For Whom the Minivan Rolls (14 page)

Martin Barlow was wrist-deep in soil, although the
gardening gloves he had on his hands were probably keeping the
wrists clean, too. Barlow appeared to be the kind of man who would
wear Audrey Hepburn evening gloves while gardening if he didn’t
think people would laugh at him. He was wearing a salmon-colored
T-shirt that once had a logo of some kind on its back, but had been
washed so many times it was no longer legible, a pair of khaki
carpenter’s shorts that showed off his knobby knees, and a
painter’s hat that read “Midland Paint and Hardware.” Gotta show
support for your local businesses when your wife is running for
mayor.

He was planting, or digging a hole in which to
plant, a bush whose buds one day would become stunning pink roses.
On a fine late March day, when his students were no doubt cramming
like mad to read five complete Dickens novels in three days in
preparation for Barlow’s midterm exam, it was good to be the
professor.

Martin looked up when he saw me walk toward him.
Since we’d never met (at least not that I could recall), he looked
tentative, wondering if I was going to try to sell him an
encyclopedia on CD-ROM or convert him to Christian Science.

“Is there something with which I can help you?”
English professors—man, you gotta love ’em. Such great grammar! His
voice was as reedy as he was. Slim to the point of skinny, Barlow
had the body of a marathon runner. He had the face of a beached
haddock—pockmarked, with deep eye sockets and a nose that could
have sucked in the whole backyard if he’d inhaled hard enough. If
Madlyn Beckwirth had indeed forsaken her pretty-boy husband Gary
for this guy, she had a perverse sense of irony. Somehow, that
possibility elevated Madlyn in my estimation.

I stuck out my hand and identified myself, adding
the
Press-Tribune
’s name for added credibility. I didn’t
notice any eye-widening or any other register of apprehension at
being questioned about Madlyn Beckwirth. He suggested that I might
really want to talk to Rachel, since she was Madlyn’s closest
friend, but I informed him, to his apparent surprise, that I’d
already interviewed his wife.

“Would it be acceptable if we were to talk while I
plant this bush?” he asked. “I really prefer not to leave it out of
the earth much longer.”

“Be my guest,” I told him. “No skin off my nose.”
I’d been staring at his, and the comment just came out. Sue me. He
didn’t appear to notice.

Using a spade, he widened the hole he was digging,
then got down on his right knee and began deepening it with a hand
tool. Martin wasn’t perfectly neat, but his backyard certainly was.
The lawn and the garden were so well-kept you’d think Mike and
Carol Brady lived here. Maybe they did. After all, Mike was gay and
Carol went out on a date with her son Greg. You never know what
goes on in some households.

“How well do you know Madlyn Beckwirth?” I began
with the standard opener. Again, there was no guilty flinch, no tic
in Barlow’s lip, no raising of the eyebrows. He was a better actor
than Mike Brady, too.

“Well, as I have indicated, she is Rachel’s closest
friend. I see her quite often when she and Rachel are planning the
campaign, and socially when Madlyn and Gary come by for dinner.”
Barlow picked up the small, and measured it in the hole, determined
an imperfect fit, and removed the bush. An imperfect planting
simply would not do. He began digging again, hard, working up a
sweat.

“So then you don’t know of any reason why she’d
decide to run away from her husband and son?”

Barlow stood up and smiled a wry smile. “You
realize, of course, that ‘reason why’ is redundant. The word
‘reason’ implies that you are asking ‘why.’” He placed the bush in
the hole again, and this time it fit exactly.

“Fine. Then tell me the reason
that
you
decided not to answer my last question.”

He started to fill the hole with top soil, and
frowned at being scolded. You’d think Rachel Barlow’s husband would
be used to getting scolded. “In answer to your query, no, I know of
no reason Madlyn would want to be away from her family.”

“No trouble in her marriage, then?”

“Martin!”

Rachel Barlow, a grocery bag in hand, stood in the
archway, gate open, looking impatient. She was wearing a very neat
L.L. Bean denim shirt and Banana Republic khakis, and looked like
as if she were about to cover supermarket shopping for
Yuppie
Life
magazine.

