For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,74

in, he put on a face like he’d smelled something bad, and I don’t think it was the Portobello mushrooms. Rachel caught me out of the corner of her eye as she was saying to the TV reporter, “Well you know, Juanita, the saddest part is that she died so needlessly, just when she was about to share in the great victory we’re going to accomplish here in Midland Heights.” Martin caught me before I could get to Rachel, and steered me to one side, which made me mad. If he got me too close to that marble cake, there was no telling what could happen.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed. “After all you’ve done. . .”

“I’m a voter in Midland Heights, Martin,” I said, a mocking smile on my face. It was nice to be the one wearing the smug expression for a change. “I came to hear the candidate speak on the issues.”

“It’s speak to the issues.” He couldn’t resist.

Neither could I. “You’re wrong this time, Marty. The issues are not here listening to Rachel. She can speak about the issues, or she can speak on the issues, but speaking to the issues is incorrect. You’re slipping. Have you gotten enough sleep lately?”

He recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

I didn’t know what he thought I meant, but it clearly worried him. I upped my vocal volume from the stage whispers Barlow and I had been exchanging. “I mean there’s more to this murder than meets the eye,” I said, and then, louder, “and you know it!”

Heads turned. Reporters pulled notebooks out of their pockets. Rachel’s head turned, too.

“I know what happened to Madlyn Beckwirth,” I said, coming within a single decibel of shouting, “and you know more than you’re telling, Martin! So does Rachel!”

Juanita the TV reporter widened her eyes to roughly the size of garbage-can lids. And then the worst thing that could have happened to Rachel Barlow followed: the microphone was pulled from her face.

“What did you say? Who are you?” said Juanita.

“I’ve been investigating Madlyn Beckwirth’s murder, and I’m saying Rachel and Martin Barlow know more than they’re telling!” I had, of course, nothing more than a suspicion, but what the hell, this was, as they say, “great television.”

Meantime, I watched Martin and Rachel Barlow. They weren’t surprised or shocked. They weren’t even unnerved. Their eyes narrowed, their mouths tightened, their nostrils flared.

The Barlows were good and angry.

But that wasn’t what caught my eye. Just at that moment, I had one of those moments of acute observation that Sherlock Holmes himself would have treasured. I looked past the Barlows, past the reporters, who were now clamoring for my name and shouting questions at me, past the other voters who thought they were coming for a political event and showed up for a homicide analysis. I looked past the bandstand, the campaign signs, and even the bagels and marble cake.

Behind Martin Barlow was his prized rose bush, in full bloom, affording an office seeker the finest background for the finest photo-op in American political history. If you looked carefully, you could see the tiny specks of blue in the pink petals, almost in the shape of diamonds.

Martin Barlow had gotten his rose bush from Arthur P. MacKenzie.

Chapter 18

“Did you really say, ‘give me a by-line or give me death’?” Abigail asked. She and Mahoney were staring blankly at me across the kitchen table as I finished our chicken and couscous. I kept eating, having devoted most of the day to not eating.

“You had to be there,” I told her. “It was more a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.”

“What were you thinking?” Mahoney wanted to know. “You don’t have anything on these people. Not yet, anyway.”

“I wanted to make them think I did. I wanted to force them into a stupid move that I can exploit.”

“And you wanted to piss them off,” Abby added.

“Well, yes, that too.”

Abby stood up to clear her plate, and picked Mahoney’s up while she passed, since he had finished as well. He nodded thanks.

“I don’t know that I’m crazy about this, Aaron,” she said, scraping couscous into the garbage so she could put the plates in the dishwasher. “If the Barlows were involved in killing Madlyn Beckwirth, and you make them think you can prove it, they might come after you.”

“That’s why he’s here,” I said, pointing at Mahoney. “While I’m taking my little drive tonight, the galoot here will be watching you and