Jelly's Gold by David Housewright

none of them can open a jar—I get too much exercise,” he said.
    “How are Shelby and the girls?”
    “Same as when you saw them Saturday.”
    Bobby nodded with his chin. That was enough for Fontana to pat my shoulder in good-bye and return to his duties.
    Bobby pointed at the body. “Anyone you recognize?”
    “Josh Berglund. He was a graduate student at the University of Minnesota,” I said. “American lit.”
    “Why is it you know so many of the victims I find at murder scenes, McKenzie?”
    Good question. I didn’t answer it.
    “Where’s Ivy Flynn?” I asked.
    “Talk to me.”
    “Of course, but Bobby, listen—I’ll tell you everything I know, only I want to see Ivy first. She called me—”
    “I was wondering what you were doing here.”
    “She asked for my help.”
    “What help can you give her?”
    “I don’t know. I only know if Ivy hadn’t called me, I wouldn’t be here now and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
    “You won’t mind if I listen in while you chat with your friend, will you, McKenzie?”
    “Would it matter if I said I did?”
    “Seeing as how you’re not her attorney, no.”
    “Where is she?”
    Bobby pointed at the apartment door with his thumb. It was open. I moved past him and stepped across the threshold, Bobby following close behind. When I stopped abruptly, he bumped into me. I turned and looked out of the apartment, noting the bloodstains on the wall directly opposite from the door.
    “Whoever shot him was standing inside the apartment,” I said.
    Bobby folded his arms across his chest. His exasperation was obvious.
    “Whose apartment is this, anyway?” I asked.
    “The lease is under Flynn’s name, but she claims Berglund was living with her,” Bobby said.
    While he spoke, I examined the lock and door frame without touching either.
    “No forced entry,” I said.
    “Wow,” Bobby said. “You should be a cop. Oh, wait…”
    I stepped deeper into the apartment. Jean Shipman was hovering above Ivy and writing in a small notebook. She was wearing surgical gloves. There were several other investigators rummaging through the apartment—they were all wearing gloves, too. Ivy was sitting in a stuffed chair but turned sideways so she was facing the window instead of thedoor. It took a moment before she saw me. She called my name, came out of the chair, and hugged my neck.
    “Terrible, terrible, it’s so terrible,” she said. “I thought it would be fun, but it’s not. Oh God, how terrible.” Her voice was hoarse from weeping. I held her tight for a few moments, then gently eased her away so I could look into her face. Her eyes were swollen, and her cheeks were stained with tears.
    “What should I do?” she asked. “Should I call a lawyer? Please, tell me what to do.”
    I drew her close again and whispered in her ear—I hoped Bobby didn’t hear me. “If you’re innocent, tell them everything. If you’re guilty, don’t even tell them your name. I’ll call a lawyer.”
    She nudged me back, this time so she could look into my face. “What about the gold?”
    “Gold?” Shipman said.
    “Don’t even think about that,” I told Ivy.
    “What gold?” Shipman said.
    “The gold that Jelly Nash stole seventy-five years ago,” Ivy said. “That’s why Josh was killed. I know it.” She brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. The rawness of her skin made me think she had been doing that a lot since Berglund was shot.
    “I’ll tell them everything,” she told me.
    “Good for you,” I said.
    “Gold from seventy-five years ago,” Shipman said. “McKenzie, is that why you searched our files this morning? For gold?”
    “You gave McKenzie access to our files?” Bobby said.
    “Only from 1930 through 1933,” Shipman said.
    “I don’t care if it’s 1733, you don’t show McKenzie our files. You don’t even show him the way to the restroom. In fact, you know what? We’re instituting a new policy. Starting today, McKenzie is no