by Matt Witten
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 trying 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 repeated, 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 literature on the floor. It was a long time since I'd been in a college girl's boudoir, and it felt like a foreign country. Molly had instinctively referred to me as her father. Ouch, was I really that old?
With boards covering the broken window, it was dark in there. Molly pointed a reading light in my direction, 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 reminded 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 mature than her age. I guess growing 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. Artists." She waved her arms expansively to include every artist in the universe in her condemnation. "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 they come in the office, it's instant 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 morning 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 told me I was making him coffee because he was blackmailing her. That's so creepy."
I nodded sympathetically, then got back to business. "Were you expecting someone that morning? Any appointments?"
"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 angrily on the bed, but I had a feeling 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 internship anyway."
"Well, be careful what you say to her." Molly stared at me. "Gretchen might be the one who threw that brick in your window. She might even be the murderer."
Molly tried to laugh, but it came out sounding hysterical. "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 Bonnie."
"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 trying to keep Bonnie out of trouble."
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 nothing down there except a copy of The Feminine Mystique. A heavy book, it's true, but not something you'd expect 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 acknowledging m
y 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 nothing silly about it. I'll go out the back door."
So I did.
And ran straight into the mayor.
24
"What are you doing here?" the mayor asked.
"What are you doing here?" I countered.
The mayor gave me a toothy Tom Cruise grin. "Same thing as you, I guess, you old sly dog. At least I'm not married."
I didn't buy his routine for a second. "Are you here to see Molly Otis?"
"Gentlemen don't tell," the mayor said with a wink.
I wasn't sure what he was here for, but I seriously doubted he was up to any good. Feeling a guilty need to protect little five-foot-two Molly, especially since I seemed to be exposing her to danger every time I talked to her, I stepped up so close to the mayor I could see where his teeth had been capped. "Mr. Mayor, if you threaten Molly in any way whatsoever—"
He stepped back with a surprised look. "Threaten her? I have no intention of threatening anybody. I'm here to offer her a summer job."
Now it was my turn to look surprised. "A what?"
"A summer job. Gretchen says she's terrific. And a local girl, too—good politics." The Cruise grin came back.
But I still didn't buy it. While he was busy grinning, I was busy thinking, and now I felt pretty sure I had the mayor figured out. "What's the matter, Harry? You scared she heard something she wasn't supposed to hear? So you and Gretchen figured it might get her to keep quiet, if you handed her a cushy job?"
The mayor's face hardened. "Burns, you got something you're trying to say?"
"I guess you figured throwing a brick at her might not be enough to shut her up. Right, Harry?"
The perfect eyebrows shot up. "What's this about throwing a brick?"
I eyed him closely. I read an article in the National Enquirer once: "Seven Sure Ways to Tell if He's Lying." Unfortunately, I can never remember any of them.
"Harry, don't play games with me," I said sneeringly. "I know all about your fifty-grand sweetheart deal with Gretchen. I imagine the cops would want to know about it, too."
The mayor didn't bat an eye. "And you've got some evidence, I suppose? The cops won't think you're just some half-baked Hollywood screenwriter?"
He was right, of course, but I didn't bat an eye either; damn it, I was going to nail this yuppie politician scum. Since the best defense is a good offense, I decided to be as offensive as possible. "Where were you on Monday morning of this week?"
The mayor shook his perfectly coifed head, amused. "What are you accusing me of now?"
"Poisoning Donald Penn."
He exploded into guffaws. "I can't wait to see your movie. What a great imagination!"
I had to admit, it sounded pretty preposterous to me, too. But you never get anywhere in this world by admitting self-doubt. "It had to be you. The Arts Council people are all a bunch of crackpot artists, not killers. And no one at Madeline's had enough motive. So that leaves you. You're the only other person who was giving him free coffee."
"Oh, is that so? What about your wife's little friend?"
What? "Who?"
Tom Cruise came back again, but with a sarcastic edge this time. "Judy Demarest. At the Daily Saratogian. What, your wife didn't share that little detail?"
I found my voice. "Why was Judy giving him coffee?"
His eyes twinkled meanly. "Why don't you ask her?"
Yeah, sure. If I interrogated Judy, my wife would kill me... and the mayor knew it. Typical politician: not too bright maybe, but clever as hell.
I fought back against his Tom Cruise teeth with my most evil Jack Nicholson leer. "Listen, pal, evidence or not, all I have to do is go public with this and I wreck your political career. And if you don't answer my questions, that's exactly what I intend to do."
"I hear Andrea's up for tenure next year," the mayor said, in a seemingly total non sequitur.
"So what?"
"So I happen to be a very close friend of her college president," the mayor said, his leer out-Nicholsoning mine.
He didn't say anything more. He didn't have to.
If the mayor pulled some strings and got my wife's tenure denied, her career was up the creek. She'd go back to teaching adjunct courses for chicken feed. To get a decent job teaching college English these days, you have to have at least two or three Ph.D.'s, publish at least nine or ten books, and most difficult of all, take literary deconstruction seriously.
