For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,92

I do, but I hope I’m wrong,” I said.

She nodded. “I hope nobody comes.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t tell her what I was really thinking—that I couldn’t stand it if no one came. I needed this to be over, tonight. “Call me as soon as we can come home,” Abby said.

“I will.” She gave me another kiss, a normal one this time, and left. I stood in the doorway and watched her drive the kids away in the Saturn. Mahoney’s house was only ten minutes away—not even a long enough trip for a tape to keep the kids from killing each other in the car.

I spent the early part of the evening quite pleasantly, really. It was a warm-ish April night, and the Yankees’ game against Baltimore was on the tube. I made some pasta and watched the game’s first few innings, making sure I was somewhat visible through the front window, but not so visible that I’d be a good target, though that wasn’t a tremendous concern. I’d seen the wounds on Madlyn Beckwirth, and whoever the killer was, s/he certainly wasn’t much of a marksperson.

In true Madlyn fashion, I left my front door unlocked, although I stopped short of opening it just a crack. When somebody decided to come in, the creak of the door would be enough warning for me.

About nine, I closed the drapes in the front room and turned on the outside light. Wouldn’t want the killer to fall down the stairs and break a leg. In America, it’s better to get killed than get sued. I did open the front closet door at one point, and during the course of my visit there checked to see that my thirty-six-ounce Bobby Mercer bat (which dates me pretty seriously) was where I could get to it quickly. I slid the closet door closed only half-way.

It was a little after ten, and the Yankees were ahead of the Orioles by two runs in the ninth inning, when the front doorknob started to turn. And the first thing I felt was annoyance. This murderer was not only coming to do me harm, he was going to make me miss the end of the game, too. After a microsecond, though, my heart started pumping double-time, and I stood and prepared to greet Madlyn Beckwirth’s murderer. The front door creaked ominously. I made a mental note to plane that door down one of these days.

Joel Beckwirth walked into the living room. He was carrying a handgun.

“Oh, Joel,” I sighed. “I was really hoping I was wrong.”

He closed the door behind him and leveled the gun at me, but his face was scrunched up. “What the hell do you mean?”

Best to keep him talking. The more he talks, the less he shoots. “I knew somebody would come to try and kill me, but I was hoping it was Madlyn.”

“Madlyn? Madlyn’s dead.” He was forgetting why he was here. That was good.

“I thought maybe the woman in the hotel wasn’t Madlyn,” I babbled. “I thought maybe she and Martin had trumped it up, you know, found themselves a prostitute in Atlantic City, convinced her to come up to the room, and shot her so Madlyn could pretend to be dead. Go on the ultimate vacation, you know? That would have been good, huh?”

Joel was in about two feet over his head. “What do you think this is?” he asked. “Murder, She Wrote?”

“I didn’t know kids your age watch that,” I said, talking much faster than usual. “Does it run on some cable channel, or. . .”

“Shut up,” Joel said. “I’m not here to talk.” Uh-oh. He remembered again.

“No,” I said, facing him. “You’re here because you shot your own mother.”

“She wasn’t. . .”

“That’s true,” I said. “But she raised you. Your own mother didn’t want you, did she? Madlyn pretty much adopted you. And you shot her.”

He took a couple of steps closer, and let his eyes scan the room, making sure the drapes were closed enough to block the view of him from the street. “You weren’t there,” he said. “You don’t know what it was like.”

“Oh, I’ll bet it was bad,” I told him sincerely. “I’m sure she took every opportunity to tell you she didn’t want you, didn’t love you, had-n’t asked for you. But still, she had been there when you had a cold, and your own mother hadn’t. Madlyn might not have loved you, but she took care of you. Did that mean Madlyn deserved to