Her husband straightened up at the sound of her
voice, and seeing her holding the bag, literally ran to her side
and relieved her of her terrible burden, which appeared to be an
entire loaf of white bread.

“There are more packages in the car,” she said. He
nodded, ever the humble manservant, and went off to unload the
victuals from the late model Volvo station wagon, parked next to
the even later model Ford Explorer minivan in their side-by-side
driveway.

Rachel, relieved of the tedious task she had been
facing, noticed me. She walked over, trying to find her political
candidate smile and coming up, instead, with something that looked
like Joan Collins in
Dynasty.

“Something I can help you with, Mr. Tucker?”

I tsk-tsk’ed her. “Ending a sentence on a
preposition, Mrs. Barlow.” I shook my head. “I can’t imagine your
husband would approve.”

“Martin’s grammar is an excellent example for his
students, Mr. Tucker. I wish more people would pay as much
attention to syntax.”

I considered punning on the idea of “sin tax,” but
gave it up as too obvious. “In answer to your question, Rachel, I’m
actually here to talk to Mr. Barlow.”

“
Doctor
Barlow. He has a Ph.D. in English
Literature.”

I glanced over at
Doctor
Barlow, who was now
attempting to navigate a two-liter bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper into
his home without taking a five-minute time-out to catch his
breath.

“I hoped he might be able to shed some light on
Madlyn Beckwirth’s disappearance. Does he know her well?”

Rachel’s veneer of pleasantness—thin though it
was—disappeared entirely. She positively scowled, and put an
impatient hand to her hip. “I’m sure Martin has already
told
you that he and Madlyn know each other chiefly through me, and that
I would be the best person to talk to about her state of mind. I
told you, Mr. Tucker, I’m afraid the poor woman is lying dead
somewhere, and you’re doing nothing. . .”

Martin, having restocked the kitchen (and for all I
know, repainted it as well), reappeared at his wife’s side. There
was no outward sign of affection between the two of them, but they
made heavy eye contact, and the bond was unmistakable. Also
obvious, at least to me, was that he was scared to death of her. He
picked up the spade and stood at her side. She put an arm on his
shoulder. “Suburban Gothic.”

More out of annoyance than strategy, I looked Rachel
Barlow in the eye and said, “then I suppose there is no truth to
the rumor that Martin and Madlyn are having an extramarital
affair.”

Their reaction was the last thing I expected. Each
got the identical smug smile, just a little tinge of amusement,
around the lips. Martin Barlow looked me straight in the face. “I
can assure you, Mr. Tucker, that is not happening.” He seemed to
find the notion of sex with Madlyn hilarious. I’d seen pictures of
her, and while it wouldn’t exactly rate as highly as a romp with
Salma Hayek, it wasn’t hilarious either. “It is, indeed, absolutely
impossible,” he added.

For a woman who believed one of her closest friends
was a murder victim, Rachel Barlow was having an equally hard time
masking her repressed humor. It was the first sincere smile I’d
ever seen on her face.

“I can’t imagine Martin having an affair with
Madlyn,” Rachel said. “I can’t imagine Martin having an affair with
anybody.
But especially Madlyn!”

I left the two of them like that, grinning like a
couple of Jack-O-Lanterns. Whatever it was that was tickling them,
I didn’t want to be around when they decided to act on it.

Something was bothering me, though—that smile on
Martin Barlow’s face. It looked the same as his wife’s, of course,
but on closer examination, his eyes were maybe a fraction wider,
his lips just a hair tighter.

Either he was a man with something to hide, or I was
a paranoid conspiracy theorist who would make Oliver Stone’s eyes
roll in disbelief. But there was something going on with one of us,
and I didn’t think it was me.

I was feeling more stymied than ever on the
Beckwirth story, but at least I knew who I’d be voting for in the
mayoral primary.

Sorry. That should be “I knew
for whom
I’d be
voting.”

