For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,3

much as $1 million), and, though it took a few years, built on it an enormous fake mansion to out-fake practically every fake mansion ever known to man.

It was huge and brick, and it had two rounded protrusions, one on each side, that suggested towers. If there had been a moat and turrets for pouring boiling oil on invading Visigoths, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

The Beckwirths’ regal estate also boasted a swimming pool, a tennis court, and for all I knew, Beckwirth’s own version of the Pirates of the Carribean in the backyard. The front door was only about 15 feet from Hayes Street, but the other three sides of the house were so far removed from the neighbors, the Beckwirths could pretend they had no neighbors—this in a town so overdeveloped the guy next door usually yells “gesundheit” whenever you sneeze.

Beckwirth and his wife, despite their atrocioius taste, were clearly doing quite well. But I had no idea how they made their money. And my mind still couldn’t summon an adequate picture of Madlyn Beckwirth.

Her husband, standing before me, was a shade under six feet tall. And, as I’d remembered, he was unusually handsome. But, if that supermodel on TV could keep imploring me not to hate her because she was beautiful, I couldn’t really hold it against Gary Beckwirth that he looked like he belonged on one of the classier Aaron Spelling shows—one without any of Aaron’s kids in the cast.

He had those blue-green eyes that women tend to melt into a puddle over, and dark brown, almost black, hair, fashionably coiffed. Normally, you could see the dimple in his chin, but he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and the dimple now looked like a belly button with hair growing out of it. And he still looked better than me.

He embraced me and hugged me tightly to his chest (which was roughly as high as I reached), and began to sob. I was gasping for breath, because he had my nose buried in his shirt.

“Thank God you’ve come,” he wailed, as my eyes widened from lack of air. “I was afraid, so afraid. . .”

I gave the front door a backward kick with my left heel so the neighbors wouldn’t think Gary and I were having an illicit liaison. Then I raised my hands to his shoulders, and gently pushed away, normalizing the flow of oxygen to my lungs. “Gary,” I gasped. “Nice to meet you.”

He ushered me into a living room that could have come out of the 19th century. In fact, I’m not sure it didn’t. Every piece of furniture was an antique, every rug an Oriental. The room was devoid of televisions, stereos, computers, or any device other than lamps requiring electrical power. If they’d been able to get gas jets up and running there, they likely would have gotten rid of the lamps, too. The Beckwirths probably had a home theatre set up elsewhere, but this was the main room, and they kept it this way so they could tell their friends they never watched TV, and then sneak off to catch Nash Bridges when nobody was looking. Was I being judgmental?

Beckwirth managed to control his weeping until we were inside. He actually had coffee in a silver urn on the coffee table, and poured me some without asking. I don’t drink coffee, but I mimed taking a sip and put the cup down as he composed himself.

“I don’t know how much Milton told you. . .” he began.

“He told me that Madlyn hasn’t come home in a few days,” I offered. “And you’re worried. That’s certainly understandable, but. . .”

Beckwirth nodded, and ignored the “but.” “That’s why you’ve got to help me, Aaron. You’re the only one I could think of.”

I was the only one he could think of? I could think of dozens. In fact, I’d sooner go to the dry cleaner for help than a freelance writer. At least he’d know whether she took her clothes with her. What the hell was I supposed to do about the guy’s wife leaving him? Pitch a story to Redbook on ways to lose those last 10 pounds before running away from your husband?

“Can you think of any reason Madlyn might want to. . . take a few days off without telling you?”

It took him a couple of seconds to absorb what I was saying. “You think she went away on purpose?”

“I don’t think anything. I haven’t the slightest idea what happened.