1 Breakfast at Madeline's

by Matt Witten

  Fascinating stuff. But I wasn't finding any files labeled "Donald Penn" or "Murder" or anything convenient like that.

  I went in the storeroom and discovered Xerox paper and cleaning supplies. But no gasoline for committing arson with, no books describing how committing homicide could be a positive spiritual experience.

  Heading through the double doors into the darkened auditorium, I shone my flashlight over the empty seats and then the stage itself. Bonnie had created a nifty set. Stage left, there were red and orange flames rising up out of a deep pit. This must be good old hell, home of the silver-tongued devil himself... or herself. Stage right, fluffy white clouds were hovering in the air above two tire swings, also painted white. That must be heaven. At center stage was the brick facade of a house—I guess this was where the regular mortals hung out.

  It was all very sweet, but since I wasn't there to critique set designs, I left the auditorium and was already walking down the hallway when suddenly a bell went off in my head. I turned around and ran back inside the auditorium, tripping over a couple of dark steps and then vaulting onstage. I shone my light on the house facade and stared at the bricks.

  They were mottled, red and white.

  The exact same type of brick someone had thrown through Molly Otis's window.

  My hand trembled with excitement as I felt the brick's surface. So now I had evidence linking Bonnie to the burglary and the death threat against Molly. Bonnie had always been intense as hell—but now she was turning destructive.

  Why?

  The answer came to me in a rush. Because she was broke and desperate. Her school was losing money, and she was going nuts trying to raise funds for that boxing video. But The Penn was blackmailing her, threatening to expose her unethical little grant, smear her name, and scare off any other investors.

  And above all this, I realized, Bonnie was facing the overwhelming reality that she was getting older, like me, middle age looming like some horrible hulking Godzilla, but Bonnie's still fighting, she still has desperate dreams of fame and fortune, and it's even looking like maybe they'll finally come true, she's actually getting some money together for what she sees as her huge breakthrough project... but then, of all the bizarre, horrible things, some total worthless louse, some two-bit blackmailer, Donald Fucking Penn, threatens to rob her of her one last shot at the rainbow, forcing her to resign herself once and for all to a lifetime of endlessly hustling theater gigs on a shoeshine and a smile, struggling to make ends meet...

  Was raging midlife crisis enough motive to kill someone?

  From stage right came a sudden noise. Someone opening a door. I froze.

  As if that would keep whoever it was from seeing me, standing there center stage with a lit flashlight in my hand.

  "Who's there?" said a woman's edgy, fearful voice.

  It was Bonnie.

  "Oh hi, Bonnie," I replied, inanely cheerful, as if I'd just dropped in for tea.

  "Jacob? Is that you?"

  "Uh, yeah." I shone the flashlight on her, thinking in some mixed up way that it might help her see me better. It didn't, of course, but I did get a good view of Bonnie squinting against the light... and holding a silver pitchfork in her hand.

  She lifted the pitchfork to shield her eyes. "Oh, sorry," I apologized, and shone the flashlight on my own face, for what reason I'm not sure. Then I felt silly doing that and pointed the light down at the floor. I gave Bonnie a nervous smile, which made no sense because she couldn't even see my face anymore. This was too weird. Here I'd finally caught the murderer, or thought I had, and the main thing I was feeling was embarrassed.

  No, not the main thing. Mainly I was hoping that Bonnie's pitchfork, which I couldn't see in the darkness now, was papier-maché instead of the real deal.

  "What are you doing here?" Bonnie asked. Since I couldn't see her face either, I couldn't tell if she was merely bewildered or filled with murderous rage.

  "Great show, Bonnie," I said as I backed away from her, but trying to go slowly so she wouldn't notice. "Really enjoyed it."

  "I didn't see you in the audience."

  "I was in the back."

  "Jacob, what the fuck is going on?"

  I backed up some more, and Bonnie started toward me. Not that I saw her, but I heard her footsteps—and saw her pitchfork prongs gleaming in the shadows as she called out, "Goddamn you, Jake, what the hell are you trying to do to me?!"

  Tapping some hitherto unknown reservoir of either panic, courage, or total stupidity, I stunned myself by shouting into the darkness, "That was your shoe in our backyard, wasn't it?!"

