While Donovan recited the names, I attached numbers gleaned from the St. Paul Pioneer Press business section—something I never read until I became filthy, stinking rich. Through his banks and investment groups, Muehlenhaus held paper on a large chunk of the metropolitan area. If the Twin Cities were a corporation, he’d be the senior partner. Prescott Coole ruled an empire of over two hundred convenience stores and gas stations throughout Minnesota and Wisconsin. Glen Gunhus made a quarter from every railroad car that rolled into and out of the state of Minnesota. Carroll Mahoney, probably considered middle class by his colleagues, was founder and first president of the 22,000-member Federation of Minnesota State County and Municipal Employees and therefore a valuable friend regardless of income. I had never heard of Donovan, yet somehow I didn’t believe he had gained access to this exclusive circle by selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door. Collectively, they and their friends were known as the Brotherhood by us peons, and they moved and shook the Twin Cities into whatever shape that suited them.
Each of the men nodded when he was introduced to me, but none smiled and none of them made an attempt to shake my hand. Except for Troy Donovan. He rounded the conference table, took my hand, and gave it a firm squeeze. He smiled. True, it was a smile devoid of humor or goodwill and the tone of his voice was politely demanding, like he was speaking to a trespasser, but at least he made an effort.
“I’ll be blunt, if I may.” Donovan glanced at Muehlenhaus. The old man nodded and Donovan said, “We have been informed that the first lady has been made quite upset over something the past few days and we wish to learn what it is.”
I felt the icy grip of panic on my shoulder. The answer Donovan sought was folded twice and resting inside my jacket pocket.
Lindsey Bauer Barrett was the most attractive first lady in the history of Minnesota, maybe in the history of all fifty states. The week after her husband was elected governor they were both featured in People magazine. The following week it was Glamour. By my estimate, her face must have appeared at least a dozen times in national publications during the two years since the inauguration and Lord knows how many times in the local media. Which made the heavy knit hat and sunglasses all the sillier. Who was she kidding?
I found her sitting alone at the Groveland Tap in an old-fashioned wooden booth, the kind with high backs that you can’t see over. It wasn’t hard.
“Honestly, Zee. You need to work on your disguise.”
“McKenzie,” she whispered. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the booth while glancing around to see if anyone had noticed her.
The Groveland Tap was a neighborhood joint in St. Paul where you could get a cold beer, a bowl of chili, watch the ball game on one of a half dozen TVs, and shoot some stick in the back room. In the evenings it was crowded with college kids from St. Catherine, St. Thomas, and Macalester. During the day it belonged to the families and business folk that lived and worked in the Macalester-Groveland area. The lunch hour crowd filled most of the tables and booths, but no one paid attention to Lindsey except a heavyset man with relentless eyes who sat alone near the door.
I sat across from her. She removed the sunglasses and smiled, her eyes sparkling like ice water. Lindsey had always possessed a kind of Renaissance quality that came very close to real beauty. Not the kind of fragile beauty flaunted so carelessly by teenage rock princesses, beauty that erodes inexorably with time. Rather it was a lasting beauty, the kind that inspires the imagination, like the canvas of a Pre-Raphaelite master that a discerning collector might study for hours, days, perhaps even a lifetime; examining, evaluating, analyzing each line, each curve, each brush stroke until he falls helplessly, hopelessly, permanently in love. I had thought so even when I was a kid, even before I knew what fine art looked like.
“It’s good to see you,” I said.
“Long time,” she told me.
A waitress appeared, set two menus before us, and asked for drink orders. Lindsey requested iced tea after first being assured that the Groveland Tap brewed its own. I had the same.
The waitress grinned brightly. “It’ll be just a moment, Mrs. Barrett.” Lindsey nodded her approval. The waitress departed and Lindsey sighed deeply, pulled off the knit hat, and dropped it on the bench next to her.
“Ah, the joys of celebrity,” I told her.
“I wanted our meeting to be secret.”
“Why?”
The waitress reappeared. I wondered when I had last seen such brisk service.
“Here you go, hon,” she said, setting the beverages before us. “Would you like to order now?”
“Later, perhaps,” Lindsey said.
“I’m Terry, Mrs. Barrett. You just give me a wave when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Terry.”
The waitress left without once looking at me.
Lindsey frowned.
“Shake it off, Zee,” I said, like she was a teammate who had just gone down swinging. “You grew up not far from here. People would recognize you even if you weren’t the first lady.”
“Zee. Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a good, long time.”
“How’s Linda?” I asked, just to be polite.
“Working on her fourth marriage.”
“Too bad.”
“She should have stayed with you.”
“We were children when we knew each other. If we had stayed together, it would have only ended up being the first marriage for both of us.”
“You never did marry, did you?”
“No.”
“What’s holding you back?”
“I’m still waiting for you to realize that I’m the man you’ve been searching for your entire life and that you made a terrible, terrible mistake marrying Barrett. That’s why you called, right?”
“McKenzie, you are a terrible flirt.”
“When you say that, do you mean I flirt a lot or that I don’t do it well?”
“Both.”
