For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,70

the title?”

She got up to throw out the melon rind. I pinched her on the butt as she passed, and Abby said, “hey,” involuntarily, not even really thinking about anything but my question. It’s my gift of irresistibility. Don’t ask me to explain it.

“Well, if they weren’t married, or thought they wouldn’t stay married, the one with more money might not want the house to revert back to the partner in case. . .”

“Exactly. In case one died prematurely.”

“But Madlyn wasn’t the one with the money,” said Abigail.

“That’s the confusing part. Are there any other reasons, legal reasons, to do it that way?”

“Well, the only thing I can think of is that one of the people might not want their name to show up on a legal document.”

Something about that made me sit up and ignore my Golden Grahams for a moment. “Why wouldn’t they want that?”

“If they own a business, they wouldn’t want the property in their name because it could be claimed in a suit against the business. Or maybe they’re using an alias, they have outstanding warrants, they don’t want their name to show up in a computer somewhere,” Abby said, completely in hypothetical mode now. “If the other one can afford to assume the debt all alone, why risk putting up a red flag?”

I got up and kissed my wife with a passion I usually reserve only for. . . well, my wife, actually. But this time, it took even her by surprise.

“What was that for? Not that I didn’t like it, but. . .”

“You may have just given me my first actual, bona fide idea in this story.”

“What story? You don’t have an assignment.”

“Don’t sweat the details. There’s only one thing that bothers me, though.”

Abby’s eyebrows crinkled. “Only one thing? I’d have thought there’d be hundreds.”

“Yeah. If you were going by an alias, would you choose to be called Madlyn Beckwirth?”

Chapter 16

The Middlesex County Courthouse in New Brunswick is tall, white, and old, and looks like it should house the National Widget Corporation. One summer, when I was a student at Rutgers University, a friend clerking in the building got us up to the roof to watch Fourth of July fireworks from six neighboring towns simultaneously. That’s the best use I can think of for that courthouse.

Strangely, it has the look of a building in which nothing much happens. And for the most part, that’s true. Criminals come and go, jurors are shown the “welcome film” daily in the basement, then spend their day reading paperback novels and the local newspapers until three o’clock comes around and they can go home.

If you walk into the County Courthouse, you have to make a choice in the lobby. To the right is the court system, and to the left, the county government’s offices. The birth certificates for those born in the city’s two major hospitals or anywhere in Middlesex County are kept there, along with death certificates, marriage licenses, some automobile records, and other governmental dross. Much of it is on paper, since the county is still hoping that this whole computer thing will just blow over, and everybody can get back to work.

The County Building side, specifically the county clerk’s office, is where I found myself late the next morning. I had already fielded a call from Barry Dutton, who was making it a point to keep me informed whenever he was not in his office, and treating me like the political leper I am while he was in his office. Dutton said Gary Beckwirth had made bail after an arraignment (big surprise), and was now at home.

Madlyn Beckwirth’s funeral was scheduled for the next morning. At one o’clock this afternoon, however, the Barlow campaign was still going ahead with its scheduled fundraising “coffee” (nobody wants to go to a tea anymore, apparently) in Martin and Rachel Barlow’s backyard. All the best Democrats would make an appearance, but there would be no music, out of respect for poor departed Madlyn. Matters of life and death come and go, but the race for mayor in Midland Heights must go on, you know.

Standing in front of the clerk’s window, I was patiently explaining for the third time why I was not the person whose records I was requesting.

“I’m a member of the press,” I said. “This is a matter of public record. I don’t want a copy of anything. I just want to see the public record. It’s very simple.”

Apparently, not that simple. The very large lady behind