1 Breakfast at Madeline's

by Matt Witten

  Why, indeed. "Do they run a lot of these security checks?"

  "No, this is the first one since I've been here. Eight months and counting."

  I got the feeling I had just uncovered further proof of that ancient proverb: Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

  Sure, maybe there was an innocent explanation. But City Hall had given Penn free Ethiopian, which, if I had it figured right, meant someone there was being blackmailed. And the mayor certainly got upset when he heard me trying to confront Gretchen about Penn. And I remembered how oddly intense he'd been on the post office steps when he asked me about Penn's writing. Was he afraid that his blackmailer would return from the dead, via the written word, to haunt him?

  The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if the mayor had thought up this bogus "special security check" as a means of breaking into Donald Penn's safety-deposit box himself and stealing whatever was in there. And for all I knew, maybe breaking into my box, too.

  Which meant my box might not be the safest place to deposit Penn's manuscript. I let go of the bank's front door and headed back down the steps, still carrying my damn grocery bag. My ball and chain.

  "Hey, aren't you going in the bank?" Young Brown Suit called after me, puzzled.

  "I changed my mind," I said, as I got myself the heck out of there and walked back down Broadway.

  17

  Okay, so I couldn't trust the Saratoga Trust. But then whom could I trust?

  I thought about depositing Penn's magnum opus in another bank in Saratoga, but after this experience, I was spooked. Besides, I had no time to do all the paperwork for opening a new safety-deposit box. Andrea was at home frantically finishing up her students' semester grades, which were overdue as usual. So I needed to pick up the kids from Judy Demarest's house, drop off the Sultan of Swat at school and the Great One at the babysitter's, and then hit the Albany Amtrak station in time for the Friday 11:25 to New York City. I needed to be on that train; otherwise, I wouldn't make it in to the NYFA office until Monday. No way was I driving into the city today, with my head the way it was.

  So I decided to lock up The Penn's stuff in an Amtrak locker in Albany. Until then, I'd have to lock it in the trunk of my car.

  I'd parked on Broadway right in front of Madeline's, so when I opened my rusty trunk to put the grocery bag in, I felt like all eyes were upon me. I stared aggressively at Madeline's plate glass window, trying to scare off any potential murderers who might be watching. Then I slammed the trunk door down and drove off, my muffler chugging out a noisy good-bye.

  I turned onto Phila Street, then went right on Henry, doubled back on Circular, and went up Henry again, checking my rearview mirror to see if any cars were following me. Unfortunately, my surveillance efforts were hampered by the fact that as a teenager, I was too busy getting high and grooving on the Grateful Dead to learn about cars. To this day, all cars look alike to me.

  Besides, with my muffler from hell, a car would be able to follow me from a mile away. But I did the best I could, putting on fake turn signals and speeding through red lights, and made it to Judy Demarest's house in record time. Record slow time, that is.

  It was already past nine-thirty, but Judy had graciously agreed last night to keep the kids until whenever we showed up and go in to the Saratogian late. My five year old would be late to school again himself; I guess that's the price you pay when your Daddy is a high-powered private eye.

  Judy did favors like this for us from time to time, and seemed to enjoy it. She didn't have a spouse or kids of her own, and our children were the closest thing to nephews or nieces she had.

  It was odd that my wife and Judy had grown so close, because these days it seemed like Andrea only got close to other women if they were mothers of young children who understood the traumas of peepee and preschool. But Andrea met Judy four years ago, when she had a major identity crisis, decided there must be more to life than work and family, and insisted on getting out of the house by herself at least one night a week. She wound up doing volunteer work for the Literacy Volunteers of Saratoga, Judy's special project. They soon discovered that not only did they share a passion for teaching children to read in this barren television age, they also shared an even deeper passion: bowling.

  When I walked up Judy's front steps, Gretzky and Babe Ruth bounded outside to greet me. "Daddy! Daddy!" they shouted gleefully, then immediately started telling me some complicated tale about a dog named Doughnut, or a doughnut named Dog, or a dog that ate a doughnut, or vice versa. I couldn't figure it out for the life of me, but whenever they stopped for my reaction, I said "Wow!" or "Way cool!" and that seemed to do the job.

