1 Breakfast at Madeline's (19 page)

Bang!
Bonnie Engels slammed her fist on the table. My coffee cup jumped
and tipped over, spilling steam
ing hot Ethiopian all over my jeans. I leapt up, cursing, and tried to pull the scalding pants away from my leg.

Bonnie leapt up too, but not so she could help me. She just wanted to do a better job of getting in my face. "You slimeball," she snarled, "don't you play any of your asinine games with us. We know you're trying to close down the Arts Council."

I stared at her, incredu
lous.
"Close down the Arts Coun
cil?"
Jesus, talk about rumors. "Next thing, you'll be accusing me of burn
ing down that building." I exam
ined their faces carefully to see if any of them gave a sudden guilty look, or eyed each other nervously, but no one rose to the bait.

Bonnie just ignored what I said and kept on snarling. "And all be
cause of some stupid little for
mality. Not leaving
the room when our grant propos
als were being discussed." She waved her arms, disgusted. "Every
one at this table would have re
ceived those grants anyway. We're all serious artists."

Unfortunately for Bonnie, the credibility of her last statement was dam
aged when Pardou picked this mo
ment to beat his spoons again. We all turned and looked at him, and I
'm sure everyone else was think
ing roughly the same th
ing I was: If this guy was a se
rious artist, then I was a dill pickle.

As if reading our thoughts, Pardou said, "Hey, man, my one-man folk opera is gonna be hot."

Bonnie jutted her sharp chin back in my direction. "Forget about him," she said, jerking a disdainful thumb at Pardou. "My women's boxing video is for
real, and a two-thousand-dollar grant from the Arts Council is entirely appropriate. Put that together with the six thousand I just got from Virgil Otis, and—"

"Virgil Otis?"
I asked, astonished. Whoa, there was a connection between Bonnie and Virgil, the fat funeral home director?! That would mean a connection of sorts between Bonnie and Virgil's daughter Molly, who—

Bonnie stamped her feet impatiently. "I told you the project was attracting private investment. What, did you think I was making it up?"

Virgil, Bonnie, Molly.... Something stirred in my brainpan, but before I c
ould scoop it out Antoinette in
terrupted with a noisy, flamboyant, "It's
outrageous."
Bonnie's combativen
ess had put the fire back in An
toinette, and she gave her dreads an angry toss. "First this dirty, smelly, little man tries to
blackmail
us, and now even after he's dead we
still
have to deal with his sniveling schemes. Jacob Burns," she said, and then shifted her voice to a subtly menacing whisper, "I have always respected you, even after you sold out. But if you publish this man'
s lies, then as they say in Zim
babwe"—and here she gave a low hiss—
"I will spit on your toenails."

The coffee had soaked through my pants, my legs were damp and clammy, and now someone was threatening to spit on my toenails. Enough already. "Let's see if I got this straight," I said, taking them all in with my eyes. "Donald Penn eavesdropped on you people through his floorboards, right? And what he found out was, you all sit around the Arts Council every year giving each other grants. You did it this year, and I bet you did it
last year too, and the year be
fore that."

"We have an ongoing body of work—" Novella Man began.

I interrupted. "Ye
ah, and an ongoing body of bull
shit, too. So finally The Penn called you on it. He said, give me five grand or I blow the whistle on your little grant panel scam."

"The bastard had us on tape—" Mike Par
dou sput
tered, before Bonnie shut him up with a look.

I threw them all a shiteating grin. "How interesting. So are you afraid you'll get busted for spending public money
fraudulently?"

No one answered. No one even moved.

"Well, good news, folks," I told them, "no need to worry about the tape. It must have fried in the fire." Novella Man gave out an audible sigh of relief, but I wasn't finished. "However, the bad news is, Penn transcribed the entir
e panel meeting from last year—
and I have it. Makes very entertaining reading. Would be a crime not to publ
ish it. Maybe I should send com
plimentary copies to NYFA and a few other people too."

If looks could kill, their combined gazes would have put me twenty feet under. "Give me a fucking break!" Bonnie exploded. "We did nothing wrong, and you know it. You can't expect artists like us to follow every little rule like
regular people. When the whole
world is against you, you have to be willing to sell your own grandmother to succeed!" She threw every word at me like a dagger. "Admit it, you
hypocrite
. Until six months ago, if you were on this panel, you'd have done the exact same thing we did!"

She was right, of course. Being an unsuccessful artist had corrupted my spirit, just as it had corrupted everyone else at this table. Bonnie shoved her finger an inch from my nose. "So don't you dare sit there acting all high and mighty. You don't have any more talent than we do, you just got lucky, that's all! And you know it!"

I was getting real sick of people yelling at me. I yelled right back at Bonnie, "You jealous
fool,
I don't care about your stupid little grants. I just want to find out
who killed Donald Penn!"

