Curse of the Jade Lily (28 page)

“Why do you think I’m here? What’s made you so nervous?”

“Don’t be like that, McKenzie. You know what’s making me nervous.”

“I really don’t.”

“What happened to Patrick Tarpley—I don’t know anything about it. Anyone asks, that’s what I’ll say. You have to know that.”

“Tarpley? Sweetie, what makes you think I’m interested in Tarpley?”

Jenny gave me a puzzled look that wandered around the room before coming back to me. “Wait, wait a minute.” She covered her face with both hands. When she uncovered them, she had a thoughtful expression on her face. “Let me think.” She turned in her chair to look out the window. While she did that, the waiter reappeared. I ordered another round. He delivered it, and I sucked on the Seven and Seven until Jenny decided to start speaking again. She was excited. I knew because of the way she spoke in short, quick bursts as if she were conserving her breath.

“Patrick Tarpley,” she said. “You didn’t—you didn’t kill him. Did you?”

“No. Of course not. What would make you even think such a thing?”

“Oh God, McKenzie. Oh God. I am so relieved. I thought…” She started to chuckle. “I thought you came here—I’m not sure what I thought.”

“Jennifer, please, tell me what’s going on.”

“You’re serious now. You’re using my full name, so I know. McKenzie, why did you come here? Why did you want to meet me?”

“I needed to ask you a question, although I think I might have part of the answer already.”

“What question?”

“I’m sure you remember a couple of years ago I did you a favor.”

“I remember.”

“Did you ever tell anyone about that? About what happened?”

“No. Well, yes. I mean … I’m not stupid, McKenzie. If my husband ever found out…”

“But you told someone.”

“I did,” she said. “You know that. At least I thought you did. Are you saying she never called you? She never got in touch?”

“Who?”

“Von Tarpley.”

“Patrick Tarpley’s wife? How do you know her?”

“We met through the City of Lakes Art Museum. We’re members of the board of trustees, my husband and I.”

“When did you meet?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Just before the museum opened.”

“You gave her my name?”

“A few weeks ago. She was in trouble,” Jenny added. “She needed help. I told her—if it’s broken, you can fix it. I said, ‘McKenzie can fix anything.’”

“Fix what exactly?”

“That’s where it gets a little complicated. You see, I saw Von kissing a man who was not her husband a month or so ago. It was at one of those exhibit openings at the museum. It was an accident. I walked in on her, saw what I saw, turned around, and walked away. Either she or her lover must have seen me, because twenty minutes later Von sidled up to me in the buffet line and said, ‘Please.’ No explanations, no excuses, no anything, just ‘Please.’ I never said anything to anyone, McKenzie. I never had any intention of doing so. I’m not a gossip. That’s not because I’m virtuous. It’s just that I’ve never been very curious about other people’s lives. I have enough problems of my own to keep myself occupied. Anyway, because I never tattled on her, I guess Von decided she could confide in me. A couple of weeks ago she told me she was sure her husband was cheating on her with someone at the museum.”

“Her husband was cheating on her?”

“That’s the complicated part. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about the kiss. You’re thinking she was the one stepping out. I’m not going to defend it, McKenzie, but a kiss doesn’t mean she was cheating. Some guy flirted with her and she let him. That doesn’t mean she stepped over the line. So many men pursued me after I was married, my husband’s business associates, employees, competitors. I never could figure that out. It was like they had to possess something that my husband had. But I never crossed the line until the one time I did cross the line, and then I made sure he wasn’t connected to my husband in any way. At least I managed that small bit of propriety. I felt sorry for Von. That’s what it came down to. She was in a May-December relationship like I was. Her husband moved her to the Cities from Phoenix, so her only friends were his friends, which is pretty much what happened with me. I saw her heading down the same path I had taken, so when she asked if I knew someone who could help, I gave her the name of the only man I trusted completely.”

That explains a lot,
my inner voice said.

“Did Von tell you what she wanted done?” I asked.

“Not exactly. My impression was that she wanted someone who could get the facts about her husband quietly. At the same time she said the man needed to be capable in case something went wrong. Her husband was a dangerous man, after all. He carried a gun. He knew security. He understood how the police worked. So I told her about you. Told her what you had done for me. Did I screw up, McKenzie? Is that why you’re hurt?”

“Indirectly.”

“I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. Tell me, have you spoken to Von lately?”