  Judy came outside dressed for work, air kissed me hello, and asked how my head was. I started to tell her about the latest burglary of our house, but decided to wait until the kids were safely out of earshot. They'd already had to deal with more than enough scary stuff this week. I hoped all the craziness wouldn't make the Babe's sleepwalking episodes, or the Great One's peepee boycotts, even more frequent.

  When the kids ran off suddenly in search of anthills to attack, I thanked Judy profusely for her babysitting and was about to whisper to her about the burglary when she threw me a curve. "Hope you don't mind," she said, "kids were up late last night. Took 'em to Madeline's."

  I looked at her, feeling confused. Something was bothering me, but I wasn't sure what. Judy got nervous. "That's okay, isn't it?" she asked.

  "Sure," I answered, but meanwhile I'd figured out what was bothering me. "Did you mention to people at Madeline's why you were babysitting? Because Andrea was visiting me at the hospital?"

  "I guess so, yeah. Why?"

  Why? Because this meant whoever was at Madeline's last night knew our house was empty—and ripe for burglary. "So who was at Madeline's?"

  "Totally packed. Hey, your kiddos were the life of the party. Got all the grownups playing with the barrel of monkeys."

  "When were you there?"

  Judy stiffened, getting annoyed at my interrogation. "I don't know. Maybe eight-thirty to ten."

  Eight-thirty to ten. We'd been burglarized around nine-thirty.

  Of course, maybe the burglar had been nowhere near Madeline's last night. But that silver high heel did make the burglary look like a spur of the moment thing. Which fit my scenario: Judy pops into Madeline's with my kids, shoots her mouth off, and Ms. Silver Heels, inspired by our first burglary the night before (hell, maybe even the perpetrator of our first burglary), slips out of Madeline's and drives over to our house.

  Judy misinterpreted my frown as criticism for keeping the kids out late. "Hey, sorry I took 'em to Madeline's, but the Literacy Volunteers special events committee was meeting there last night, and I had to bring them some info about last year's silent auction—"

  "Who's on the committee?" I interrupted.

  She threw me a look. "Why?"

  "Just curious."

  She gave one of her characteristic world-weary shrugs. "Usual gang of suspects. Diane Gee, Annette Dobrow, the mayor..."

  The mayor again. To use the Novella Man's favorite word, he was ubiquitous. Harder to escape than the theme song from Scooby Doo.

  I nodded thoughtfully to myself. It fit, all right—it fit perfectly. The mayor devises a sneaky scheme to get his hands on The Penn's safety-deposit box, but it's empty. He figures out I've already made off with The Penn's stuff, and he's furious. Desperate, even.

  But later that same night he's at Madeline's, and finds out there's no one at my house. So he immediately carpes the diem and drives over there so he can break in and nab that elusive manuscript at last.

  Only one problem with this theory. The high-heeled shoes. Did the mayor dress as a woman to disguise himself?

  If this were a movie, yes. Since it wasn't, no. Besides, his feet were too big.

  Did he get some woman at Madeline's to do the burglary for him? That seemed more likely. But who? And why?

  "Judy, were
there any women at Madeline's last night wearing silver high-heeled shoes?"

  Judy raised an eyebrow at me. In fact she raised both of them. "What the hell is this all about?"

  I didn't answer her. And it wasn't just because both kids were pulling at my shirt sleeves and insisting that I join them in their ant demolition project. At this point I was so paranoid, I even suspected Judy.

  I mean, hey, she'd been awfully eager to publish Penn's opus. So eager that she pushed me real hard to get her own paws on it and do the editing all by herself, before I even had a chance to read it. Was she just being a conscientious newspaperwoman? Or was there something more sinister at play?

  For all I knew, she went to Madeline's last night expressly to tip somebody off that my house was empty. Maybe she even left the kids in someone else's care for a while and slipped out to my house herself. It would have taken her three minutes max to drive there, five to break in and do a quick search, and three more to drive back. And if she got caught, she could always say she was looking for an outfit for Gretzky or something.

  So I didn't give Judy a straight answer. Instead I dropped my car keys, bent down, and took a close look at her feet.

  And wondered if they were size eight.

