A Farewell to Legs: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,9
said, “is why. I know Louis wasn’t the most lovable man on the planet, and he had political enemies, but everybody in D.C. has enemies. Why kill him?”
“The police will find out,” I said. “Legs was important enough that they can’t just forget about it.”
I opened the front door for her, and as she was about to walk out, she stopped. “Aaron,” she said.
I waited, but she didn’t say anything else. “What?”
“Aaron, you. . . you found out who killed that woman here, right? You could find out about Louis.”
I almost closed the door on her foot. “Oh, no. Steph, no. The Madlyn Beckwirth story, that was. . .” I looked to Abby for help, but after the kiss, my wife was not in a charitable mood. “That was a fluke, a mistake. I’m just a magazine writer. Honestly.”
But Stephanie hadn’t changed much since high school. She knew how to get what she wanted, and her wheels were already spinning fast. “One of the journalists Louis and I got to know is a features editor at Snapdragon. And besides the music stuff, you know they cover politics.”
Stephanie stepped back inside, and I closed the door, so the neighbors wouldn’t be distracted by my terrified screams so late at night. I felt the trap being sprung around me.
“I know, Steph, but really. I don’t know anything about politics. I write mostly about home entertainment equipment.”
Steph was having none of it. “You know about murder investigations, and you knew Louis. You could write it, Aaron. Don’t turn me down now. I can get Lydia from Snapdragon to call you tomorrow morning. Please.”
In times of crisis, my wife is always my strength. I looked at her for help, and as usual, she came through with flying colors.
“How much does Snapdragon pay per word?” she asked.
Chapter
Five
“Well, what did you want me to say?” asked Abby. I considered going downstairs for some butter, to see if it would melt in her mouth, but I was too tired. Stephanie had left, and we were in our bedroom, getting ready for bed a good two hours later than we’d expected.
“I was hoping you’d come up with a reason I can’t write a story about something I can’t possibly know about for a editor I don’t know, whose arm is getting twisted to hire me, at a magazine I’ve never worked for before. That’s all.” We start getting ready for bed most nights by making the bed, since we almost never do that when we get up in the morning.
“I thought you’d want to write it,” Abby said. She pulled the sheet smooth on her side, and started straightening out the blanket. “For crying out loud, Aaron, they pay two dollars a word, and you’ve got to figure this is at least a 3,000-word piece. That’s a nice chunk of change.” She had me there, but she couldn’t stop, which is always a fatal error. “Besides, I figured you’d want to do anything you could to help Ms. Cleavage.”
I pulled the blanket up on my side and started to take off my jeans. “So that’s it,” I said. “You know, it’s funny. I’ve never actually seen you jealous before. I wouldn’t have expected it. I’d have quicker expected it of me.” I hung the jeans on a hook sticking out of the closet door. We live in a very classy house.
Abby satisfied herself that the bed was now acceptable, and slid off the gym shorts she had on, then started looking around the room for her pajamas. “I’m not jealous,” she said casually. “I just find it amusing how easily you can be played.”
“Played?” I stopped looking for a T-shirt disgusting enough to sleep in, and walked to her side of the bed. “What do you mean, played?”
“Oh, come on,” my wife chuckled. “She bats her eyes, hikes up her boobs, and does that, ‘oh Aaron, you’re the only one who can help me’ thing, and you go right for it.”
“She has no reason to ‘play me,’ as you so endearingly put it.”
“She wants you to investigate her husband’s death,” Abby said. “She wants you because she knows she can supervise the investigation as long as you’re watching her bust line instead of the facts.” Abby knelt down to look under the bed.
“Her bust line is a fact. Well, two facts actually. Besides, why does Steph need to supervise the investigation?”
“Steph is from D.C. All those people are control freaks.”