  Bonnie's footsteps stopped. She was probably equally stunned. Sensing I had the advantage, I pressed on. "And you threw that brick at Molly Otis!"

  From the darkness, I heard a low growl. Then Bonnie snarled, "So what? She deserved it! The little bitch was gonna get us all in trouble!"

  "And did I deserve to be burglarized?"

  "I had to do that. I was just protecting myself from Penn's stupid book!"

  Some silver-tongued devil inside me urged me on. By God, I would get the whole truth at last. "And is that why you killed him?"

  My words hung there in the air. Would Bonnie try to deny it?

  No. Instead she shouted, "You bastard! You both deserve to die!"

  And then suddenly she leapt at me.

  I sensed her more than saw her, and dodged wildly to my left. I saw the glint of the pitchfork as it went past me, then heard it hit the stage with a loud metallic clang. Shit—definitely not papier-maché.

  Strange guttural noises were coming from Bonnie's throat, like she was foaming at the mouth. As I dodged, the last piece of the Bonnie puzzle came to me: steroids. That's what the needles were for—and that's why Bonnie's natural aggressiveness was spinning crazily out of control.

  Bonnie had been so sick of being a struggling artist, and so eager to make it big in boxing, that she pumped herself full of toxic levels of weird shit until she had turned herself into Frankenstein's monster.

  And now this lunatic was trying to kill me. "What did I ever do to you?!" she was screaming. "Why are you assholes crucifying me?! It was just two thousand dollars!" I would have pointed out that awarding herself two thousand bucks was the least of her crimes, except it didn't seem like she'd be interested in my input. Besides, I was too busy running like mad away from her.

  But unfortunately, I'd forgotten all about the hell at stage left. I fell right in. The pit was about five feet deep and I killed my right ankle when I landed, then my head smashed into the side wall. I got an instant wave of nausea, and felt myself starting to pass out. I sank to the bottom of the pit, down for the count.

  The sound of Bonnie's pitchfork shocked me back into full consciousness. Hearing three sharp metal prongs jab into the floor right next to your face will do that to you. I rolled to the other side of the pit. But my flashlight was down there in hell with me, still turned on, and pointing right at the spot I had just rolled to. Now Bonnie could see exactly where I was, even though I still couldn't see her. She charged around the pit and thrust the pitchfork straight at me.

  I saw a silver prong glittering in a stray beam from the flashlight and rolled away at the last moment. The prongs landed inches from my left shoulder, where my heart had been moments before. I quickly grabbed for the flashlight and turned it off.

  Bereft of light, Bonnie made random vicious stabs into the pit. Another struggling artist gone berserk; even worse than disgruntled post office employees. Bonnie was so frenzied, I'll bet she barely knew who I was anymore. I wasn't Jacob Burns; I was all of the stupid jerks who for twenty years had failed to recognize her greatness as an artist.

  And judging by the number of stabs, there had been a lot of stupid jerks.

  I stilled my breathing and kept as quiet as I could, as I crouched down low and dodged from side to side, keeping my eyes on those shadowy silver glints, wishing I'd eaten my carrots like my mother always told me to.

  But maybe
I could somehow get this female Mike Tyson to listen to reason. "Bonnie, stop!" I called out between dodges. "You're only making it worse!"

  In one way, my plea was effective: It told Bonnie exactly where I was. With a throaty yell she swung the pitchfork at my head. I jumped backward, but the side of the prongs hit me flush in the forehead. I screamed. Sparks of agony flew through my entire body at what seemed like the speed of light.

  I staggered to the far side of hell, away from Bonnie, put my hands against the edge, and tried to hoist myself out. But she heard what I was doing and ran around the pit toward me. She swung her pitchfork with another low yell and this time my arms got hit. I toppled back into the pit, landing on my twisted ankle.

  I lay on the floor moaning. Bonnie's shadow loomed over me. I was just about finished and we both knew it. I saw the pitchfork glitter as she lifted it up, then saw it streak downward as she plunged it at my face.

  Desperately, I rolled away. The pitchfork clanged against the floor. Without thinking, I kicked out wildly at the silver glints with my damaged leg.

