For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,38

hell, you never know what you might hit. Diane could have seen Madlyn flying over the side of the low railing next to her house. She could have seen Madlyn hop on a broom and fly off into the dark night. She might express her observations in terms that would do justice to Emily Brontë, but it was possible she’d seen something.

“Oh, no, Mr. Tucker. I sleep very peacefully. But I did hear. . . and you understand, I’m not one to gossip. . .”

Finally! The busybody I’d been looking for!

“Of course not, Mrs. Woolworth. This is a strictly confidential investigation.”

“Exactly. So my name will not appear in print?” Diane eyed me carefully for signs of non-British behavior, but I was having none of it. In a moment, I’d be saying “lift” instead of “elevator.”

“Not at all.” I thought that sounded like something Inspector Morse would say.

“Well then.” Diane seemed to compose herself, trying to devise exactly the proper way to impart the information and still seem like everything she said belonged on an embroidered sampler. “There was talk around the department that Mrs. Beckwirth and a certain gentleman were. . . friendly.”

“The department? What department?”

“The English department. I teach 19th century English literature at the university.” Midland Heights has a large population of professorial types who don’t want to live in the small city across the river that the state university calls home. It’s one thing to teach people, another to live near them, you know.

“And you’d heard that Madlyn might be having an affair?” The hell with being polite about it.

“Well, Mr. Tucker, that was the talk around the department.” Diane was flustered that I wasn’t being British anymore, and she nervously sipped from her cup, eyes watching me over the rim.

“Why would this be the talk of the university English department?”

Diane looked away. We were clearly in an area she didn’t want to explore. But she had opened this particular can of kippers, if you will, and she’d have to deal with the consequences. “Well,” she said, “the gentleman in question is also. . . employed at the department.”

“He teaches English at the university.”

“Yes.” She wiped the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin, again looking away. Maybe she was considering adjusting the small photograph of Queen Elizabeth she had framed on the wall. It was crooked by maybe a half-inch.

But I was getting impatient with all the cute little games. “What’s his name, Mrs. Woolworth?” I asked in my best Humphrey Bogart-without-the-lisp voice.

“Oh, I can’t decide if I should. . . it’s all idle gossip, you know,” she twittered.

“Mrs. Woolworth?” I practically snarled. She lowered her head a bit and spoke very softly.

“Martin Barlow.”

For a moment, I couldn’t make the connection. My head for names isn’t great under normal circumstances. But in this case, my head was now overloaded. The rush of information that came from that name was almost too much to handle all at one time.

“Rachel Barlow’s husband? The guy whose wife is running for mayor? The one who had Madlyn Beckwirth as her campaign manager? That Martin Barlow?” I had risen out of my chair at some point in this discussion, but couldn’t remember when.

Diane Woolworth nodded, just perceptibly.

“Well, why didn’t you say anything before this?”

She looked up at me, offended, and her eyes widened.

“Well, Mr. Tucker,” she huffed, “I wouldn’t want people to think that I’m a busybody!”

Chapter 22

I couldn’t depart Diane Woolworth’s home fast enough. After thanking her for the crumpet—and getting an unsolicited recipe I threw away immediately after leaving—I all but ran for the door, and headed out on foot across Midland Heights.

Olszowy and Barlow campaign signs were already littering lawns about town, as the academics and the relatively new parents took up arms against the old fogies and the traditionalists. You could tell a lot about a family by whether a red Olszowy or a blue Barlow sign, each with understated stars and stripes, was displayed on its lawn.

I was walking at about twice my usual pace, and keeping my eye out for any unusually slow-moving minivans, as I decided which new information I would act upon first. Should it be Jane’s witnessing a blue minivan possibly knocking someone or something over the guard rail to the side of McThemePark? Or should I immediately work the sex angle, and question Rachel Barlow’s husband Martin about his alleged hot affair with, of all people, Madlyn Beckwirth?

It wasn’t a difficult decision to make. Jane’s information was more easily and