The Devil May Care (5 page)

“Hmm?”

“He married where money was. 'Course, along with money, there's status. This club is filled with social climbers. Why else would you join except to say that you're a member?”

“People like to hang with people who are like them,” I said.

“You're saying that money attracts money? I suppose there's some truth to the theory. Beyond that, though, I'm not sure what the members have in common with each other. You have the children and grandchildren of bankers and railroad tycoons who have never labored a day in their lives rubbing shoulders with the offspring of teachers and plumbers who earned their way here with the sweat of their own brows. You have people who create and build eating dinner across from those who only buy and sell. In this environment, almost anything can happen. Almost everything has. Money has a way of making people careless, of making them think they can live their lives without consequences. McKenzie—there are always consequences.”

“I believe you.”

“In that context, Juan Carlos is not all that unusual. Compared to some of our members, he's quite mundane.”

“How did Navarre come to live in your house?”

“It seemed like a good idea to have someone stay there; keep an eye on the place while it's on the market.”

“Why Navarre?”

“Why not? He pays rent. Seventy-eight hundred a month. Covers the property taxes, utilities, maintenance…”

“Reney,” I said. “Why Navarre?”

She stared at me for a couple of beats while her face went through the motions of remembering. “I…” She stopped and took a sip of her drink. “If I'm not mistaken, it was Anne Rehmann's idea. McKenzie, you don't think I'd let just anybody sleep in my house, do you? I met Juan Carlos here at the club. Actually, at my condominium. He came specifically to meet me. Told me who he was; told me that he was thinking of settling in Minnesota. He had a letter of introduction, which was an old-fashioned touch that I liked very much. Turned out we have friends in common.”

“Here in Minnesota?”

“No. In Chevy Chase, Maryland. I used to live there with my husband back in the day. We were neighbors with a man who later became the counselor for economic affairs at our embassy in Madrid. He and his wife knew his family—Juan Carlos's family back in Spain. When he decided to come to Minnesota, they told him to look me up.”

“Did you speak to your friends about Navarre?”

“Not”—another hesitation—“exactly.”

“E-mail? Facebook?”

“Do I look like someone who spends time on Facebook?”

“You didn't check his references, did you, Reney?”

“Dammit, McKenzie. No, I didn't.” Reney drained the rest of her martini and cast a coveting eye at mine. “Are you going to finish that?” I gestured for her to take the glass, and she did, drinking half of its contents before she spoke again. “Juan Carlos talked freely about my friends as if he had known them for years. Everything he said, too, it all rang true. Do you think he's an impostor?”

“I have no idea. I've never even met the man. All I know is that he's missing.”

“I hope he's all right. I like him, McKenzie. I really do. He's a rogue, and I have a soft spot for rogues. My husband was one. I think you might be one, too.”

“Will you ask your friends about him? Tell me what they say?”

“Yes.”

We exchanged phone numbers.

“Just the other day I saw them together,” Reney said. “Juan Carlos and Riley. They were holding hands, and I said to myself if I were Riley's age I could have plucked him out of her grasp just like that.”

“I have a feeling you could still change a man's life.”

“For better or worse, I wonder.”

I kissed the back of Reney's hand.

“That which does not kill us only makes us stronger,” I told her.

“McKenzie, that just might be the best compliment I've ever received.”

*   *   *

Before returning to my Audi, I stopped off at the front desk, where I scanned a wine list that I stole while passing through the bar. Sarah watched me expectantly.

“Here,” I said when I found something I liked—a French Bordeaux from Château Pontet-Canet. “Could you do me a favor?”

She shrugged noncommittally.

“Does Irene Rogers take her meals at the club?” I asked.

“Usually.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of folded bills. I had enough to cover the two-hundred-dollar tab plus a few dollars more. I gave two hundred to Sarah.

“Could you send a bottle of this wine to Mrs. Rogers's table tonight along with this note?”

