For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,2

both of us, it was a first-floor office. The borough, thank goodness, couldn’t afford a view for Ladowski, either.

“This is stupid, Milt. I’m not a detective. I don’t solve mysteries. I read them. I write newspaper and magazine features about electronics. You want to know about new DVD players, I’m your guy. You want to find a missing woman, you go to the cops or to private detectives, wherever they live. I can’t help Gary Beckwirth.”

Ladowski did the last thing I’d have expected him to do. He smiled.

“Fine. You go tell him that.”

Chapter 2

I walked out of Ladowski’s office feeling a little light-headed. I had stepped into an alternate universe, where the word “investigative” was enough to get you invited to dig into people’s private lives and unearth God knows what. Maybe Madlyn Beckwirth had left her husband. Maybe she was sleeping with someone else. Maybe she left because he was sleeping with someone else. Maybe she had gotten up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and her Fascist kid had sent her to the street for peeing without a hall pass. In any event, it was none of my business, and I was happy to leave it that way.

All that left my mind when I caught a glimpse of a woman leaving Borough Hall. Short dark hair. Well-fitting tan linen suit. Navy silk blouse. And legs. I’m not even going to tell you about her legs. Think about the best legs you’ve seen this month, add a couple of exclamation points, and you’d be getting close.

Clearly, this woman needed investigating, and since I was now considered an investigator, at least by some, it was my duty to plunge right in. Maybe there was an upside to this investigator stuff after all. I doubled my step, and caught up with her just outside the door to the street, at the top of the stairs.

“And why aren’t you in Livingston today, where you belong, Ms. Stein?”

Abigail Stein turned around to face me, her large brown eyes hiding their delight behind a transparent mask of annoyance. At least, that’s how I like to think about it.

“Some clients have taken exception to the Midland Heights police, who, the last week of every month, ticket every car they don’t recognize. I’m here filing a brief,” she said. “Like that’s your business.”

“You’d be amazed what some people think my business is,” I told her. Best to lend an air of mystery.

“Would I?”

“I’ll tell you about it over dinner. I’ve been thinking of asking you to marry me, and this might be the night.”

“You’re married,” she reminded me.

“If you’re going to get hung up on details. . .”

“It’s been nice seeing you, Mr. Tucker. But I have actual work to do, and you have to go write your little stories.” This time, there was definite amusement in her eyes. I spent a few seconds getting lost in them.

“They’re screenplays. And I bet you’ll have dinner with me when Spielberg comes by just to have a bite.”

“I’ll check my calendar,” she said. “Ask your wife if you’re free that night.”

“I’ll do that,” I told her. “See you later.”

“Not if I see you first.” She walked away, and I couldn’t stop watching. Did I mention she has really great legs?

Chapter 3

Gary Beckwirth opened the door to his house after checking through the peephole to see if it was me. It was me, so he let me in.

About six months ago, Beckwirth and his wife had moved into what the kids in town call “The Castle.” The site, way back when, had been a farm, where corn and tomatoes grew, and there was a beautiful farmhouse. Midland Heights’ first structure, it was affectionately known as the “White House,” and served as both fixture and landmark.

Because the original four acre tract, owned by Midland Heights’ founding family, was one of the largest undeveloped pieces of land in Central New Jersey, it could not be subdivided. But when the last member of the farm owner’s family, known not so popularly around town as the “Mean Old Man,” died, his will stipulated that the farmhouse be torn down. An outcry from the town’s citizenry (and an effort to get the site listed as a National Historic Landmark) failed to prevent the bulldozing of the elegant structure.

When Gary and Madlyn Beckwirth moved into town with passels of money, the site had lain dormant for a number of years. They quickly bought the land (rumor had it for as