For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,44

the day off to visit Pizza Hut?

I checked the Bullwinkle clock. Almost two-thirty. The kids would be home soon. But it was possible Barry Dutton would be back in his office by now. Should I call?

Call and say what? That a crazy lady who thinks she’s British heard that maybe Martin Barlow was having an affair with a woman whose husband was about fifteen times better looking and fifty times richer than him? That someone saw a minivan driving away from Madlyn Beckwirth’s house during the night she left, but not necessarily at the time she left? That Martin Barlow had a guilty smile on his face? That I had to write something for the newspaper by tomorrow? And that the question I really wanted to answer was: who’s been writing nasty things about my kid on the sidewalk with a zesty beef topping?

I’d had enough of this Beckwirth thing. It was taking up too much time, leading to too many dead ends, and causing me to come into contact with people I’d prefer to avoid at all costs. I’d received a threatening phone call and been followed by a threatening minivan. All this to make a measly thousand dollars.

Okay, so I could use the thousand dollars. But it wasn’t like the sheriff was at the door evicting us. Abby makes a nice living, and even if I don’t, I did have other work. And I was sure Spielberg would be calling directory assistance for my number any minute now.

Did I really need this story? Couldn’t my time be better spent finding out who hated my son, so I could beat that child to a bloody pulp and feel better?

That did it. I picked up the phone and called Dave Harrington. He sounded relieved when he heard it was me. “You got the missing woman story, Aaron? Tell me you’re a day early.”

Swell. He was going to make this easy. “Well, to tell you the truth, Dave, I was just calling to say, well, that is. . .”

“Aaron, this doesn’t sound good. . .”

There was a beep in my ear, my call waiting device indicating another call on the line. We home office workers are so high-tech!

“Can you hang on a second, Dave? I’ve got another call.” I hit the “flash” button on my phone, and immediately found myself voice-to-voice with my agent, Margot Stakowski, of the Stakowski Agency of Cleveland, Ohio.

“Aaron!” That’s Margot’s way of saying “hello.” And she always sounds surprised, as if she were calling Francis Ford Coppola and got me by accident.

I rolled my eyes, and managed to stifle a sigh at the sound of her voice. “How you doing, Margot?”

“This business sucks,” she said. “I’m just checking in to see what’s going on.”

This took a moment to sink in, just like it always does. “You’re calling me to find out what’s going on? Isn’t it supposed to work the other way around? Aren’t you supposed to know what’s going on, and then let me know?”

“Don’t get testy. I had to drive my mother to her rehab today, and I’m buried under a pile of scripts.” Margot’s chief function as an agent is to read other people’s scripts. She read mine once, and since she was the only agent to offer me representation, I was thrilled to sign on. But nothing had happened since then. And now she called every week to find out if I’d managed to make myself a deal she could siphon ten percent from.

“Is anything up, Margot? I’ve got an editor on the other line.”

“Oh! No, go ahead. Let me know if you get a book.” Margot always thought the mere mention of the word “editor” meant “book.” In fact, “publisher” means “book.” “Editor,” at least in my world, means “cheap newspaper or magazine work.”

“Okay. Talk to you next week.”

I clicked the flash button again, and got Dave in mid-cupcake. “I’m not taking up too much of your time, am I, Aaron?”

“I’m sorry, Dave. It was my agent. She calls every Wednesday, and never has anything to tell me. I don’t know why I still. . .”

“Aaron! The missing lady? What have you got?”

“Dave, I’ve got to level with you. This story. . .”

“Don’t tell me you need more time, Aaron. I’ve got a hole in the local section Friday that I was counting on filling with the juicy details of a missing woman from Midland Park.”

“Midland Heights.”

“Wherever. Where’s the story?”

“Well, that’s just it, Dave.” I started staring at each of the