I scribbled a message on Club Versailles stationery—
Happy Birthday to an old broad from McKenzie.

Sarah read the note.

“You know, it's not really her birthday,” she told me.

“I never thought that it was.”

Sarah decided it was a good joke and agreed to help me out.

“Also, is Juan Carlos Navarre a member of the club?” I asked the woman.

“No. I understand that he's applied for membership. The board of directors hasn't voted on it yet. Why?”

“Does he spend a lot of time here?”

“More than a nonmember should, but—well, between Mrs. R and Ms. Riley Muehlenhaus Brodin”—she emphasized the name Muehlenhaus—“no one is going to say anything.”

“Has Navarre been around lately?”

“I haven't seen him since Friday evening. He had dinner with Riley. I think they hit balls on the driving range, too.”

“Are you open to a bribe, Sarah?”

Her body tensed and her eyes glazed with hostility at my words, yet her smile remained unchanged.

“No, Mr. McKenzie, I am not,” she said. “Please don't offer me one. I won't like you if you do.”

“I apologize, Sarah.” I was speaking quickly because her good favor was suddenly very dear to me. “I meant no disrespect. Please forgive me.”

She tilted her head in a way that suggested she was willing but needed more incentive.

“Navarre has disappeared, and I need to find him,” I added. “I was hoping you would call if he shows up.”

Sarah took a deep breath and answered with the exhale. “I suppose I could do that. Navarre isn't a member yet, so technically I wouldn't be breaking any rules of confidentiality.”

“Are there rules of confidentiality?”

“A lot of people ask questions about our members; a lot of people would like to get the goods on them.”

“What people?”

“Mostly other members. Why are you looking for Navarre? Is it because he's a phony?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Some of the richest people in Minnesota pass my desk. Many of them are friendly, many are kind and generous like Mrs. Rogers, and a lot of them aren't. Yet none of them, not even Mrs. R, has ever tried to impress me. McKenzie, I'm a salaried employee. No one cares what I think, only that I do my job—for which I am handsomely compensated, I might add. Juan Carlos, though—from the very beginning he wanted me to know that he was wealthy, that he was connected, that he was worthy of my respect.”

“Could be he's nouveau riche and doesn't know how to handle it yet.”

“Except that doesn't fit the story he tells everyone. Besides, like a man once said, it's not the nouveau that matters, it's the riche. If Juan Carlos has money, he got it yesterday.”

FOUR

I drove only 4.7 miles, yet it took me nearly twenty minutes to reach Casa del Lago—such are the driving conditions on the narrow roads surrounding Lake Minnetonka. The restaurant had a large patio overlooking Gideon Bay with a low railing that kept patrons from falling over the edge into the water. A couple of dozen tables were strategically placed across the colorful bricks, each with a large blue and white umbrella that promoted Corona Extra when opened. The lunch crowd sitting at the tables was divided into two groups. Half were dressed like they had just stepped off the deck of one of the cabin cruisers and speedboats tied at the pier jutting into the lake. Half were dressed as if they had arrived in one of the luxury cars parked in the asphalt lot. There were a few cars that looked like they were driven by what my old man would have called “just folks.” Most of those were parked in the back of the lot, though, so I figured they belonged to the worker bees that managed the restaurant. I parked in the front row because, well, what did I have to be embarrassed about?

I stepped inside the restaurant. Someone had tried hard to make it appear like a Hollywood version of a Mexican hacienda, yet the all-white clientele and the neon Miller Lite and Dos Equis signs gave it away. The only thing that seemed authentic was the young woman who intercepted me at the door. She had long black hair and dark eyes and spoke with the soft accent of a woman who learned English in a house filled with people who spoke Spanish. Her name tag read
MARIA.

“Table for one, or will you be joining other guests?” she asked.

“I'd like to speak to the owner, if he's available,” I answered. She cocked her head at me as if unsure what to make of my question. “It's a personal matter,” I added.

“If you care to wait at the bar,” she said.