“No. I—I guess you could say I’ve been avoiding her.”

“Why?”

“Because—because of what happened. I read what happened to Patrick.”

“You thought I killed him, didn’t you? You thought Von hired me to kill her husband.”

Jenny nodded.

“Why did you think that? You’ve known me for so long.”

“Von is a very beautiful woman.”

“So are you, Jen. I didn’t kill for you. In fact, do you remember the first thing I told you when you called about the jewel thief?”

“You said you wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“Didn’t you believe me?”

“I thought maybe Patrick had forced you into it. Oh, I don’t know, McKenzie. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I didn’t shoot him, sweetie.”

“I know that now. I’m sorry I even thought it. Forgive me, McKenzie.”

I waved my hand as if I were shooing away a fly. “You’re forgiven,” I said, “but I don’t want you to tell Von or anyone else that we had this conversation, okay?”

“Okay.”

“One more thing. The guy Von was kissing in the museum. Do you know him? Did he work for the museum?”

“No. I mean, he didn’t actually work for the museum. He was a trustee. A member of the executive board of trustees.”

“Who?”

“Derek Anderson.”

*   *   *

The Seven and Sevens seemed to be doing a lot more to mask the pain in my shoulder than the over-the-counter drugs I was taking, so I had another. Probably it was a mistake. Afterward, I kissed Jenny good-bye, told her not to be such a stranger, and limped out of the club to where Herzog had parked the Jeep Cherokee. The journey gave me a frightful headache, and when I reached the door of the SUV I had to pause and wait for the fog that invaded my head to clear and the nausea in my stomach to settle. After getting inside and snapping my seat belt into place I said, “Sorry to keep you waiting so long.”

“You look tired,” Herzog said.

I offered him a smile that felt strange on my mouth.

“Is that a polite way of saying I look like shit?” I asked.

“I didn’ want t’ insult you until you paid me the rest of my money.”

“Fair enough.”

“Where to next?”

“Burnsville.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

“You have something against Burnsville?”

“You mean besides it bein’ on t’other side of the planet?”

”I’m not in charge of geography.”

“What’s in Burnsville?”

“A girl. You’ll like her. She’s a babe.”

I had called Mr. Donatucci while I was having my fourth drink in the past ninety minutes, and he gave me Von Tarpley’s address. He asked me what I was doing. I told him I had no idea. He didn’t seem surprised.

“She tall?” Herzog asked. “I like ’em tall.”

“Define tall.”

“Big as me.”

“Nobody’s big as you, Herzy.”

Herzog put the SUV in gear and drove out of the parking lot.

“What’s ’er name?” he asked.

“Von.”

“Von? What kinda name is ’at for a woman?”

“Short for Yvonne, Evonne, something like that. I don’t know, man. I didn’t name her.”

“Gettin’ kinda cranky, ain’tcha, McKenzie?”

“I’m tired. My shoulder is killing me. My ankle is killing me. My head is killing me. My hand aches. A childhood friend thinks I might be a murderer. And I’ve had too much to drink, or not enough, depending on your point of view.”

“Hungry?”

“That, too.”

“I know a place not too far outta the way, you like Puerto Ricans.”

“You’re driving, Herzy.”

*   *   *

Herzog walked into Tres Hermanas Mexican Restaurant and Grocery and half a dozen voices shouted, “Herzy.” A Hispanic gentleman was sitting at the end of the bar with two friends, all of them wearing hats that declared their affiliation with Pipe Fitters Local 539. He raised his beer glass in greeting, and Herzog gave him a wave in reply. An older woman wearing an apron—I guessed she was one of the Three Sisters—met him at the door and gave him a hug. Herzog hugged her back and called her Rosie, which I later learned was a derivation of Rosita. It reminded me of a scene out of the TV show
Cheers
, and it caught me by surprise. I knew Herzog to be an exceedingly dangerous man who’s done time for multiple counts of manslaughter, assault, aggravated robbery, and weapons charges. It never occurred to me that he would have friends, that he’d be popular, that he’d like Ella Fitzgerald and baseball and cozy Mexican restaurants that piped mariachi music over invisible speakers and had ESPN Deportes playing on its TVs.

“Estoy feliz de verte, mi amigo,”
the woman said.
“¿Cómo estás?”

I was surprised again when Herzog answered,
“Bueno. ’Stoy bueno. ¿Cómo va el negocio?”

