4. Saint Paul (Minn.)—
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.O8668J45 2009
813.54—dc22

2008045679

First Edition: June 2009

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

For Renée Marie Valois,
who finds beauty in all things old and new

Acknowledgments

I wish to acknowledge my debt to historian Paul Maccabee, not only for his wonderful book
John Dillinger Slept Here: A Crooks’ Tour of Crime and Corruption in St. Paul, 1920—1936,
but also for the eleven years’ worth of research he graciously donated to the Minnesota History Center that provides much of the historical accuracy found on these pages.

I also want to thank Judge Tammi A. Fredrickson, Keith Kahla, the Minnesota Historical Society, Alison J. Picard, the Ramsey County Historical Society, and Renée Valois.

1

Frank Nash was dead. Which is why it was such a surprise when I received his letter:

McKenzie:
You ’re just the mug I need to help me get back my gold.
Think about it.
Jelly Nash

I checked the postmark. The letter had been mailed a day earlier, another surprise. Frank “Jelly” Nash might have been one of the nation’s most prolific bank robbers, pulling over a hundred successful jobs in a twenty-five-year career, but dead was dead, and since Nash had been shot in the head in 1933, he was deader than most. Also, while I like to keep an open mind when it comes to the paranormal, somehow I was confident that if Nash wanted to speak to me from the grave, he would have chosen more efficient means than the U.S. Postal Service. Still, there’s something
about the word “gold” that captures the imagination, so as the letter writer requested, I did indeed think about it.

The next morning I received a second letter.

McKenzie:
I’m planning a job worth millions. Do you want in?
Jelly Nash

I didn’t actually need the money, yet I had to ask—how many millions?

Two days later, a Sunday, Nash sent an e-mail; apparently he had an account with Comcast:

McKenzie:
The boys in St. Paul tell me you’re a mug who can
be counted on in a tight spot. Want to join my gang?
Jelly Nash

I clicked the Reply button, wrote “I would never join a gang that would have me as a member,” and hit Send.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.

“Hello, McKenzie. It’s Ivy Flynn.”

“Ivy. How are you?”

“I’m really good. How ’bout yourself?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

“McKenzie? I’m sorry to call you out of the blue like this, but I need a favor.”

Ivy was a graduate student in the Department of Entomology at the University of Minnesota, and about two years ago I had hired her to determine what was killing the honeybees owned by a close friend of mine. During the course of her research, someone took several shots at her with a twelve-gauge.

“I owe you one,” I said. “Tell me what you need.”

“It’s kinda complicated. Can we meet?”

“Sure.”

We worked out the details. Afterward, I asked, “Ivy, do you know anything about some messages I’ve been getting from Jelly Nash?”

“That was my boyfriend’s idea. He thought they would pique your curiosity.”

“Did he actually use the word ‘pique’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me guess—English major.”

“American literature. He’s working on his Ph.D.”

“Will he be joining us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, tell him the mug’s curiosity is indeed piqued.”

“I will. McKenzie? This is going to be so much fun.”

“More fun than getting shot at?”

She actually thought about it for a few beats before answering. “Yes, sir. Lots more.”

We agreed to meet at the same place we had met years earlier, Lori’s Coffeehouse on Cleveland Avenue across from the St. Paul campus of the University of Minnesota. I parked on Buford next to a small, classically designed Catholic church with arched stained glass windows, blond stone recovered from a church that was torn down decades earlier, and a peaked red tile roof. It was called the Church of St. Andrew Kim and served a congregation of Koreans. Before that it was called Corpus Christi; the previous owners sold it to the Koreans when they moved to an ultramodern church with all the personality of a New Country Buffet—go figure.

A used and abused dark blue Chevy Trailblazer was parked across the street from the church. The two men sitting inside had an unobstructed view of Lori’s front door. I might not have noticed them at all
except for the still-burning cigarette butt that the driver flicked out the window. It joined three others in the street. Assuming he was a diligent chain-smoker, I decided he must have been parked there for at least thirty minutes.

Ivy and her companion were sitting at the same table as when I first saw her; she could have been perched in the same chair. Even the paintings for sale on the walls looked familiar. While Lori’s hadn’t changed much, though, Ivy had. Twenty-four months ago I thought she was an attractive young woman hiding behind dowdy clothes, thick, large-rim glasses, and an unfortunate hairstyle. Well, she wasn’t hiding anymore. Irish red hair curled around her triangular face, setting off eyes that glistened like wet shamrocks. Her shirt was selected to accentuate her curves and her shorts—it was probably too chilly to wear shorts in early May, but if I had legs like hers I would have worn them, too.