Maria directed me toward the stick. I crawled up onto the stool while she disappeared behind a door marked
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
The bartender hurried over, and I ordered a Summit Pale Ale. He was quick in drawing it for me.

A few moments later, an older man dressed for yachting—not boating, yachting—joined me. He climbed the stool two down from mine and nodded. “Hey,” I said, just to be polite. He ordered Glenlivet with one
nice
ice cube, whatever that meant. After he was served, he rolled up his sleeves as if drinking were serious work.

“Not many warm days left like this one,” he said.

“No, not many,” I agreed. In Minnesota, September and October are the best months of the year. Unfortunately, November and December soon follow.

“Yeah, that's why I gotta start thinkin' about gettin' my boat outta the water. Once it gets cold it can be such a bitch.”

“I suppose.”

“You have a boat?”

“Used to. I took it out only twice in the past three years, so I sold it.”

“I hear ya. I think I took mine out three, four times, and that includes when I put 'er in the water. Only brought 'er out t'day to burn some gas outta the tanks. She's just a money pit, but what are you going to do? Gotta have a boat.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“I got a slip right on the edge of Tonka Bay Marina. Easy in, easy out. Hadda pay a pretty penny extra for it, too, that slip. It's worth the rent, though, sure it is. People forever maneuverin' in and out of the marina, always riskin' collisions, they see my spot, they gotta be jealous, gotta say, ‘Damn, ain't that sweet.' How 'bout you? Where did you keep your boat?”

“In my garage.”

He didn't say another word. Didn't even look at me as he picked up his Glenlivet and retreated across the restaurant, putting as much distance between him and me as possible without actually leaving the building.

Damn,
my inner voice told me.
The rich really are different.

A few minutes later I was joined by a pretty woman with a thin face, pale eyes, and fine blond hair with auburn highlights. She was older than Riley yet still below my lust threshold, although she was close enough to it that I was willing to make an exception.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I'm waiting for the owner.”

“I'm the owner.”

Her response caught me by surprise, and I hesitated for a few beats. “I'm looking for Juan Carlos Navarre,” I said at last.

“I'll tell you what I told the other guy. He's not the owner. He's not here. I haven't heard from him in a week. Is there anything else?”

She looked as if she were going to walk away whether I had anything more to say or not, so I thrust my paw toward her.

“My name's McKenzie,” I said.

She hesitated for a moment before shaking my hand.

“Mary Pat Mulally,” she replied.

I considered making a clever remark about a woman with an Irish surname owning a Spanish-style restaurant but thought better of it. Instead, I asked, “May I have a minute of your time, Ms. Mulally?”

I continued to hold her hand so she couldn't slip away. She looked at my hand holding hers and then into my eyes. She sighed heavily and said, “Only a minute.”

I released her hand, and Mary Pat led me through the restaurant, moving vigilantly as if she wanted to make sure that no one tried to steal it from her. Instead of a table overlooking Lake Minnetonka, she brought me to a booth with a splendid view of the parking lot, and I thought, smart businesswoman, she's leaving the best tables for her paying customers. I sat across from her. She waited for me to speak.

“Apparently I've been misinformed,” I told her.

“Did Juan Carlos tell you he owned Casa del Lago?”

“No. It was Riley Brodin.”

The way her eyes narrowed, I got the impression that she recognized the name and hearing it made her sad. Still, Mary Pat nodded her head as if it made perfect sense.

“Juan Carlos isn't the first man who tried to impress a woman with … let's just say it's not the entire truth,” she said.

“What is the entire truth?”

“Whom do you work for?”

“Do I need to be working for someone?”

“Don't fence with me, McKenzie. I'm not in the mood.”

“Riley Brodin. Her boyfriend disappeared. She's anxious that I find him.”

“She's the granddaughter of Mr. Muehlenhaus.”

“That's what I've been told.”

“Technically, you work for him, then.”

“No. Not even a little bit.”