  18

  As we drove away from Judy's house, I questioned the kids about whether Judy had left them alone at Madeline's for a while last night. Gretzky said yes, the Babe said no, and further attempts at cross-examination were unsuccessful, because the witnesses kept interrupting with loud burps and giggles.

  I was desperate to hit the 11:25 train and ditch that grocery bag in an Amtrak locker. But even after I dropped off the kids, I still had to have a talk with Dave the Fish before I left town. He was in our kitchen when I got there, doing his dusting-for-fingerprints routine on the silver high heel. Unfortunately, the mud and rain had eliminated all fingerprints but my own.

  I put my arm around him. "Listen, old pal, old snowblowing buddy—"

  "Yeah, yeah, what do you want?"

  I cut the clowning. "Dave, so far there have been one arson and two burglaries that are all connected to Donald Penn. Also, I have reason to believe that Penn was blackmailing people."

  Dave looked up from his dusting. "Who?"

  "I'm not sure yet. But the point is, the police should reopen their investigation of his death. Exhume his body, find out if someone put poison in his coffee or whatever."

  Dave rolled his eyes. "Poison in his coffee?"

  "Did anyone check his blood for some kind of poison?" Dave simply rolled his eyes again. Just as I thought, no one had checked. "Look, the guy had three cups every morning—at City Hall, the Arts Council, and Madeline's. Any one of those coffees could have killed him."

  "Three coffees, huh? Well, that explains it. Probably got a heart attack from all that caffeine." I started to reply, but Dave held up his hand and stopped me with a patronizing, wise-cop-to-naive-civilian smile. "You've spent too much time in Hollywood, my man. We still don't even know for sure that any of these crimes are really connected to Penn."

  "Oh, come on—"

  "We're not even sure it was arson."

  "Give me a fucking break!"

  Dave narrowed his eyes. Our relationship was entering uncharted territory. I'd never cussed at him before, we were just friendly acquaintances. "Look, I'm sorry, but—"

  Dave waved off my apology. "Hey, even if it is arson, you still gotta suspect the landlord first. From what I hear the guy's a sleazebag, and he's got a vacant first floor, a second-floor tenant that's leaving, and a third-floor tenant that's dead. What's a poor absentee landlord to do?"

  If I told Dave about the brick that flew through Molly Otis's window, maybe I could convince him. But I'd promised Molly to keep that little golden nugget to myself.

  So I gave Dave my fiercest look, which I got from watching Roger Clemens's face when he's about to fire his high hard fastball, and declared intensely, "Dave. Trust me. That fire was about Donald Penn."

  Dave didn't answer. I gave the Clemens face some extra juice and he looked away, but he still didn't give in, just sat there shaking his head at the floor. So I changed tacks. "Man, if you don't help me out on this, you can forget about me trimming your hedges this summer."

  Dave laughed, the tension broken. "Kind of trimming job you do, is that supposed to be a threat?" Then he clapped me on the shoulder. "Jacob, I tell you what. I'll take it up with the chief."

  I nodded, but I had a feeling Dave wouldn't push this too hard for me. He was a nice-enough guy, but no Mel Gibson. Then again, who is? Probably even Mel Gibson isn't Mel Gibson, if you know what I mean.

  Having concluded my unsatisfactory conversation with Dave, I proceeded to have an equally unsatisfactory conversation with Andrea while I hurriedly packed a peanut butter sandwich for the train. I was pumping her for any possible links between Judy and The Penn, or Judy and the mayor, but she wasn't very helpful. In fact, she was practically homicidal. "What?! You think Judy had something to do with this?" she sputtered.

  "I'm just—"

  "Jacob, don't be an idiot!"

  "But—"

  "Judy is my best friend!"

  I steeled myself against her sisterly wrath. "How much money does the mayor contribute to the Literacy Volunteers?"

  "I don't know, maybe ten thousand last year, but who gives a shit? What are you trying to say? The mayor gives to all kinds of charities. He's rich!"

  True, but still... Ten grand was pretty darn grand, especially by Saratoga Springs standards. It was probably a third of the entire Literacy Volunteers budget, maybe more. Why had the mayor been so generous?

