Read Online 1 Breakfast at Madeline's by Matt Witten - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matt Witten
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window down and yelled at Molly to hurry. She got in the hearse, and they sped off.
The minister tottered up. "She's too young for you," he said with a lewd wink that looked odd coining from his wizened old face.
What was Gretchen Lang trying to hide? Could sweet, middle-aged Gretchen be the one that Penn said was threatening to kill him?
And what was in that NYFA application, anyway— and was it somehow connected to my burglary?
As we got into the minister's white Cadillac—"a dying man's last car," he told me—the minister began expounding on his sex-and-young-girls theme. " 'Course, folks in the Bible never used to worry about a girl being too young," he said, as he locked the doors and zoomed off down the highway. "You know how old Rachel was when Isaac fell in love with her at the well?"
And then I saw it. A face, peering furtively at us from behind the McDonald's sign across the highway. Not a whole face, though, more like a pair of sun glasses and a baseball cap. Just as effective as last night's mask.
The face ducked behind the sign. "Stop the car!" I shouted at the minister.
"Three. Rachel was three," the minister continued.
"Let me out!" I yan ked frantically at the door han dle. But it was locked—luckily for me, since we were now doing fifty.
The minister chuckled. "And Isaac gets all pissed off because Rachel's father won't let him marry her until she's ten!"
"Please let me out!" I screamed.
"Sorry. Forgot to pu t in my hearing aid." The minis ter proceeded to put it in while driving sixty miles an hour. "Hate the darn thing, gets more feedback than a rock 'n' roll concert. Now what were you saying?"
I watched the McDonald's sign go out of sight around the bend. We were at least half a mile away by now, and back in the spruce forest. The next place to turn around wouldn't be for another mile at least. I shook my head, frustrated. "Never mind."
The minister patted my arm. "Don't sweat it, kid. Funerals are tough, you never know how you're gonna react. Like one time a few years back I was doing this funeral, and afterward the widow asked if she could ride in the car with me. Well, of course I said yes, not thinking anything about it. But as soon as she got in the car, oh boy, let me tell you ... "
Who the hell was that behind the McDonald's sign? The same person who bashed my head open last night? Was someone following me?
Or following Molly?
Or watching the fune ral from a distance, out of mor bid fascination? But why? Because he was Donald Penn's killer?
Wait a minute, that was insane. My head started to spin. I needed some damn aspirin.
Heck, as fuzzy as I felt, maybe I just hallucinated that face.
11
As the minister and I drove down Route 50 back to Saratoga, he described in picturesque detail exactly what happened on his car ride home with the widow. Even in my distracted state, I had to admit the man knew how to tell a good story. Though personally, I felt the part about w hat the widow was wearing under neath her black mourning dress was a tad tasteless. I mean, there's a time and a place for crotchless Minnie Mouse underwear.
He went on to reg ale me with tales about the mar riage counseling he'd done during his long and illus trious career. Apparently, some of the couples he'd counseled had asked h im to assist them in rather sur prising ways.
Listening to his tales made me nostalgic for the old days when I used to write every morning, and every thing that happened in the great wide world was fod der for my creative juices. In this hyper-aware state, which was sometimes so intense it was like being high, I would have carefully recorded every detail of the minister's wild yarns in my mind, then jotted them down verbatim as soon as I got home so I could use them later in a screenplay.
Maybe I should try writing again. Go home and do up the minister's stories, turn them into a movie. A warm-hearted comedy about a sexy old preacher, star ring Walter Matthau. That face behind the
The minister tottered up. "She's too young for you," he said with a lewd wink that looked odd coining from his wizened old face.
What was Gretchen Lang trying to hide? Could sweet, middle-aged Gretchen be the one that Penn said was threatening to kill him?
And what was in that NYFA application, anyway— and was it somehow connected to my burglary?
As we got into the minister's white Cadillac—"a dying man's last car," he told me—the minister began expounding on his sex-and-young-girls theme. " 'Course, folks in the Bible never used to worry about a girl being too young," he said, as he locked the doors and zoomed off down the highway. "You know how old Rachel was when Isaac fell in love with her at the well?"
And then I saw it. A face, peering furtively at us from behind the McDonald's sign across the highway. Not a whole face, though, more like a pair of sun glasses and a baseball cap. Just as effective as last night's mask.
The face ducked behind the sign. "Stop the car!" I shouted at the minister.
"Three. Rachel was three," the minister continued.
"Let me out!" I yan ked frantically at the door han dle. But it was locked—luckily for me, since we were now doing fifty.
The minister chuckled. "And Isaac gets all pissed off because Rachel's father won't let him marry her until she's ten!"
"Please let me out!" I screamed.
"Sorry. Forgot to pu t in my hearing aid." The minis ter proceeded to put it in while driving sixty miles an hour. "Hate the darn thing, gets more feedback than a rock 'n' roll concert. Now what were you saying?"
I watched the McDonald's sign go out of sight around the bend. We were at least half a mile away by now, and back in the spruce forest. The next place to turn around wouldn't be for another mile at least. I shook my head, frustrated. "Never mind."
The minister patted my arm. "Don't sweat it, kid. Funerals are tough, you never know how you're gonna react. Like one time a few years back I was doing this funeral, and afterward the widow asked if she could ride in the car with me. Well, of course I said yes, not thinking anything about it. But as soon as she got in the car, oh boy, let me tell you ... "
Who the hell was that behind the McDonald's sign? The same person who bashed my head open last night? Was someone following me?
Or following Molly?
Or watching the fune ral from a distance, out of mor bid fascination? But why? Because he was Donald Penn's killer?
Wait a minute, that was insane. My head started to spin. I needed some damn aspirin.
Heck, as fuzzy as I felt, maybe I just hallucinated that face.
11
As the minister and I drove down Route 50 back to Saratoga, he described in picturesque detail exactly what happened on his car ride home with the widow. Even in my distracted state, I had to admit the man knew how to tell a good story. Though personally, I felt the part about w hat the widow was wearing under neath her black mourning dress was a tad tasteless. I mean, there's a time and a place for crotchless Minnie Mouse underwear.
He went on to reg ale me with tales about the mar riage counseling he'd done during his long and illus trious career. Apparently, some of the couples he'd counseled had asked h im to assist them in rather sur prising ways.
Listening to his tales made me nostalgic for the old days when I used to write every morning, and every thing that happened in the great wide world was fod der for my creative juices. In this hyper-aware state, which was sometimes so intense it was like being high, I would have carefully recorded every detail of the minister's wild yarns in my mind, then jotted them down verbatim as soon as I got home so I could use them later in a screenplay.
Maybe I should try writing again. Go home and do up the minister's stories, turn them into a movie. A warm-hearted comedy about a sexy old preacher, star ring Walter Matthau. That face behind the
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