That stopped them, all right. They stared at me. So did Marcie and everyone else in the joint. I leaned over the table at the Grim People and fixed them with my Roger Clemens glare. "So tell me, which one of you people visited the Arts Council office on Monday morning—the morning Penn was poisoned?"

I caught Bonnie's ey
es darting around, scared, look
ing guilty as sin. But when I glanced over at Ersatz, he looked guilty too. And so did the Grant Queen, and the King of Spoons, and Novella Man. But they couldn't all be guilty, could they? What was this,
Murder on the Orient Express?

Ersatz was the first to speak. "You're crazy," he said.

Think F. Lee Bailey,
I told myself, and fastened my eyes on Ersatz's, trying
not to get distracted by his im
pressive goatee. "Answer the question. Were you at the Arts Council office on Monday morning shortly before nine o'clock?"

"No."

"Do you have an alibi?"

"No, I don't," Ersatz
replied, but he didn't act ner
vous, and his eyes continued to hold mine.

"I have an alibi," Novella Man volunteered—and there was a sudden blur
of motion. It was Bonnie, slap
ping him hard across the face with a vicious backhand.

It happened so fast, I don't know if Bonnie even meant to do it. Mayb
e it was just an unconscious re
flex. We all sat and watched dumbly as blood spilled from Novella Man's cut lower lip. He looked like he was in shock, and I was afraid he'd pass out.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to do it," Bonnie said. She didn't look too broken
up about it, though. She was al
ways babbling abou
t how boxing was good for a per
son's soul, but Bonnie's soul seemed to have taken on a few extra twists lately.

Novella Man just stared at her, eyes wide, blood dripping down onto the table. Antoinette stood up. "I'll get you a napkin, Steve."

As Antoinette went up to the front counter, Bonnie turned to me. "You should be ashamed of yourself, trying to pull this crap. Donald Penn wasn't killed, and even if he was, it had nothing to do with us. Get serious."

"I'm dead serious."

"If you are, you're an idiot."

"Jacob, we had no reason to hurt him," Antoinette cut in, as she returned
with the napkin. "The whole af
fair between us and that man was over and done with."

"How do you figure that?"

She opened her eyes wide and gave me another one of her earnest looks. This must be the look she used when hitting up potential funders for cash. "It's like this, Jacob. Me and Bonnie met with him last week, three days before he died. We called his bluff. We told him we planned to reject his application, no matter what the consequences."

"What did he say?"

Bonnie answered for Antoinette, with a derisive sneer. "What
could
he say? He wasn't happy about it, but it was all just a joke anyway. The little shrimp didn't even have the balls to l
ook us in the face. And he
defi
nitely
didn't have the balls to actually carry out his ridiculous threats."

"You're right. Especially if he was dead."

"For God's sake—" Bonnie began, but I stopped her. "What about you, Bonnie?
Where were you that morning?"

Big angry purple veins stuck out on Bonnie's hand as she balled it into a fist, and I was sure she'd punch me. I had to force myself not to back away from her as she said, "I will not
put up with this insane harass
ment."

"Sure, you will. Either from me or from the cops."

Bonnie's veins got even bigger and purpler. "Burns, you're sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong." Her eyes turned into thin green slivers. "That could be dangerous.
Very
dangerous."

My throat dried up. With as much toughness as I could muster, I asked, "Are you threatening me?" I probably would have sounded tougher if I hadn't been squeaking.

Then, as if a faucet inside her had been suddenly shut off, Bonnie's fists relaxed and she burst into an amused smile. "Of course not," she laughed lightly, and stood up. "You're still one of us, Jacob. I just don't want anything bad happening to you, that's all."

And before I could stop her, she stepped up and hugged me. I heard several sharp cracks. Either I'd just received some inexpen
sive chiropractic, or she'd bro
ken a few disks in my spine.

While I was still assessing the damage, Bonnie took my hand and gently put a couple of tickets in it. "I'm doing a performance piece with my students tonight. A new piece called
The Devil Comes to Town
that we wrote ourselves." She squeezed my fingers so hard they ached. "I do hope you can come, Jacob. You need to take a break from Hollywood and get back in touch with what grassroots art is all about. It'll renew you spiritually."

And darned if she didn't hug me again. The woman's arms should have been registered as lethal weapons. Then she gave us all a wave and walked out of Madeline's.

I sighed with relief, glad that my spinal column was finally out of danger. Then I looked back at the other Grim People, who were still sitting there at the table. Lost in the Sixties was beating his spoons again, eyes half closed, while Ersatz Uncle Sam stroked his goatee, and the Grant Queen applied a wet napkin to Novella Man's lips. He was gazing up at her adoringly.