  Judy was an absolute fanatic about the Literacy Volunteers, giving it the same kind of love other women give their children. Was the mayor himself also enamored of the Literacy Volunteers, or was he just trying to curry favor with the editor of the town's only newspaper?

  Of course, currying favor with people isn't exactly illegal. Usually it's not even immoral.

  I waved good-bye to my still-angry wife and roared off, finally, to the Albany train station. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I stashed the fateful grocery bag in a locker and pocketed the key.

  Then I raced to the 11:25 train, and made it with one and two-thirds seconds to spare. I opened my peanut butter sandwich, and was so beat I fell asleep before I even got around to eating it.

  I didn't wake up until we rode into Penn Station. Which was fortunate, because if I'd been awake, I'd have gone berserk. The train was an express, scheduled to get in at 2:10, but because of "undiagnosed engine troubles"—the Amtrak version of delayed concussion syndrome, I suppose—we did the last leg of the trip at groundhog speed and didn't arrive in New York City until 4:44. I had approximately 16 minutes to get to NYFA before they closed for the weekend.

  To make matters worse, when I came up from the bowels of Penn Station onto Eighth Avenue, I discovered that seven years of living outside The City had dulled my street savvy. Other, more ruthless pedestrians kept beating me out for taxis. I was reduced to racing the many blocks to the NYFA office on foot, hoping against hope I could make it by 5:00.

  When I finally got there, at 5:02, the secretary had her jacket on and was halfway out the door. She was a cute fake blonde—or as they say in the New York Daily News, "bottle blonde"—who would have been cuter, in my opinion, without the two purple lip rings. Though I did like the Groucho Marx tattoo right above her left breast.

  I played on Groucho Girl's sympathy by huffing and puffing for breath after my long run. I played on the rest of her emotions by putting my left hand in my pocket so she wouldn't see my wedding ring. Unmarried men who are into the arts and don't "look gay" are at a premium in New York, and I was hoping that would help me out.

  It did. After I did the requisite fawning and flirting, Groucho Girl took off her jacket—revealing tattoos of all the Marx Brothers, including Zeppo and Gummo, which was so classy I almost forgave the purple lip rings—and found me the 199
8 Saratoga Springs file. Since NYFA is publicly funded and their grants are a matter of public record, their files are open to anyone, especially cute guys who might be single.

  I reached out for the file with trembling hands—actually, just one trembling hand, because I kept my left one hidden in case I needed any more favors from Groucho Girl. Then I opened up the file. At last: the moment of truth. Now I'd find out who threatened The Penn's life. Maybe I'd even find out who The Penn was blackmailing... and who had the motive to kill him.

  I zoomed through the applications. Albanese, Atwater... alphabetical order again. Hosey, Introcaso... almost there. Orsulak, Pardou, Preller...

  What? Orsulak, Pardou, Preller.

  Shit! It wasn't there!

  I groaned, miserable, but Groucho Girl didn't notice. "It's funny, you asking for the Saratoga stuff," she said cheerfully, making conversation. "There was someone in here a couple days ago, asking for the same thing."

  I stared. "Who was it?"

  She shrugged her shoulders and gave her head a pretty shake. Unfortunately her lip rings shook too, destroying the effect. "I don't know. Some lady."

  Some lady? "What'd she look like?"

  She wrinkled her eyebrows in thought. "Um, pretty old, like in her fifties? Short hair, big earrings..."

  "And big teeth?"

  She nodded and smiled brightly. So did Groucho, Harpo, Chico, Zeppo, and Gummo. "You know her?"

  Yeah, I knew her, all right.

  Gretchen Lang.

  I took my left hand out of my pocket and rubbed my chin with it, so Groucho Girl would see my wedding ring and wouldn't ask me out to dinner or whatever. Though for all I knew, I was greatly overestimating my appeal. Before I met Andrea, I used to always get mixed up about which women were interested in me and which weren't. I wondered briefly how you kiss someone who's wearing a lip ring, but decided I'd wait until another lifetime to find out.

  I waved good-bye to her and all her Marx Brothers, especially Zeppo and Gummo, and hustled back outside. This time I managed to catch the very first cab that came along, showing some true New York spirit by beating out an elderly man with a cane, and made it back to Penn Station in time for the 5:28 train home.