“I have no idea if anything is missing,” Ivy said.

“It would help if we knew where Berglund went yesterday.”


Ivy gave it a moment’s thought, then reached for the log. “The police missed this. I found it just a little while ago.” She opened it to the last page that contained writing. “McKenzie,” she said and handed the book to me. Berglund had headed the page with the word “Sunday,” followed by the date. On it he had recorded everything that had happened, including our meeting and the incident at Rickie’s. The next page, which would have been Monday, had been torn from the book. Ivy said, “The person who killed Josh …”

“Yeah,” I said. I dropped the book on the desk. “We need to tell the cops about this.”

“Now?” Ivy asked.

“In a minute. Let’s see what else we can find.”

I sat at the desk and started rifling through the pile of remaining research. Much of it was in chronological order, and most of it was fascinating—a glimpse of history day by day that kept me reading for hours even though the information didn’t seem particularly pertinent. Ivy brought coffee and suggested sandwiches. I accepted the coffee but declined the free lunch. Eventually I became discouraged by the lack of relevance I found. None of Berglund’s research seemed to point to Jelly’s gold. Even what little investigating I had done on my own the previous day had greater value. I began to think that Heavenly had spoken the truth, that she really was the brains behind the search. I also wondered if Berglund’s killer had filched everything that was useful, which meant he knew what to look for. Finally I came across an excerpt from the St. Paul Dispatch that Berglund had photocopied. The piece had been printed under the heading “Society and Club News” on the paper’s Home Magazine page: TO SUMMER IN EUROPE

Mrs. Kathryn Messer, wife of Brent Messer, 337 Summit Avenue, will set sail June 22 aboard H.M.S. Rotterdam for a summer vacation trip in Europe. She will visit England and Ireland. Mrs. Messer, who departed for New York on Sunday morning, had not set a return date. Mr. Messer, well-known architect and builder of the city’s Public Safety Building, will remain in St. Paul for the present, perhaps to join his wife at a later date.

I recognized the name. Brent Messer and his wife had partied with Frank Nash at the Boulevard of Paris nightclub after Nash hit the Farmers and Merchants Bank in Huron, South Dakota. Berglund had recognized it, too—he underlined it twice. Along with the date. The item appeared in the June 19, 1933, edition of the paper. Kathryn Messer departed for New York the previous morning. Which meant she up and went to Europe on the eighteenth—the day following the Kansas City Massacre.

“Call Lieutenant Dunston,” I said. “Tell him about the missing page in the log book.” I held the photocopy of the gossip item up for Ivy to see. “This we’ll keep to ourselves.”

The Toyota Corolla was waiting for me when I swung my Audi onto Hoyt Avenue. It was parked down the street with a clear view of my house. I figured the driver must have driven there after I lost him, hoping to pick me up when I came home. I drove past the car as if I didn’t know it was there; the driver ducked down when I approached from behind, so I couldn’t see his face, not that I was looking hard.

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I pulled into my driveway and parked in front of the freestanding garage. Normally I enter my house through the back, but this time I used the front door so the tail could see me and wouldn’t suspect that I’d spotted him. I didn’t want him to change his tactics, change his car, hide better—I wanted to know where he was all the time. At least until I decided what to do about him.

Once inside the house, I grabbed a pair of binoculars and examined the driver from behind the drapes in my living room. He was clean-cut with sandy blond hair, about twenty-five—the same age as Heavenly and all of her friends. I could only hope he wasn’t another English major.

I changed clothes, which for me meant clean jeans, a polo shirt, and a black sports jacket. I paused in front of the mirror, telling myself that I looked the way Russell Crowe would look if only he could, but I didn’t linger long. Prudence Johnson was fronting for Rio Nido at Rickie’s, and I wanted to be sure to get a front row seat. I used to listen to Prudence when I was a student at the U and she and the quartet played classic jazz and swing at West Bank joints like the New Riverside Café and Extempore Coffeehouse. Eventually they disbanded, and Prudence went on to a pretty good career singing jazz, folk, and country in honky-tonks, clubs, theaters, and even Carnegie Hall, becoming a regular guest on Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion radio show and appearing in Robert Redford’s film A River Runs Through It. Now she and Rio Nido were together again, and I didn’t want to miss it.

Which is why I was so impatient when I answered my telephone, why I snapped “Hello” as if the caller had insulted me.

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