A Farewell to Legs: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,70

I’d never actually asked.

“Tell you the truth,” Stephanie said, “I think the woman he was sleeping with did it herself. And knowing Louis in situations like that, I’m not entirely sure I blame her.”

I didn’t bother to tell her that the police had almost definitively eliminated Cherie Braxton as a suspect, for one thing because she lacked the upper body strength to get a kitchen knife through Legs’ rib cage and into his heart. Besides, she didn’t like Legs enough to kill him, from what I could tell.

“Well, I’m supposed to write about it by Monday,” I said, “and I haven’t a clue what I’m going to say.”

“Well, if you need any help, you know who to call,” she said, and we hung up.

By the time the kids got home, I’d exhausted all my best ways to procrastinate, Burke had quit for the day, and my children were mystified at my insistence on helping them with their homework, despite their not needing any help. Leah went so far as to retreat to her room, turn on the CD player, and close the door, all to keep out the guy who still does long division the old way. It’s hell being middle-aged.

Abby got home a little early, and I went upstairs to get dressed for the conference with my brain trust. She walked into the bedroom and started changing from her work clothes.

“Did Burke finish the window?” she asked. I told her about the fine job he’d done, and how we had devoted an extra couple hundred to the beautification of our front window. She nodded. “He’s still pretty creepy, though, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know. I’m starting to like him.”

“He’s not in love with you,” she pointed out.

“Well, it’s no wonder he’s crazy about you,” I said, embracing her. “You drive me wild, walking around in various states of undress.”

“Luckily, I don’t do that very often at the office,” she said. “Besides, I could probably drive you wild if I dressed like the Michelin Man.”

I considered that. “Wait. I’m picturing that. Wow. Yes, you could.”

She broke the clinch and put on a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “I’m just still a little concerned about Burke,” she said. Abby waited, but got no response. “Aaron, are you listening?”

“No, I’m picturing you dressed in tires.”

“It’s driving you wild, isn’t it?”

“Just as you knew it would, you tease,” I said.

“You’re a very scary person, Aaron,” she said. “Now, get dressed and go talk to the boys from Bloomfield.”

Spoil-sport.

Chapter

Seventeen

“Okay, so Stephanie Jacobs is smashing her boobs into you, and you’re telling her to cut it out?” Mark Friedman was shaking his head, incredulous. “What’s wrong with you, Tucker?”

“I’m terminally married,” I said.

We were sitting around a large table, the five of us. Muntbugger’s had been warned ahead of time, but took no reservations. So I’d had to wait for about fifteen minutes while the troops gathered (I’d gotten there first, feeling some responsibility for the occasion). Now, all of us having ordered and already downing a beer, I was getting the others up to speed on the state of the Legs Gibson investigation. Apparently, my conduct during a crucial episode was somewhat disappointing to my friends, or at least Friedman.

“I’m married, too, but I’m not that married,” Friedman said.

“You were at Aaron’s wedding,” Mahoney said. “Don’t you remember Abby?”

“I was pretty drunk,” Friedman noted.

I took a picture of Abigail out of my wallet and showed it to him. Friedman’s voice dropped to a rasp. “Okay,” he said, “I see your point. Can I keep this?”

“No.” I snatched it out of his hand and put it back into my wallet. I’d have to clean it off later.

“It’s not that I don’t want to see pictures of your wife,” Greg Wharton said, “but I don’t think that’s why you asked us to come here, is it, Tucker?”

“No, thanks, Wharton. I have one question to ask each of you, and I’d appreciate it if you’d each think very carefully about it before you answer. There may be follow-up.”

I took the tape recorder out and put it in the center of the table. And the four of them burst into such a storm of laughter that people at tables in all directions around us looked over, shook their heads, and despaired at the state of middle-aged men in America.

“What the hell is that thing for?” Mahoney gasped through guffaws. “We going to sing later?”

I was prepared for the outburst. “I’m working,” I said. “If I’m going to quote you idiots, I