Could any of these people have committed murder?

I had no idea.

23

Sam Spade, Jr., needed a break. He needed one bad.

And he got one, at Virgil Otis's house.

That's where I headed after Madeline's, to see if I could somehow hustle the man into giving up his daughter's phone numb
er. Luckily, just as I was driv
ing up I spotted the girl herself coming out of her dad's house with a laundry basket full of clothes. It was nice to see that although web sites and megabytes have changed a lot of things, the grand old tradition of doing laundry at your parents' house lives on into the new millennium.

I almost confronted Molly right then and there, while she dumped the cl
othes in her car. But Virgil ap
peared at the front
door waving good-bye, and I de
cided to wait until we were out of his sight. As Molly pulled out of the driveway and took off, I followed her discreetly—or as discreetly as you can with a muffler that sounds like an Ozzy Osbourne CD. When would I get time to fix that thing?

Molly led me onto the hallowed grounds of Skidmore College. Not want
ing to spook her, I stayed a re
spectful distance behind.
Too
respectful as it turned out, because she found a parking spot right in front of her dorm and went inside while I was still stuck at the corner playing stop and go with a thirty-yard-long food service delivery truck.

Molly's dorm was seven floors high, the biggest and most modern building on campus. I went in the foyer, but the inner door was locked and I didn't know which of the hundred or so doorbells to ring, since the students' names weren't listed. For security reasons, no doubt.

Back outside, I went behind the dorm and found a broken window on the far corner of the first floor. So Molly had been telling
the truth about that brick. Evi
dently the town's glazi
ers hadn't gotten around to fix
ing it yet, though in fairness to them, they'd been kept plenty busy lately.

I returned to the foyer, rang a bunch of doorbells, and in no time at all four or five people buzzed me in. Great security. No match for a veteran B and E man like myself. I walked up the first floor hallway, found the room at the far corner, and knocked.

"Who is it?" Molly called out. I could hear her voice quavering through the door.

"Jacob Burns."

A gasp. "Go away!"

"We need to talk—"

"I said, go away! I'm calling security!"

"That won't do any good," I began, then heard a noise which sounded like someone taking a phone off its cradle. "Molly, stop—" I tried, but she said, "Hello, security?"

"You've got to listen to me—"

"I'm calling from
Merrill Dorm! There's a man try
ing to break into my room!" Molly screamed into the phone.

"Look, you were right about Donald Penn!"

"I'm in Room one-eighteen!"

"Penn was murdered!"

I waited. Molly was
silent. "He was murdered," I re
peated, more softly this time.

Finally Molly spoke into her phone again. "Uh, I'm sorry, sir, it's okay, it's just my, uh, father. Yeah, I'm sure. 'Bye."

Meanwhile two doors opened down the hall and two fearful young women peered out at me. I gave them my friendliest smile but they recoiled like I was Hannibal Lecter, or Marv Albert. "Molly, are you okay?" one of them stammered when Molly opened her door.

"I'm fine," Molly said, nodding for me to come into her room.
I stepped inside, gazing around at the Alanis Morissette posters on
the walls and the feminist lit
erature on the floor.
It was a long time since I'd been in a college girl's boudoir, and it felt like a foreign
coun
try. Molly had instinc
tively referred to me as her fa
ther. Ouch, was I really that old?

With boards covering the broken window, it was dark in there. Molly p
ointed a reading light in my di
rection, folded her arms, and waited silently for me to speak. I felt like I was being interrogated, but since it was me who wanted something from her, I put up with it.

I sat down on her desk
chair and told my story. It re
minded me of all the Hollywood movie pitches I used to do, but with one difference: This time, my story was real.

Molly frowned as she listened, looking a lot older than the first time I'd seen her, only two days ago. Though even then, despite her sweet freckled face, she'd looked more ma
ture than her age. I guess grow
ing up in a funeral home will do that to you.

I was afraid Molly would find my suspicions of the panel members absurd, but she surprised me. After I finished, she shook her head and said, "Yeah, they could've done it, all right. They are the most neurotic people I have ever met."

"Which of them in particular?"

"All of them.
Art
ists."
She waved her arms expan
sively to include every ar
tist in the universe in her con
demnation. "I've only been at the Arts Council three months, and I'm already thinking of switching my major from arts administration. I just can't deal with these people. Every time t
hey come in the office, it's in
stant crisis. They're always totally freaking out about this grant, that exhibition, this production, whatever." She rolled her eyes, exasperated. "Everything people say about artists is true.
They're all crazy."

After my recent encounter with the grant panel at Madeline's, I was inclined to agree. But I felt obligated to defend the artists of the universe, especially since I was one of them, or at least had been until recently, and hopefully would be again. "Artists aren't crazy. They're just poor."