“No me puedo quejar.”
The woman gestured at me.
“¿Tu amigo?”

Herzog waggled her hand.

“Excúseme, señora, señor,”
I said.

Herzog’s eyes widened, and Rosie grinned.

“If I may answer your question,
señora,
Herzog and I are business associates.” I waved at the restaurant. “I am glad to hear that you’re doing well.”

“I didn’ say that,” Rosie said. “I said I can’ complain.”

“My mistake.”

“You didn’ tell me you could speak Spanish,” Herzog said.

“You didn’t tell me that you could speak Spanish.”

Rosie clapped her hands and laughed.

“I like ju,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I need somethin’ t’ drink,” Herzog said.

Rosie took a step forward and rested a hand on my arm. A concerned expression crossed her plump face.
“¿Estás herido?”

“Sí,”
I said, “but I’m getting better.”

“Bueno.”

The restaurant was divided in two by an iron gate. The gate was open. The dining area was on one side of the gate. On the other was a short corridor that led to a brightly lit grocery store that I never did get a good look at. The walls of the restaurant were painted and textured to resemble adobe. Woven
tapicería
hung from the walls, and various Mexican artifacts—piñatas, burros, clowns, painted clay figures of Mexican cowboys on horses, and even elephants—were tastefully scattered throughout. The booths and tables were made of dark wood, and suspended above each was a soft light with a shade made up to resemble a sombrero. Along the wall was a battered and scarred bar with taps for Dos Equis, Corona, Tecate, Negra Modelo, Summit Ale, Budweiser, and Miller Genuine Draft. Ads for Jose Cuervo tequilas were plastered to the walls next to clay lizards.

Rosie led us to a vacant booth, and after we sat down, she slipped a pair of laminated menus in front of us featuring tacos, burritos, enchiladas, tostadas, quesadillas …

“¿Señora?”
I asked.

“Sí.”

“Herzy told me you were Puerto Rican.”

“¿Sí?”

“But your restaurant, the furnishings, menu—it’s Mexican.”

“Sí.
Jour right. When we come ’ere thirty-five jear ago, the people, they don’ know Puerto Rican from Mexican. They t’ink it is the same. We were afraid if we don’ give ’em the food they expect, we would lose business. So we give ’em Mexican. But now”—she pointed at a few dishes on the bottom left-hand side of the menu—“we are cooking dishes from my country.”

I studied the selection—
plátano frito, pescado frito, mofongo.
I ordered quickly,
“Empanadas de carne y pollo.”

Rosie nodded her approval.

“I like jour friend,” she told Herzog.

Herzog nodded but didn’t agree to anything. Instead, he ordered the daily special—Rosie’s Cactus Pepper Stew.

The moment after Rosie left the booth, I said, “Nice place.”

Herzog said, “Shut up, McKenzie.”

So I did.

The food we ordered was served fairly quickly by a waitress Herzog knew as Mayra—she was happy to see him, too. Eating my fried pastry stuffed with beef and chicken was difficult with one hand, yet well worth the effort. Herzog’s stew looked so good I might have broken my personal rule about asking for a taste of someone else’s meal except, well, it was Herzog. We ate in silence. Herzog washed his meal down with a Mexican beer; I had switched to iced tea. Suddenly Herzog pointed upward at nothing in particular with his fork.

“Shhh,” he said.

I tilted my head and listened. Around us were the murmur of voices and the tinkling of silverware. Above, from hidden speakers, came a Latin rock song.

“The music?” I asked.

“The guitar. Listen t’ those riffs.”

A moment passed. Herzog’s smile became gleeful.

“Carlos Santana,” he said the way some people might say, “Lord almighty.”

We listened some more.

“He the best,” Herzog said when the song ended, replaced by something from Marc Anthony that he didn’t care for at all.

“You’re starting to grow on me, Herzy,” I said.

“Don’ go thinkin’ we be friends or nothin’, McKenzie.”

“Never.”

“You just the man payin’ the bills.”

To prove it, when Mayra set the tab in the center of the table, Herzog slid it across to me. I didn’t mind. Between the iced tea and stuffed pastry, I was starting to feel pretty good about myself and the world in general. So good that I was actually mulling over the suggestion Nina had made that morning—
Why not give the Jade Lily to the insurance company like you promised and forget the whole thing?
Then the damn phone rang, ruining the moment.