For Whom the Minivan Rolls (2 page)

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?

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 much as $1
million), and, though it took a few years, built on it an enormous
fake mansion to out-fake practically every fake mansion ever known
to man.

It was huge and brick, and it had two rounded
protrusions, one on each side, that suggested towers. If there had
been a moat and turrets for pouring boiling oil on invading
Visigoths, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

The Beckwirths’ regal estate also boasted a swimming
pool, a tennis court, and for all I knew, Beckwirth’s own version
of the Pirates of the Carribean in the backyard. The front door was
only about 15 feet from Hayes Street, but the other three sides of
the house were so far removed from the neighbors, the Beckwirths
could pretend they had no neighbors—this in a town so overdeveloped
the guy next door usually yells “gesundheit” whenever you
sneeze.

Beckwirth and his wife, despite their atrocioius
taste, were clearly doing quite well. But I had no idea how they
made their money. And my mind still couldn’t summon an adequate
picture of Madlyn Beckwirth.

Her husband, standing before me, was a shade under
six feet tall. And, as I’d remembered, he was unusually handsome.
But, if that supermodel on TV could keep imploring me not to hate
her because she was beautiful, I couldn’t really hold it against
Gary Beckwirth that he looked like he belonged on one of the
classier Aaron Spelling shows—one without any of Aaron’s kids in
the cast.

He had those blue-green eyes that women tend to melt
into a puddle over, and dark brown, almost black, hair, fashionably
coiffed. Normally, you could see the dimple in his chin, but he
hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and the dimple now looked like a
belly button with hair growing out of it. And he still looked
better than me.

He embraced me and hugged me tightly to his chest
(which was roughly as high as I reached), and began to sob. I was
gasping for breath, because he had my nose buried in his shirt.

“Thank God you’ve come,” he wailed, as my eyes
widened from lack of air. “I was afraid, so
afraid. . .”

I gave the front door a backward kick with my left
heel so the neighbors wouldn’t think Gary and I were having an
illicit liaison. Then I raised my hands to his shoulders, and
gently pushed away, normalizing the flow of oxygen to my lungs.
“Gary,” I gasped. “Nice to meet you.”

He ushered me into a living room that could have
come out of the 19th century. In fact, I’m not sure it didn’t.
Every piece of furniture was an antique, every rug an Oriental. The
room was devoid of televisions, stereos, computers, or any device
other than lamps requiring electrical power. If they’d been able to
get gas jets up and running there, they likely would have gotten
rid of the lamps, too. The Beckwirths probably had a home theatre
set up elsewhere, but this was the main room, and they kept it this
way so they could tell their friends they never watched TV, and
then sneak off to catch
Nash Bridges
when nobody was
looking. Was I being judgmental?

Beckwirth managed to control his weeping until we
were inside. He actually had coffee in a silver urn on the coffee
table, and poured me some without asking. I don’t drink coffee, but
I mimed taking a sip and put the cup down as he composed
himself.

“I don’t know how much Milton told
you. . .” he began.

“He told me that Madlyn hasn’t come home in a few
days,” I offered. “And you’re worried. That’s certainly
understandable, but. . .”

Beckwirth nodded, and ignored the “but.” “That’s why
you’ve got to help me, Aaron. You’re the only one I could think
of.”

I
was the only one he could think of? I could
think of dozens. In fact, I’d sooner go to the dry cleaner for help
than a freelance writer. At least
he’d
know whether she took
her clothes with her. What the hell was I supposed to do about the
guy’s wife leaving him? Pitch a story to
Redbook
on ways to
lose those last 10 pounds before running away from your
husband?

“Can you think of any reason Madlyn might want
to. . . take a few days off without telling you?”

It took him a couple of seconds to absorb what I was
saying. “You think she went away
on purpose?”

“I don’t think anything. I haven’t the slightest
idea what happened. I’m just asking.”

For a moment, his face darkened, his eyebrows
lowered, and his voice gained authority. This must be the Beckwirth
his employees saw. “My wife did
not
leave me, Aaron. She was
taken away against her will.”

This time it took me a moment. “She was
kidnapped?”

“Exactly. She was kidnapped. And I want you to find
out who did it, and why, and get her back.”

I pretended to take another sip of coffee. Lord,
that stuff smells great, but it tastes foul. “Gary, this really
isn’t my line of work. What you need is. . .”

“Don’t tell me about the police, Aaron,” Beckwirth
said with a voice that must cause young stockbrokers, or whatever
the hell he is, to tremble in their boots. “I’ve spoken to our
esteemed chief of police, and he’s barely raised a finger. The lazy
bastard sends out a fax to other police departments and thinks
that’s going to get my wife back. An affirmative action appointment
if ever I saw one.” Barry Dutton is African-American.

