For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,40
up on him.
Chapter 23
When nobody answered the doorbell at the Barlows’, I spotted some movement around the side of the house, so I walked by a perfect white picket fence and through an impeccable trellis arch into the backyard.
The Barlow home was something of an anomaly for Midland Heights. It was new construction, for one thing—a variation on the Epcot mini-mansions—with skylights coming out its ears. It also had a backyard that would be medium-sized for a normal suburb, meaning it was an enormous one for Midland Heights. You had to wonder how a college professor and his non-working wife afforded it. There was, of course, a “Barlow for Mayor” sign very tastefully adorning the lawn.
Martin Barlow was wrist-deep in soil, although the gardening gloves he had on his hands were probably keeping the wrists clean, too. Barlow appeared to be the kind of man who would wear Audrey Hepburn evening gloves while gardening if he didn’t think people would laugh at him. He was wearing a salmon-colored T-shirt that once had a logo of some kind on its back, but had been washed so many times it was no longer legible, a pair of khaki carpenter’s shorts that showed off his knobby knees, and a painter’s hat that read “Midland Paint and Hardware.” Gotta show support for your local businesses when your wife is running for mayor.
He was planting, or digging a hole in which to plant, a bush whose buds one day would become stunning pink roses. On a fine late March day, when his students were no doubt cramming like mad to read five complete Dickens novels in three days in preparation for Barlow’s midterm exam, it was good to be the professor.
Martin looked up when he saw me walk toward him. Since we’d never met (at least not that I could recall), he looked tentative, wondering if I was going to try to sell him an encyclopedia on CD-ROM or convert him to Christian Science.
“Is there something with which I can help you?” English professors—man, you gotta love ’em. Such great grammar! His voice was as reedy as he was. Slim to the point of skinny, Barlow had the body of a marathon runner. He had the face of a beached haddock—pockmarked, with deep eye sockets and a nose that could have sucked in the whole backyard if he’d inhaled hard enough. If Madlyn Beckwirth had indeed forsaken her pretty-boy husband Gary for this guy, she had a perverse sense of irony. Somehow, that possibility elevated Madlyn in my estimation.
I stuck out my hand and identified myself, adding the Press-Tribune’s name for added credibility. I didn’t notice any eye-widening or any other register of apprehension at being questioned about Madlyn Beckwirth. He suggested that I might really want to talk to Rachel, since she was Madlyn’s closest friend, but I informed him, to his apparent surprise, that I’d already interviewed his wife.
“Would it be acceptable if we were to talk while I plant this bush?” he asked. “I really prefer not to leave it out of the earth much longer.”
“Be my guest,” I told him. “No skin off my nose.” I’d been staring at his, and the comment just came out. Sue me. He didn’t appear to notice.
Using a spade, he widened the hole he was digging, then got down on his right knee and began deepening it with a hand tool. Martin wasn’t perfectly neat, but his backyard certainly was. The lawn and the garden were so well-kept you’d think Mike and Carol Brady lived here. Maybe they did. After all, Mike was gay and Carol went out on a date with her son Greg. You never know what goes on in some households.
“How well do you know Madlyn Beckwirth?” I began with the standard opener. Again, there was no guilty flinch, no tic in Barlow’s lip, no raising of the eyebrows. He was a better actor than Mike Brady, too.
“Well, as I have indicated, she is Rachel’s closest friend. I see her quite often when she and Rachel are planning the campaign, and socially when Madlyn and Gary come by for dinner.” Barlow picked up the small, and measured it in the hole, determined an imperfect fit, and removed the bush. An imperfect planting simply would not do. He began digging again, hard, working up a sweat.
“So then you don’t know of any reason why she’d decide to run away from her husband and son?”
Barlow stood up and smiled a wry smile. “You realize,