For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,41
of course, that ‘reason why’ is redundant. The word ‘reason’ implies that you are asking ‘why.’” He placed the bush in the hole again, and this time it fit exactly.
“Fine. Then tell me the reason that you decided not to answer my last question.”
He started to fill the hole with top soil, and frowned at being scolded. You’d think Rachel Barlow’s husband would be used to getting scolded. “In answer to your query, no, I know of no reason Madlyn would want to be away from her family.”
“No trouble in her marriage, then?”
“Martin!”
Rachel Barlow, a grocery bag in hand, stood in the archway, gate open, looking impatient. She was wearing a very neat L.L. Bean denim shirt and Banana Republic khakis, and looked like as if she were about to cover supermarket shopping for Yuppie Life magazine.
Her husband straightened up at the sound of her voice, and seeing her holding the bag, literally ran to her side and relieved her of her terrible burden, which appeared to be an entire loaf of white bread.
“There are more packages in the car,” she said. He nodded, ever the humble manservant, and went off to unload the victuals from the late model Volvo station wagon, parked next to the even later model Ford Explorer minivan in their side-by-side driveway.
Rachel, relieved of the tedious task she had been facing, noticed me. She walked over, trying to find her political candidate smile and coming up, instead, with something that looked like Joan Collins in Dynasty.
“Something I can help you with, Mr. Tucker?”
I tsk-tsk’ed her. “Ending a sentence on a preposition, Mrs. Barlow.” I shook my head. “I can’t imagine your husband would approve.”
“Martin’s grammar is an excellent example for his students, Mr. Tucker. I wish more people would pay as much attention to syntax.”
I considered punning on the idea of “sin tax,” but gave it up as too obvious. “In answer to your question, Rachel, I’m actually here to talk to Mr. Barlow.”
“Doctor Barlow. He has a Ph.D. in English Literature.”
I glanced over at Doctor Barlow, who was now attempting to navigate a two-liter bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper into his home without taking a five-minute time-out to catch his breath.
“I hoped he might be able to shed some light on Madlyn Beckwirth’s disappearance. Does he know her well?”
Rachel’s veneer of pleasantness—thin though it was—disappeared entirely. She positively scowled, and put an impatient hand to her hip. “I’m sure Martin has already told you that he and Madlyn know each other chiefly through me, and that I would be the best person to talk to about her state of mind. I told you, Mr. Tucker, I’m afraid the poor woman is lying dead somewhere, and you’re doing nothing. . .”
Martin, having restocked the kitchen (and for all I know, repainted it as well), reappeared at his wife’s side. There was no outward sign of affection between the two of them, but they made heavy eye contact, and the bond was unmistakable. Also obvious, at least to me, was that he was scared to death of her. He picked up the spade and stood at her side. She put an arm on his shoulder. “Suburban Gothic.”
More out of annoyance than strategy, I looked Rachel Barlow in the eye and said, “then I suppose there is no truth to the rumor that Martin and Madlyn are having an extramarital affair.”
Their reaction was the last thing I expected. Each got the identical smug smile, just a little tinge of amusement, around the lips. Martin Barlow looked me straight in the face. “I can assure you, Mr. Tucker, that is not happening.” He seemed to find the notion of sex with Madlyn hilarious. I’d seen pictures of her, and while it wouldn’t exactly rate as highly as a romp with Salma Hayek, it wasn’t hilarious either. “It is, indeed, absolutely impossible,” he added.
For a woman who believed one of her closest friends was a murder victim, Rachel Barlow was having an equally hard time masking her repressed humor. It was the first sincere smile I’d ever seen on her face.
“I can’t imagine Martin having an affair with Madlyn,” Rachel said. “I can’t imagine Martin having an affair with anybody. But especially Madlyn!”
I left the two of them like that, grinning like a couple of Jack-O-Lanterns. Whatever it was that was tickling them, I didn’t want to be around when they decided to act on it.
Something was bothering me, though—that smile on Martin Barlow’s face. It looked the same as