She came out of her seat for a hug. She was so happy to see me that she laughed out loud. I kissed her cheek and said, “You look fabulous.”

“You’ve always been nice to me,” she said.

“Is this the boyfriend?”

Her companion rose to his feet and extended his hand. “Josh Berglund,” he said like someone fond of reciting his own name. His appearance generated about as much excitement as a bowl of oatmeal—medium height and twenty pounds overweight, with straight brown hair, unremarkable hazel eyes, and a mustache that he should have given up on years ago. My first thought, Ivy could do a helluva lot better.

“Please,” he said and gestured at a vacant chair.

Two large mugs sat empty on the small square table, along with a white plate that once held something made with a lot of powdered sugar.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“About a half hour,” Ivy said.

Berglund studied his watch. “Forty-two minutes,” he said.

It couldn’t be “about forty-five minutes, ”
my inner voice said.
No, it has to be exactly forty-two minutes. C’mon, Ivy, what are you doing with this guy?
Still, the timing worked with the chain-smoker outside.

“So, what’s going on?” I asked.

Berglund gestured at the mugs in front of us. “Can I get you something?”

“Sure.”

“Mocha, latte, cappuccino, espresso, French soda—”

“Coffee is fine.” He stared at me as if he had never heard of such a thing. “Black,” I added.

“As you wish. Ivy?”

“Nothing else for me,” she said.

Berglund left the table and made his way to the counter. I turned to Ivy. She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“I am really glad to see you,” I said. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“So, when did this Berglund happen? Last time we chatted you were unattached and happy about it.”

“That’s what I said, but I didn’t actually mean it. As for Josh, I’ve known him on and off for a couple of years. We didn’t start dating until three months ago.”

“Ahh.”

“Ahh—you sound like my brother.”

“Your brother goes ahh?”

“Everyone I know goes ahh, especially when they’re about to tell me that I should be with someone who’s better-looking and has more money, but Josh is smart and generous and he’s kind to me and he makes me laugh. That’s a lot.”

“Ahh,” I said.

I asked how she had been, and Ivy filled me in on the past six months—she was still going for her Ph.D. and expected to get it by the end of the term. A moment later, Berglund returned with the coffee. He set it
in front of me and sat quietly while Ivy and I continued to exchange pleasantries. I was sure it annoyed him that I was holding hands with his girl; I just didn’t care. He seemed tired and uncertain, but that lasted only a few minutes. He gestured impatiently with an unexpected flash of energy.

“There are things we need to talk about,” he said.

“Yes,” Ivy said. “That’s why we’re here.”

I took a sip of the coffee. The house blend. Nice. Lori’s always served a good unadorned cup of joe.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m primed. What’s your story?”

“McKenzie, we need your help,” Ivy said. She squeezed my hand for emphasis, then released it.

“No,” Berglund said. “Not
need.”
He glared at Ivy as if she had just tipped his hand in a high-stakes poker game.

She shrugged. “Why else did we call him?”

He shook his head as if Ivy were discussing matters that were far beyond her grasp. I didn’t like the gesture but let it slide.

“Why did you call me?” I asked.

Berglund’s eyes went from me to Ivy to the ceiling and then back to me again. “Do you know who Jelly Nash was?”

“Yes.”

“Jelly Nash was a bank robber who committed most of his crimes during the twenties and early thirties.”

“I know.”

“His real name was Frank Nash. He was born in the small town of Birdseye, Indiana, but he grew up in Oklahoma. His mother died when he was two …”

Berglund didn’t care what I knew or didn’t know. He had a story to tell and he was going to tell it his way and there wasn’t anything to do except lean back in the chair and listen.

“He was first arrested for burglary in 1911…”

I glanced at my watch several times, but if Berglund noticed, it didn’t slow him down any.

“Nash was a meticulous planner. He spent many hours in the banks before he robbed them, drawing up detailed floor plans, noting the location of the safes as well as the movement of employees. Each robbery was timed. He and his gang would go in, stay for a specific number of minutes, then leave no matter how much loot had been collected. His escape routes were charted block by block …”

Finally I said, “You’re telling me this—why?”

Irritation flashed across his face. Apparently he didn’t like being interrupted.

“Approximately 9:00
A.M.
on Thursday, June 8, 1933, Frank ‘Jelly’ Nash stole thirty-two bars of gold bullion from the Farmers and Merchants Bank in Huron, South Dakota,” he said. “The gold has never been recovered. I believe it’s still here in St. Paul.”