  Somehow I connected, and Bonnie wasn't ready for it. The pitchfork slipped out of her hand and clattered to the floor of the pit. I dove and grabbed it.

  "Give me that!" Bonnie screamed. "Give it back!"

  Yeah, right. I struggled up, waving the weapon around in her general direction. "Back off, Bonnie! Back off!"

  But she didn't. She went on screaming and feinting for the pitchfork. I started to lose it again, feeling tidal waves of nausea coming on.

  So I stabbed her.

  In the arm, just as she was taking a swing at me. I felt the pitchfork entering her flesh. I didn't know how far it went in, but it was far enough that she howled in pain and finally backed off.

  I seized the moment and hoisted myself out of hell. Because I couldn't put pressure on my messed-up ankle, I needed to use both hands to get myself out of there. That meant I had to leave the pitchfork behind. If Bonnie just jumped in the pit and grabbed the pitchfork, then came after me, I'd be dead for sure.

  But luckily, Bonnie was too busy howling. I dashed offstage, dragging my leg behind me, and found the side door. Somehow I made it into my car and back home.

  I looked in on Andrea, who was still snoring away happily, then called 911 and left an anonymous tip about a woman at the Shoeshine and a Smile Theater School who might need medical assistance. I figured she probably did need assistance; and more important, if a cop or EMT showed up at her door, she'd be less likely to come over to my house and start pitchforking me all over again.

  Then I attempted to call my cop friend Dave to tell him about Bonnie, but in my brain-damaged state I'd forgotten again what kind of fish he was. Halibut? Hammerhead? I hobbled across the street to his house and rang his bell repeatedly, to no avail. He didn't have a girlfriend that I knew of, he wasn't working nights, and he hadn't said anything about going away for the weekend... so where was he?

  I went home and thought about calling the police station, but Dave was the only cop I knew. What would I say to some stranger on the phone? The truth was, all I really had on Bonnie was a similar shoe and a similar brick—nothing tying her directly into the murder. Of course, I also had the fact she went nutso on me tonight, but nobody else had witnessed that.

  And yeah, I had a motive too, but would it be enough to convince the cops?

  This was infuriating. A horrible thought kept running through my head: Bonnie Engels is the murderer.

  But who the hell will ever believe me?

  I was still the only one who even believed that Penn had been murdered—except for the murderer herself, of course. Bottom line, Penn was a bum, a derelict, a troublemaker, not the kind of guy who'd make number one on the cops' To Do list. I'd need to get more evidence somehow if I ever expected them to reopen his case and nail Bonnie. And what's more, I needed it fast—before those mutant beetles took over my life.

  I decided the best thing to do was wait until Dave came home from his movie or barhopping or whatever and get him to help me. First I called the Saratoga Hospital and learned that, yes, a woman named Bonnie Engels with a heavily bleeding arm had just come into the emergency room, and did I wish to speak to her? I didn't, so I hung up the phone.

  I'd been to that emergency room a couple of times with my kids, and I knew how long things took there. Once when Gretzky got a piece of a walnut up his nose, we sat there for hours and he eventually sneezed it out before any doctors appeared. So I figured Bonnie would be tied up for a while.

  But just in case she somehow made it out of there and headed this way, I grabbed Gretzky's hockey stick to defend myself with. Then I sat in our darkened living room with the curtains open. Planning to pounce on Dave the instant he got home, I watched his driveway across the street and waited.

  27

  "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

  The words kept time with the pounding in my noggin and the throbbing in my foot.

  "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!"

  Through blurry, half-closed eyes, I could see Gretzky was so excited, he was flapping his arms up and down like a bird. Wait a minute. Where was I? I sat bolt upright in the living room chair. Jeez, I must have fallen asleep.

  I looked at my watch. Six forty. I felt like a fool. Sam Spade, even at his drunkest, would never have fallen asleep in the middle of a case, with the crazed murderer almost in his grasp. Was it that delayed concussion syndrome thing again? Maybe I really better check myself back into the hospital.

  Now that he was sure I was awake, Gretzky asked me, "Daddy, why were you sleeping with my hockey stick? Do you want to play hockey with me?"

  "Gretzky, go to bed," I hissed impatiently. I looked across the street; Dave's car was back in his driveway.

