The Devil May Care

by David Housewright

  “Welcome to the Pointe,” she said. After introducing herself she looked me over as if I might possibly be a salesman hawking encyclopedias door to door. Did people still do that? Probably not, but she was old enough to remember when they did.

  “You are McKenzie, correct?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Funny, you don’t look like a syphilitic sonuvabitch.”

  “How is Mr. Muehlenhaus these days?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t want you setting foot inside his house.”

  “So, he’s the same, then?”

  She laughed at the question. “Come inside. I have fresh strawberry lemonade.”

  “Your husband said…”

  “Oh, pooh.”

  Mrs. Muehlenhaus hooked her arm around mine and led me across the lawn, up the steps, and past the gleaming white columns that held up the porch. It was then that I realized this was the house that Juan Carlos Navarre had been watching through his telescope.

  Once inside she shouted, “Agnes.” A moment passed and she added, “Aggie.”

  “Ma’am,” a voice called from another part of the house.

  “We’ll be in my room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Muehlenhaus continued to hold on to my arm as she maneuvered me through the mansion. Despite her age, she carried herself with the erect authority of someone that had been both powerful and handsome and still remembered how it felt.

  “The house has twenty-three rooms,” she told me. “I haven’t set foot in some of them for years. This room…” She paused in front of a large mahogany door, smiled more to herself than me, turned the knob, and pushed it open. “This is where I spend most of my time.”

  I stepped inside. Dozens of books had overflowed from the many bookshelves onto the furniture and floor. The walls not supporting bookshelves were filled with original paintings that seemed to have nothing in common except that the owner liked them. There were sweaters tossed here and there, and a white silk blouse that looked like it had been discarded quickly and then forgotten at the foot of a CD player. A cabinet next to it was filled with CDs ranging from Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, and Sarah Vaughan to U2, Rufus Wainwright, and Loreena McKennitt. Other CDs were stacked on the floor. There was also a 56-inch HDTV, a DVD player, and hundreds of movies, some of them in neat, alphabetical piles and some scattered haphazardly. Mrs. Muehlenhaus seemed particularly fond of Barbara Stanwyck.

  I liked the room very much. It reminded me of my place on Hoyt. All it needed was a couple of hockey sticks and an equipment bag in the corner near the door. I turned to look and found a golf bag instead.

  “In my world appearances carry great weight,” she said. “I promise you, McKenzie, I am quite adept at playing the perfect wife of the powerful man. It is a role I both relish and enjoy. However, when I am not onstage, I prefer to retreat to this room. It’s my secret lair. My girl cave. No one is allowed inside without my permission.”

  Mrs. Muehlenhaus sat on the leather sofa while I sat in a matching chair across from her.

  “The staff is forbidden to clean in here.” She reached down, picked a dirty dinner plate off the floor, and set it on the table in front of the sofa. “In case you’re wondering.”

  There was a knock on the door. Mrs. Muehlenhaus said, “Enter,” and a maid walked in carrying a silver tray with a crystal pitcher and two crystal goblets. She set the tray on the table and picked up the dirty plate. Her eyes cast about as if she expected to find others.

  “Shoo shoo, shoo shoo,” Mrs. Muehlenhaus said.

  The maid left reluctantly. Her head swiveled back and forth as she made her way to the door until she found a dirty cup and saucer sitting on one of the bookshelves, dashed over to grab it, and hurried from the room before Mrs. Muehlenhaus could stop her.

  “It’s tough getting good help these days,” I said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Mrs. Muehlenhaus poured the strawberry lemonade into the crystal goblets and handed one to me. It was delicious.

  “I’d offer you something a little more robust,” she said. “Only we don’t know each other well enough to get sloshed in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “Here’s looking at you, kid,” I said before taking another sip.

  “Casablanca. Good for you. My very first date with a boy—I was thirteen—we went to see Casablanca. I wept at the end, and the boy laughed at me. I have not seen him since.”

  Mrs. Muehlenhaus waved at her piles of DVDs.

  “I have a copy around here somewhere,” she said. “Do you know that Riley has never seen Casablanca? I spoke to some of her friends when she was in college. They hadn’t seen it, either. They didn’t know who Ingrid Bergman was. Or Vivien Leigh. Or even Kate Hepburn. One of Riley’s classmates told me she refused to watch black-and-white movies. How terribly sad.

  “On the other hand, Riley reads an enormous amount. When she was younger, she’d sneak in here and sit for days at a time reading one book after another. She is a much more serious young woman than she pretends.”

  It’s not possible for her to be more serious than she pretends, my inner voice said.

  “Mrs. Muehlenhaus, why am I here?” I asked aloud.

  “I want us to be friends.”

  “Okay.”

  “And because our mutual friend Greg Schroeder tells me that you’re searching for Juan Carlos Navarre at the behest of my granddaughter.”

  “Mrs. Muehlenhaus, I am shocked by the company you keep.”

  “I like Mr. Schroeder. He reminds me of Dick Powell in Murder, My Sweet. Have you seen it?”

  “I have,” I said. I didn’t see the resemblance between Schroeder and the actor, though, a thought I kept to myself.

  “Do you know what Walter calls him? The dependable Mr. Schroeder.”

  “Ahh,” I hummed.

  “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.”