For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,29

minute than I have in an entire lifetime, runs the Before-School Club for kids who are, frankly, better off not staying on the playground when they don’t have to be there. And Ethan has been in the club every morning for two and a half years.

“I don’t know. He’s usually there.”

“Was his aide there?” I saw Anne Mignano, Buzbee’s principal, approaching the office, and figured we were about to have a conference.

“Wilma hadn’t gotten here yet. She’s used to Ethan going to the club.” Ramona spotted the principal, too, and smiled at me to pretend we were discussing her recipe for chocolate soufflé.

Anne wasn’t taken in. She smiled when she saw me, but wasn’t convincing. Her well-tailored gray suit gave her a starched appearance, but we’d been through a few battles together, and I knew her to be a warm-hearted administrator (if those words can be placed next to each other) who cares deeply about the students in her school.

“I was going to call you,” she said, extending her hand, which I took. “I imagine Ramona has filled you in.”

“Yeah. Have you got a minute?”

“No,” she said. “But for this, I don’t have a choice.”

We walked into Anne’s office. She closed the door behind us, and motioned me to a chair behind her disturbingly neat desk.

“It seems we have a problem,” she said.

“We have more than one problem. One of the reasons he’s on a short fuse is that somebody wrote ‘Fuck Ethan’ in barbecue sauce on the sidewalk outside our house last night.”

She didn’t flinch. “Aaron, I know that’s upsetting, but it doesn’t mean he can grab people by the throat.”

“I know. Believe me, he’s not going to be rewarded for his behavior when he gets home. But Anne, I need some help. Is this Hartman kid a particular enemy of Ethan’s? Might he have written something like that in front of my house?”

Anne’s face, more attractive, not less, because of the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, seemed to narrow in a frown as she thought. “No, he’s not the type,” she said. “You know, there’s nothing I can do about that, since it happened outside the school, not during school hours.” Her eyes looked right into me, and I got the impression she could make an educated guess as to who our graffiti artist might be.

“I’m not asking you to do anything, but if you have any ideas, let’s just say nobody’s ever going to know who my source is.”

Anne Mignano nodded. She thought for a few seconds more, and reached for a sheet of blank paper in a Lucite box on her desk. She wrote a few words on the paper and put it back in the Lucite box. Then she coughed, surprisingly daintily, twice.

“Excuse me for a moment, would you, Aaron? I need a drink of water. Won’t be gone a minute.” Anne got up and walked out of her office, but closed the door behind her.

I reached over and took the paper from the Lucite box. On it were written three names. I pocketed the paper and waited a moment until Anne returned.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you with your investigation, Aaron,” she said.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Mignano.”

“Now. About Ethan’s behavior. . .”

“How is the school dealing with it?” I asked.

“He’s getting three days detention and a special homework assignment.”

I nodded. “Does Mrs. Turner know he needs his medication?”

“Yes,” Anne said. “I think he’s already had it.”

“Good. Then his behavior should improve— somewhat—in a little while.” I walked to the door and opened it, then turned to her. “And rest assured, Anne. He won’t be seeing his Nintendo game for a good long while.”

“Good luck, Aaron.”

On my way out, I waved at Ramona, who was finishing her orange soda.

Ethan at home with no Nintendo, extra homework, and detention. I took the slip of paper out of my shirt pocket and looked at it. One of the names was Joel Beckwirth’s.

Good luck, indeed.

Chapter 18

When I got home, I finished up a piece on “How To Shoot Your Baby,” which—honestly—was a home video article for American Baby Magazine, and emailed it to my editor. I took a deep breath, sat back in my prized swivel chair, closed my eyes, and tried to summarize my progress, if you could call it that, on the Beckwirth story.

Gary Beckwirth didn’t want me to speak to his son, who might have been the kid who wrote epithets on my sidewalk with barbecue sauce. These two facts, of course, immediately heightened