“If you think the police aren’t doing enough, Gary,
get yourself a private investigator.”

Beckwirth smiled his best
“aren’t-we-all-friends-here” smile and leaned toward me. “I’ve got
something better. I’ve got
you.
”

“I’m not better. I’m worse. I write articles about
cellular phones for a living, Gary. If my wife didn’t have a
full-time job, I would be considered indigent.” I figured the
allusion to money would impress him.

Once again, I had underestimated the depth of
Beckwirth’s fantasy life. “You know investigation, Aaron. You’re an
investigative reporter.”

“
Was.
I
was
an investigative reporter.
I used to be a teenager, too, but that doesn’t mean I can come up
with a cure for acne.”

He got up and sat next to me on the couch. In
another minute, I might have to scream and otherwise fight for my
virtue. Beckwirth’s tone was hushed and intimate. I searched the
coffee table for a butter knife, or something I could use to fend
off his advances, should it come to that. I found nothing. Just to
give myself something to do, I picked up the cup, with two sips
taken out of it, and made a big deal out of “freshening” it with
hot coffee. If I had to drink the whole thing, I’d be a raving
caffeine addict by lunch.

“You know the tricks, Aaron. You know who to call.
You know where to look. You can find my Madlyn and save her from
these people.”

“Gary, I have trouble finding my car keys in the
morning. I don’t know how to save anybody. Try and listen to me.
I’m a freelance writer. I send query letters to editors, they give
me assignments, we agree on a rate, which means they tell me how
much they’re going to pay me and I say ‘okay,’ and then I call
people up and ask them questions. When my deadline’s approaching, I
write up the information the best way I can and I send it to the
editor, who then does whatever he wants to it, and prints it in a
magazine or a newspaper. That’s what I do. I don’t save people, I
don’t find missing wives. It’s not that I don’t want to help you. I
just don’t have any idea at all what to do. You understand?”

He stared into my face, wheels turning in his head.
Then Beckwirth decided on a strategy. He drew a deep breath and
sighed painfully.

“Fine.
Don’t
help me. Let me live through
this experience alone, with no one to end my suffering and no
chance of bringing my Madlyn home.”

“Gary, doing an impression of my mother isn’t going
to help. I told you. I’m a freelancer. I do freelancer stuff. Look
in the Yellow Pages, find a detect. . .” I stopped just
from the expression on his face.

Beckwirth’s face was made of stone. But it started
to crack, and tears began to fall silently from his eyes. I felt
like I was telling Charlie Brown that Snoopy had been run over by a
bus. Beckwirth stood, turned, and walked out of the room.

I guessed the job interview was over. So I left.
Outside Beckwirth’s house, a sixty-ish woman walking her dog
scowled at me as I headed back to my minivan. Probably thought Gary
and I were having an illicit liaison.

It was after noon when I walked through the front
door of my own house. The place was in its usual state of disarray.
Ethan had left his socks the night before on the floor in front of
the living room couch, and Leah had simply taken off her pajamas
while watching
The Wild Thornberrys
that morning, and left
them on the couch. Toys and school papers obscured the coffee
table, which was not an antique but was old, and there was a
distinct smell of cooking oil in the air, because I’d made some
french fries to go with the hamburgers I’d cooked for dinner. Two
nights ago.

Home, sweet home.

I took off my jacket and hung it on the banister at
the bottom of the stairs, then took a left and walked past the $25
thrift store armchair into my office, otherwise known as the
playroom, where action figures and fax machines co-existed
peacefully as an example to objects worldwide. It made one proud to
work at home.

The answering machine light was flashing, and there
were three messages. One from the pediatrician’s office, confirming
Ethan’s check-up for the next day at 4:30. One from my mother, who
in fact doesn’t nag like Gary Beckwirth, but sometimes you have to
exaggerate to make your point. The last was from Dave Harrington,
an editor I’d worked with before at the
Press-Tribune.
My
mother was fine, and wondered why I wasn’t in my office at 11 a.m.
on a Thursday.

I called Harrington back first, since it was
unlikely that talking to either the pediatrician or my mother would
result in a paycheck. And I got him on the second ring.

“City desk. Harrington.” My eyes wandered to the
lithograph of the Marx Brothers over my desk. Once, I’d had this
idea for a screenplay where Groucho had to solve a murder mystery.
Then some guy actually started writing Groucho Marx detective
mysteries. All my best ideas have been used by other people. It can
wear you down after a while.

“Explain to me how you can have a city desk when all
you cover is suburbia.”

“You’re not starting this again, are you,
Aaron?”

“Just doesn’t make sense, that’s all. There’s no
city. What’s the desk for?”

“Holds paper clips, stuff like that. Without it, I’d
just be sitting in a swivel chair with nothing to do.” City editors
are damn witty people.