Molly gave me a dismissive shrug. "That's just crap, and you know it." Man, this was a no-nonsense kind of girl; her boyfriends better watch their asses. "Look, I still don't get it. I don't mean to be rude, and I do hope you find out who killed the guy, but how exactly can I help you? I'm really nervous about you being here," she went on, flicking a glance at her boarded-up window. "What if someone followed you?"

She was right. I was putting her in danger.

Whoever tossed that brick through her window might not stop there.

"Molly," I said, "
think back to early Monday morn
ing at the Arts Council. Was there anyone who had the opportunity to poison The Penn's coffee?"

She frowned, thinking. The seconds ticked away. Then she answered, "Yes."

My heart jumped. At last, I would learn who killed Donald Penn. "Who?"

"Anyone," she shrugged. "First I made the coffee,
then I went out to the Xerox store to pick up some stuff for the panel. Donald came in and got his coffee before I came back."

I groaned. "And you didn't lock the door when you went out?"

"No. Anyone could have snuck in and poisoned the coffee while I was gone, no problem."

I found a straw to grasp at. "It had to be somebody who knew it was Penn's coffee."

"Sure, but everybody knew. They all made jokes about it." Suddenly Molly shuddered.

"What is it?"

"I thought Gretchen and I were just being nice to the guy. She never tol
d me I was making him coffee be
cause he was
blackmailing
her. That's so creepy."

I nodded sympathetically, then got back to business. "Were you expecti
ng someone that morning? Any ap
pointments?"

"No, but people came in and out all the time."

"Like who?"

She thought about it, and a network of worry wrinkles formed on her
forehead. "All kinds of people—
panelists, artists, building contractors—it was like Grand Central Station in there sometimes." She slapped her hand angri
ly on the bed, but I had a feel
ing she was really more hurt than angry. "Damn it, I'm gonna call Gretchen and tell her I'm quitting. She should have told me the truth. I trusted her."

"I don't think you should call Gretchen right now," I said.

"Why not? I'm quitting
that dumb job. It's just an in
ternship anyway."

"Well, be careful what you say to her." Molly stared at me. "Gretchen might be the one who threw that brick in your wi
ndow. She might even be the mur
derer."

Molly tried to laug
h, but it came out sounding hys
terical. "Come on. Gretchen? A murderer?"

"Why not? She's the one who warned you to shut up about the application, right?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't just her."

"Who else?"

"Well, like my dad
...
" Suddenly Molly faltered. Her eyes avoided mine.

I prodded her. "Your dad?"

She nodded slowly.
"Yeah. He's going out with Bon
nie."

"Really?"
Virgil and Bonnie?

My mind flashed on muscle-bound Bonnie and fat Virgil humping each other. Not a pretty picture. Well, I guess that was one way to get someone to invest in your video.

Molly's eyes opened wide, full of pain. "I thought my dad was trying to keep me out of trouble. But maybe he was really tr
ying to keep
Bonnie
out of trou
ble."

Suddenly Molly's whole body gave a start. "You don't think
my dad
threw that brick at me, do you?"

I didn't know, so I didn't say anything. There was no question, Bonnie was
desperate
not to lose that grant. So yeah, the brick thrower could have been her, or Molly's dad, or both of them together.

And it was possible Bonnie killed The Penn without Virgil knowing it, and now she was manipulating Virgil

Molly drew up her knees, put her head on them, and rocked back and forth. All this fear and betrayal was turning her catatonic.

"Molly, it's going to be okay," I finally said, realizing even as I said it how lame it sounded.

She scowled at me, disgusted. "How the hell do
you
know?"

She was right. I didn't. I awkwardly stood up to leave
...
and banged my toe against something hard on the floor. Which
was odd, because there was noth
ing down there except a copy of
The Feminine Mystique.
A heavy book, it's true, but not s
omething you'd ex
pect to stub your toe on. Out of curiosity I stooped down and lifted the book out of the way. Underneath it was a mottled red and white brick.

I picked the brick up. "This is the one?"

Molly nodded. "If anybody tries to break in, I'm gonna hit 'em with it. Listen, Mr. Bums—"

"Call me Jacob," I said
, but she went right on, not ac
knowledging my interruption. "When you leave, could you go out the back door? I don't want anyone to see you."

Finally, something to smile about. This was like my younger days, when I'd have to sneak out of girls' dorms at Mount Holyoke in the early morning before the dorm mothers woke up.

Molly frowned, upset. "What's so funny? You think I'm silly for being scared?"

I looked away from her, embarrassed, and set the brick back down on the
floor. "I'm sorry. There's noth
ing silly about it. I'll go out the back door."

So I did.

And ran straight into the mayor.