No question, the mayor had found my weakness. I was screwed. I wondered, was he about to pull some similar sort of scam on Molly?
"Out of the way," the mayor said triumphantly, as he stepped around me toward Molly's dorm.
What I did next was stupid, I guess.
I mean, logically speaking, I had no right to jeopardize my wife's career.
And I had no right to punch the mayor smack in the middle of his perfect nose.
And I definitely had no right whatsoever to kick him in the balls and leave him writhing on the doorstep.
But I did it anyway.
And, God, did it feel great. Not bad for a sensitive artist type, I thought proudly.
As I walked cheerfully away, it occurred to me that I had just added assault and battery to the growing list of major felonies I'd committed in the past six days.
Well, hell, you only live once.
William Goldman, the screenwriter of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, All the President's Men, and about a million other hits, as well as a million flops, has a famous saying about Hollywood: "No one knows anything."
Which, I suppose, is why everyone out there is always nodding knowingly.
As I drove back down Broadway, I reflected that this saying was turning out to be true of Saratoga Springs as well. No one in town, from the mayor on down, knew how much dirt Molly or I really had on them. In some ways that had been working to our advantage: Molly was being bribed with a cushy summer job, I had been propositioned by Saratoga's answer to Pamela Anderson, and neither one of us had been killed.
Yet.
When I got home, I found Andrea and the kids in the back yard playing a complex game of their own invention called "baseball-hockey." I've never managed to understand the rules, but if it keeps both Gretzky and Babe Ruth happy, then I'm happy. I decided now was not the ideal time to confront my wife about Judy. Of course, the ideal time would be never.
The phone rang as soon as I came inside. I grabbed it, but before I could even say hello, my agent shouted into my ear, "Did you send me the contract yet?"
Oh phooey, I'd totally forgotten. I'd brought it with me in the car, planning to hit the P.O. after Madeline's, but then I got sidetracked.
Andrew interpreted my telephone silence correctly. "Goddamn it, you fishmeal-for-brains," he roared, "these people are in a fucking hurry to get moving already and they're not like most producers, they won't do anything without a signed contract in hand, they've been burned on verbal agreements before—"
"Don't worry, big guy," I lied, "I sent it this morning.
"You did?"
"Of course." I figured I wasn't really lying, since I'd be hitting the P.O. as soon as I got off the phone. Unfortunately, by the time Andrew finished haranguing me about various details it was already past noon and the P.O. was closed. I called Federal Express in Saratoga, but they were closed, too. Ah, the joys of small-town life.
I could have driven fifty-five minutes to the P.O. or the FedEx office in Albany, but Gretzky was in the kitchen with me now, tugging at my shirt to make me stand up. "Daddy, time to go! Daddy, come on!" I had promised to t
ake him, Babe Ruth, and Andrea to the Big Game today. Our team, the Adirondack Red Wings, was playing the Syracuse Crunch in the final and deciding game of the American Hockey League playoffs. Now was no time for worrying about minor matters like murders or $750,000 movie deals. There was a hockey championship at stake here.
Besides, FedEx in Saratoga would be open from nine to twelve tomorrow, and I'd send the contract then. That was soon enough. No need to spend my entire Saturday afternoon driving all over upstate like a crazed chicken. Hollywood agents and producers are always trying to bum rush you into a loony, panicked state, because it makes them feel powerful. You can't fall for their shit, I told myself.
Of course, it doesn't take a degree in psychology to know I was really acting out my ambivalence about mutant beetles.
So Andrea, the kids, and I piled into the Camry and drove north to Glens Falls, the blue-collar town where Andrea teaches. Glens Falls was rocking with Red Wing fans, and parking took a good twenty minutes—which may not sound like much if you're from the big city, but in our part of the world it's practically unheard of. By the time we got to our seats the game was already two minutes old, the crowd noise was deafening, and the joint was so packed they weren't even selling standing room anymore.
It was an exciting first period, with the Red Wing goalie, a burly guy named Wenders, foiling the Crunch attack time after time. Meanwhile the Red Wings made good on a rare breakaway opportunity to take the lead, 1-0. Gretzky was so excited he spent the entire period bouncing up and down, while Babe Ruth and Andrea chattered away happily and chanted, "Munch the Crunch for lunch!"
But I had trouble relaxing. I had spotted Judy up in the press box, covering the game for the Daily Saratogian. She could have sent someone else, but she loved hockey almost as much as bowling. I kept glancing up at her and wondering how the hell I was going to deal with her and Andrea. When the buzzer sounded, I was relieved that Andrea and the kids left to buy provisions, so I could have time to myself to think.
My thinking time didn't last long, though. Someone broke in with a "Hi, Jacob," and when I looked up, it was Judy. "Great game, huh? Where's Andrea?"
