For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,61
all right,” he said, operating on auto-pilot. “I’ll be okay. I’m just worried about Joel, that’s all.”
Oops. I wondered if Beckwirth knew that Milt had told me not to talk to him. “Gary, should we be talking right now?”
“Why, are you busy?” He sounded worried that he was interrupting me.
“No, it’s just that I talked to Milt Ladowski. . .”
“Oh, Milt.” Now I recognized that tone. Beckwirth wasn’t reading from a script. He was talking through a haze of tranquilizers. “Milt worries too much. I just worry about Joel.”
“Gary, you don’t have to worry about Joel.” I wondered if Joel had emerged from his room long enough to find out his mother was dead. “Joel will survive just fine.”
“I hope so,” he said. “Well, nice talking to you, Aaron.” I suddenly panicked, thinking that Beckwirth might do something to himself if I left him alone with his thoughts long enough.
“Gary,” I said, “can I come over and see you?”
“Oh, no,” Beckwirth sing-songed. “You can’t come here anymore. You can’t ask any more questions. No more, Aaron, please, no more. No more.”
He hung up.
Well, that did it. Barry Dutton, Colette Jackson, and Gerry Westbrook had all told me not to investigate any further. Milt Ladowski had told me not to investigate any further. My editor had fired me and told me specifically not to investigate Madlyn Beckwirth’s murder. My own wife was assuming I should stop, since I no longer had a paying client. And now Beckwirth himself was telling me that I was no longer allowed to ask questions about what had happened to his wife.
There was only one thing left to do. And I was just stupid enough to do it. I went to the sporting goods store, and bought myself a softball.
Chapter 10
Christine Micelli looked concerned. I expected that. What I hadn’t suspected was that she’d also look shocked.
“He wrote what on your sidewalk?” Her eyes, which were black, were wide, and not pleased.
We were sitting in Christine’s kitchen, which was the very antithesis of Rachel Barlow’s. There were dishes in the sink. There were crumbs on the floor. There were pieces of opened and unopened mail on the countertops. A box of cereal, left over from breakfast, was still open on the kitchen table. I felt very much at home.
“I don’t know for sure that Vinnie wrote anything, Ms. Micelli,” I said. “I just know somebody wrote something. . . inappropriate. . . on my sidewalk, clearly directed at my son, and I know that he and Vincent have had arguments in the past. I’m asking you if you think it’s possible. I don’t want to accuse anybody of anything.”
If there’s something in this world more uncomfortable than going to the mother of a 10-year-old and suggesting that her son writes dirty words with barbecue sauce, I sincerely don’t want to know what it might be. This was the first of two such scenes I was planning for today, and already, I knew I’d have to change my shirt between them.
None of this was helped by the use of the word “fuck,” which I’m not terribly comfortable saying in front of people I’ve just met, particularly when they’re offering me brownies.
“Well, Vinnie did mention your son, once,” she said uncomfortably. Christine got up and walked to a coffee maker on the counter, but I noticed her cup was still half full. She was doing what I had done at Gary Beckwirth’s house, just using the coffee as a prop to kill time.
“I take it he mentioned Ethan in a negative way.”
She filled up the coffee cup again, and was about to ask me if I wanted more, but remembered I had declined the offer to begin with. Christine put the pot back in place and sat down.
“Well, you know what kids say about each other. . .”
“Christine—may I call you Christine?”
“Sure. Chris, really.”
“Chris, let me tell you something that may make you feel better. My son can be a colossal pain in the ass sometimes. He annoys me on a daily basis, and I love him dearly. So whatever Vincent said, believe me, is in all probability true. He may even have watered it down for you.”
It worked. She visibly relaxed. Some parents think their children are incapable of anything other than good intentions, and it disarms other adults when you prove to them you’re not like that. Besides, Ethan really can be a pain in the ass if he puts his mind to it.