For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,25
of the flowers MacKenzie had ready to plant. His brow wrinkled, which usually means he’s about to say something you wouldn’t expect from a rent-a-car mechanic.
“I’ve never seen roses like these before, Mr. MacKenzie. The pink petals with the blue specks in a diamond shape like that.” See what I mean?
“Yes,” MacKenzie beamed. “I’m real proud of those. They’re a hybrid I developed myself.”
“But can’t these roses be planted outside at this time of year?” Mahoney asked. “I’d think they’d be able to withstand even one of the colder nights this late in the season.”
“You have a keen eye,” MacKenzie nodded. “I actually could plant them outdoors now, but the fact is, my knees are shot. I can’t bend and plant things in the ground the way I used to. It’s one of the reasons I took my retirement savings and built this greenhouse six years ago.”
“It’s an impressive set-up,” Mahoney said. He took a few steps around, nodding. If he were wearing a tuxedo, I’d have sworn the next words from MacKenzie’s lips would have been, “so, Mr. Bond. . .”
Instead, Mahoney said, “I don’t suppose you’d sell me some of these hybrids? I could use them in a flower bed in front of my house.”
MacKenzie smiled. “I do sell some on occasion, Mr. Mahoney. But since I couldn’t help you gentlemen with information tonight, and seeing how you drove all this way, you can have the rose bush for nothing.”
He walked us to the front door, and as the white gravel crunched under our feet, we waved at MacKenzie like we would to a favorite old uncle. I slumped into the passenger seat of “The Trouble-Mobile” and consciously didn’t put on my seat belt. Mahoney, using some coarse twine, bound together the skinny rose bush and its enormous thorns, placed them in the back of the van, and secured them between a couple of 10-gallon drums of oil.
“What’s your problem?” Mahoney asked as he barely coaxed the van into ignition. I hoped the company’s rental cars ran better than this vehicle, but then again, if they did, the company might not need a chief troubleshooter.
“What do you think is my problem? The only halfway decent lead I had turns out to be another dead end.” If you’re going to whine like a high schooler, it’s best to do it in the company of someone who knew you when it was age-appropriate for you to do so. Mahoney grinned.
“I’ve got just the thing for you,” he said, and pulled out an eight-track tape from a box under his seat. He slammed it home.
Billy Joel. “Turnstiles.”
Chapter 16
At midnight, after thirteen choruses of “All You Want to Do Is Dance,” we arrived back at my house, and a yawning Mahoney said his quick farewells without getting out of the van. A couple of middle-aged guys who used to be able to greet the dawn with bright eyes after a night out and about. It was sad, really. I dragged my weary ass up the front steps.
The lights were on in the living room, which was unusual. I’d told Abby I’d be late, and that she shouldn’t wait up. But even before I had the chance to open my newly installed screen door, the steel door inside opened, and my wife, in a T-shirt and sweatpants, stared me in the face, her eyes looking anything but pleased.
“So? What are we going to do?”
Ah. Clearly, she was speaking in anagrams tonight, and I’d have to decipher her meaning. I was up to “doot noigg” (I’ve never been any good at anagrams) when she spoke again, impatiently: “Well?”
“Well, what? What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t see it?” Abigail walked out through the screen door and pointed at the sidewalk. My weary eyes could barely focus.
“See what?”
“Honestly, you must have walked right over it.” She walked to a spot on the sidewalk and pointed straight down. Calculating how much the average mental institution cost per month, I followed her.
Something in very faint orange was scrawled on the sidewalk. In the dark, with just the porch light on and after having spent the night not finding anything I was looking for, I had a hard time working myself into a lather over it. There were two choices: I could pretend to get all bent out of shape so she’d have company, or I could be honest and risk my wife’s wrath.
I’m a good husband, but I was tired and irritated.