  "Daddy—"

  "Go back to bed right now." I needed to collect my foggy thoughts and go rap on Dave's door.

  Gretzky's lips quivered. He was about to cry. "But, Daddy! I made peepee! Just like a real hockey player!"

  God, the kid was such a little sweetheart. I pulled him into the chair with me and we cuddled.

  But not for long. Immediately he started agitating again to play hockey. "Sure, and we can use my head for a puck," I said, "because that's how it feels."

  He didn't appreciate my attempt at humor. "Real hockey players always play hockey after they make peepee," he told me earnestly.

  Whoa, I better nip this one in the bud. "Look, I'm not going to play hockey with you every time you go to the bathroom. That's not how it works."

  Gretzky was outraged. Oh, the injustice of it all! "But that's what the hockey player said!" Gretzky screamed. "We have to play hockey!"

  "Be quiet!" I snapped, louder than I meant to, and he started bawling. I felt like bawling, too. I knew exactly what would happen next. Babe Ruth would wake up from the noise, get into bed with Andrea, and start quizzing her about Butch Huskey. Then she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, and she'd stomp around the house pissed off at me, because it was supposed to be my morning to take care of the kids and let her sleep (we alternate). Didn't any of these people understand I had a murder case to solve? Gretzky's cries were driving me insane. I was getting dizzy again, and I needed coffee—intravenously, if possible. I couldn't face Dave without some coffee first.

  "Hockey! Hockey!" Gretzky yelled.

  "Coffee! Coffee!" I yelled back, even louder. That shocked him into silence, and he stared at me with wide, frightened eyes. I melted into a worn-out pile of tired, guilty slush. "Honey, I'm sorry, I just really, really, really want coffee," I whined, turning into a manipulative three year old myself.

  I guess Gretzky could tell I was at the end of my rope, because he said to me, in a suddenly very reasonable tone, "I tell you what. First you can have coffee, then we'll play hockey."

  "Thank you. Thank you, Gretzky," I said gratefully, hugging him. Coffee and hockey, then Dave. It was a plan. Dave would probably be more agreeable if I didn't wake him up at 6:45, anyway.

  I figured I b
etter get Gretzky and myself out of the house before we had another loud argument and woke up the others. So that's how we ended up at Madeline's at the stroke of seven, just as they were opening up. I peeked in through the window, prepared to go to Uncommon Grounds instead if I saw Marcie. But it looked like Rob was on his own, so Gretzky and I went in. Hopefully Gretzky would get distracted by their books and toys, and it would delay our hockey game even further. "Hey, Rob," I greeted him.

  Rob looked up from his coffee grinding, surprised to see me so early on a weekend morning. He turned off the grinder and said, "Hey, my first customers. What's up?"

  Gretzky broke in. "Guess what? We went to a hockey game?" Sometimes when he's excited about something, he turns every sentence into a question. "And there was this goalie? And you know how many times he stopped their shots?"

  "How many?" Rob asked indulgently.

  "Fifty-five million!"

  "Wow, that's a lot."

  "Fifty-five million trillion infinity!" Gretzky crowed.

  "Coffee, please," I put in.

  Rob threw me a smile. "I'll make the Ethiopian."

  I started to tell him Colombian would be fine, but he'd already turned his back to get the beans. And there's no way he would have heard me anyway above Gretzky, who was singing out, "Fifty-five million trillion infinity infinity zillion thousand!"

  Walking gingerly on my twisted ankle, I took Gretzky to the back room, where I sat down and waited for my caffeine while he went to the bookcase and checked out the kids' section. I gazed out the window. The sun was rising, the sky was a gorgeous shade of light blue, and I tried to empty my mind of all my worries. It didn't work.

  Rob came up. "Coffee'll be ready in a minute."

  I nodded my thanks, and he sat down with me. "Jacob, I want to let you know, we're scheduling The Penn's memorial tribute for Tuesday night. We'll sit around and drink Ethiopian and swap stories about him. How's that sound?"

  Sounded great. We could invite Bonnie to come in and tell us the story of how she killed him. I sighed unhappily, and Rob peered at me, his eyes full of gentle concern. "Hey, dude, you look a little spaced this morning."