For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,23
song fifty-seven times during a four-hour drive, and that outweighs any acoustical inferiority. Of course, he disputes the acoustical inferiority as well, saying that “it’s just numbers the guys in Hifi Magazine make up. You can’t hear it.” Maybe he should skip the rest of his head and get just his ears examined.
What he laments is how hard it is to get eight-track cassettes of recently recorded music. Since he doggedly sticks to that ancient audio format, we are therefore stuck, when in his vehicle, with music that at best was current when we were in high school. A lot of the tapes, of course, have worn or broken, so there are what Mahoney calls “flat spots,” where the music is interrupted by scotch tape and 8-millimeter movie splices (Mahoney doesn’t believe in videotape, either).
So Jeff Lynne and ELO sang most of “Sweet Talkin’ Woman” as we made our way west, over the “Trenton Makes—the World Takes” Bridge into Pennsylvania. It could have been worse, I guess. Mahoney could have gotten stuck on Quadraphonic sound.
By the time we passed a sign reading “Welcome to Emmaus,” ELO had gotten through “Sweet Talkin’ Woman” four more times, and they were currently halfway through the “Concerto for a Rainy Day,” crooning out lyrics I actually claimed to understand for a week in college after my sophomore year girlfriend dumped me. Might have been the tequila, but I digress.
Being an up-to-the-minute 21st century technologist, I consulted my MapQuest directions to the home of Arthur P. MacKenzie, who all evidence suggested had called me a few nights ago and said that Madlyn Beckwirth would be dead if I kept looking for her. After a couple of wrong turns precipitated by Mahoney’s refusal to turn down one of his favorite songs—“Mr. Blue Sky”—we pulled into the driveway of a rather large, lonely ranch-style house with a backyard that looked like it easily took up three acres. By Midland Heights standards, this was (the Beckwirth estate excepted) the largest piece of property in the world.
The house itself was unremarkable except for a greenhouse, attached to a back room, that jutted out from the house at a 90-degree angle. Not the kind of thing you generally see in suburban Pennsylvania, but not horribly unusual, either. MacKenzie clearly liked his flowers. The greenhouse had no broken windows, and the open skylights on either side of the structure indicated that the owner kept it active. Perhaps this was where he hatched his evil plots, cultivating orchids, while he planned to abduct helpless housewives and thereby take over the world when husbands were left to do the laundry. I dismissed this idea, since I already do the laundry at my house.
We had decided that, on this visit, Mahoney would stay back, out of the way, and observe. If I looked like I was getting into trouble, he’d advance, but otherwise, we’d make it look like I was here alone. Before I rang the doorbell, Mahoney trudged off to one side of the gravel driveway. The crunch of the gravel made me wince. I hoped MacKenzie’s hearing wasn’t acute.
As Mahoney ducked around the side of the house, I pushed the doorbell button and started to open the storm door. It was still too early to take out the glass and put in the screen. Could get cold again any day now. In fact, this evening was getting a bit chilly, and I was glad I had brought my jacket.
The front door took its sweet time opening, and eventually revealed a tall, thin, elderly man with enough bearing to be minor royalty. Forget Ian Wolfe or John Gielgud. If I ever needed someone to play a butler, this gentleman would be exactly the right choice. I couldn’t dismiss the possibility, though, that MacKenzie could afford a butler. On the other hand, most people in this neighborhood couldn’t afford a greenhouse, and I was willing to bet that the majority of them didn’t threaten people’s lives on the telephone. So who was I to judge?
“Hello,” he said, with a question in his voice. The voice itself was a little rheumatic, but otherwise he appeared to be in perfect shape. I should look so good when I’m 103 years old.
“I’m looking for Arthur P. MacKenzie,” I said, in my best gruff voice. When you’re 5’5” (I was doing my intimidating stance, and my calf muscles were feeling it), a gruff voice, however incongruous, is your first line of defense.