For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,77
I’d found. Barry stammered for a moment, but held his ground.
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t shoot her,” he said.
“No, but it sure is interesting,” I told him. “First I’m hearing about this credit card, too. Do you think Milt Ladowski knows?”
Barry’s voice dropped about one and a half octaves. “Mr. Ladowski does not take me into his confidence very often,” he said.
Since I wasn’t the chief of police, I figured there was no reason Mr. Ladowski couldn’t take me into his confidence, but it was Saturday, and I couldn’t go to his office and be annoying now. I’d have to put off that pleasure for two days. I hung up the phone and sought out my wife, who was sitting on our back steps looking out over the tiny expanse of concrete and cheap flagstone we call a backyard.
“What we need,” she said, “is grass.”
I sat down next to Abby and kissed her on the shoulder. “As an officer of the court, you should know that pot smoking is illegal,” I said. She did not smile.
“This backyard is depressing,” she said.
“So is our bank statement,” I said. “And the phone hasn’t exactly been ringing off the hook with editors offering me plum assignments— only cranks who want me to come and explain the Madlyn Beckwirth murder to their tiny groups for free.”
“You couldn’t explain it for money, either,” she reminded me sourly.
“Wrong side of the bed this morning?”
“I’m not crazy about having to have Mahoney play bodyguard here while you’re away,” she said. “I don’t like worrying that you’ve gotten us into a situation that could endanger the kids, and you didn’t even talk to me about it first. You worry me sometimes. You think you know how to control or fix everything, and you really don’t. How do you know that whoever killed Madlyn Beckwirth isn’t going to show up here tonight with a gun?”
“I don’t,” I admitted, “and I should have talked to you first. I’m sorry. But the Barlows seem like such a couple of pompous asses, I felt I had to annoy them just to keep myself sane. I don’t like being manipulated, especially by people who consider me insignificant. I reacted emotionally instead of thinking it through, and I was wrong to do that. I’m a very emotional guy, you know.”
She finally smiled at me. “I know. So what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Going up to visit Madlyn’s mom in Westfield,” I said. “That’s about it.”
“How do you know the gunman won’t shoot me and the kids while you’re away?”
“Because you’re all coming with me.”
And three hours later, in Charlotte Rossi’s living room, a very brown place with lace curtains and framed high school graduation pictures of two girls, my son slumped in an armchair, engrossed in Gameboy as only an Asperger’s child can be, oblivious to all else going on around him. Leah sat very quietly on Abigail’s lap, on a couch opposite Mrs. Rossi’s television. Leah’s attention was on the tape of The Little Mermaid that we had brought, and that Mrs. Rossi had graciously agreed to play on her VCR. Abby’s attention was on Charlotte Rossi, and on me, since I was sitting next to Abby and asking the questions of Mrs. Rossi.
That is, I had offered condolences, declined an offer of coffee (which Abigail had considered accepting, but had a girl on her lap), and asked one question: “tell me about Madlyn,” and Mrs. Rossi was off and running. After much talk and any number of old photographs, I managed to get a word in edgewise.
“How did you feel when she got married?”
Mrs. Rossi, a slim, vibrant woman with hair that might not have been its natural color (jet black) and large, very aware eyes, sat back in her armchair just a bit. This was not the memory she wanted to dredge up today.
“Well, I thought they were too young, you know. Madlyn was, what, twenty, twenty-one? But she was”—her voice dropped to a whisper for Leah’s benefit—“pregnant, and she wanted the pretty boy.” Charlotte turned to Abigail, with whom she clearly felt more comfortable. “At that age, you can’t tell them anything.”
“At any age,” Abby agreed, and Charlotte chuckled, the black dress she had worn to the funeral in sharp contrast to the laughter.
“You got that right,” Mrs. Rossi agreed. “Later on, when they got it annulled, I thought she had come to her senses, but. . .”
“You knew about the annulment?” I asked.
Charlotte looked offended. “I’m the mother,” she said.