For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,42

his wife’s, of course, but on closer examination, his eyes were maybe a fraction wider, his lips just a hair tighter.

Either he was a man with something to hide, or I was a paranoid conspiracy theorist who would make Oliver Stone’s eyes roll in disbelief. But there was something going on with one of us, and I didn’t think it was me.

I was feeling more stymied than ever on the Beckwirth story, but at least I knew who I’d be voting for in the mayoral primary.

Sorry. That should be “I knew for whom I’d be voting.”

Chapter 24

Clearly, what I needed was a break. I mean, paranoid fantasies about Martin Barlow’s smile were the limit for a man whose most serious deductive reasoning usually involved sorting white athletic socks out of the laundry for a family of four, all of whom at some time in the day wore white athletic socks.

The best kind of mental vacation, of course, would have been an afternoon in a secluded spot alone with someone as attractive as, say, Abigail Stein. But since that wasn’t going to happen, at least not today, and since I still had another mystery to solve, I left the Barlow house and went to Big Bob’s Bar-B-Q Pit.

It was a small store front on Edison Avenue, catercorner to the Buzbee School, and a favorite afterschool hang-out for the kids, especially since two arcade video games had been installed a few months ago.

Big Bob’s was a small place for a fast-food restaurant. It consisted mainly of a counter, with four stools in front of it and a blackboard suspended from the ceiling behind it. The blackboard held the menu, which didn’t seem to have been changed since Big Bob had moved in. Ribs, burgers, hot dogs, and chicken “fingers” were the staples. A side dish was generally french fries, and your beverage was of the carbonated variety. Big Bob could have named the place “Seventh Level of Cholesterol Hell,” and it would have been just as accurate.

I decided that my investigative reporter mode had not been doing wonders for me in this matter, so I gave in to all my detective impulses. I walked into Big Bob’s with enough attitude for ten men, or at least one man a few inches taller than me. I considered turning the collar of my denim jacket up, but decided that would have been too much. And there just wasn’t enough time to take up smoking.

No one was in the place except Big Bob himself, a man of about 40 with a crew cut, and a tattoo on either forearm—one of an eagle, the other reading “Big Bob.” That second tattoo was pointed up, at Bob’s eyes, in case he ever forgot his own name.

I sat on the stool nearest the cash register and stared up at the blackboard like there might actually be a surprise on the menu. Big Bob walked over and stood in front of me for a few seconds before curiosity got the better of him.

“Can I help you?”

“Burger, fries, Diet Coke,” I said, wincing inwardly at the “Diet.” It’s hard to be macho when you’re avoiding unnecessary carbohydrates. After finishing this story tomorrow, I’d have to get serious about my diet—tomorrow. “And make the burger well-done.”

Bob nodded and turned to prepare the food on the grill that was maybe three feet behind him, visible to all who sat on the stools. He put the beef patty on the grill and got to work on the deep fryer, and barely turned when I spoke to him.

“This look familiar?” I asked, pulling the barbecue sauce squeeze container out of my jacket’s inside pocket. I held it up for him to see.

Bob finished his potato preparations and turned to look. “Yeah, it’s one of my squeeze bottles. So?”

“So, you missing one of these lately?” I asked in my best Bogart, which wasn’t too good, even with the recent practice. “Had a little shrinkage on the condiment containers in the last few days?”

Big Bob turned the burger over, despite my request for well-done, and chuckled. “You’re kidding, right? You think I know every time one of the little punks steals a ketchup bottle? I’d be out of business in a week if I worried about little stuff like that!”

Okay, so I felt foolish, but when had that ever stopped me? “Well, take a look at this one. Maybe it’s different. Maybe it’s special.”

“How?” asked Bob, taking the spuds out of the deep fryer and shaking