Clearly, what I needed was a break. I mean, paranoid
fantasies about Martin Barlow’s smile were the limit for a man
whose most serious deductive reasoning usually involved sorting
white athletic socks out of the laundry for a family of four, all
of whom at some time in the day wore white athletic socks.

The best kind of mental vacation, of course, would
have been an afternoon in a secluded spot alone with someone as
attractive as, say, Abigail Stein. But since that wasn’t going to
happen, at least not today, and since I still had another mystery
to solve, I left the Barlow house and went to Big Bob’s Bar-B-Q
Pit.

It was a small store front on Edison Avenue,
catercorner to the Buzbee School, and a favorite afterschool
hang-out for the kids, especially since two arcade video games had
been installed a few months ago.

Big Bob’s was a small place for a fast-food
restaurant. It consisted mainly of a counter, with four stools in
front of it and a blackboard suspended from the ceiling behind it.
The blackboard held the menu, which didn’t seem to have been
changed since Big Bob had moved in. Ribs, burgers, hot dogs, and
chicken “fingers” were the staples. A side dish was generally
french fries, and your beverage was of the carbonated variety. Big
Bob could have named the place “Seventh Level of Cholesterol Hell,”
and it would have been just as accurate.

I decided that my investigative reporter mode had
not been doing wonders for me in this matter, so I gave in to all
my detective impulses. I walked into Big Bob’s with enough attitude
for ten men, or at least one man a few inches taller than me. I
considered turning the collar of my denim jacket up, but decided
that would have been too much. And there just wasn’t enough time to
take up smoking.

No one was in the place except Big Bob himself, a
man of about 40 with a crew cut, and a tattoo on either forearm—one
of an eagle, the other reading “Big Bob.” That second tattoo was
pointed up, at Bob’s eyes, in case he ever forgot his own name.

I sat on the stool nearest the cash register and
stared up at the blackboard like there might actually be a surprise
on the menu. Big Bob walked over and stood in front of me for a few
seconds before curiosity got the better of him.

“Can I help you?”

“Burger, fries, Diet Coke,” I said, wincing inwardly
at the “Diet.” It’s hard to be macho when you’re avoiding
unnecessary carbohydrates. After finishing this story tomorrow, I’d
have to get serious about my diet—tomorrow. “And make the burger
well-done.”

Bob nodded and turned to prepare the food on the
grill that was maybe three feet behind him, visible to all who sat
on the stools. He put the beef patty on the grill and got to work
on the deep fryer, and barely turned when I spoke to him.

“This look familiar?” I asked, pulling the barbecue
sauce squeeze container out of my jacket’s inside pocket. I held it
up for him to see.

Bob finished his potato preparations and turned to
look. “Yeah, it’s one of my squeeze bottles. So?”

“So, you missing one of these lately?” I asked in my
best Bogart, which wasn’t too good, even with the recent practice.
“Had a little shrinkage on the condiment containers in the last few
days?”

Big Bob turned the burger over, despite my request
for well-done, and chuckled. “You’re kidding, right? You think I
know every time one of the little punks steals a ketchup bottle?
I’d be out of business in a week if I worried about little stuff
like that!”

Okay, so I felt foolish, but when had that ever
stopped me? “Well, take a look at this one. Maybe it’s different.
Maybe it’s special.”

“How?” asked Bob, taking the spuds out of the deep
fryer and shaking off the oil—well, some of it, anyway. “Has it got
a naked picture of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on it?” He laughed at
his own Shavian wit.

“Just take a look, will you?”

Big Bob gave me a very skeptical look, took the
burger off the grill, and brought me my lunch. The burger was still
bleeding onto the roll. I handed Bob the bottle.

“So?” I asked.

“You’re right!” he marveled. “It
is
different! It’s. . . it’s. . . it’s barbecue
sauce!”

Bob laughed so hard, he practically suffered the
heart attack his food had been promising everyone else. He doubled
over behind the counter and guffawed himself into a quivering
mass.

“All right, all right,” I mumbled. “You don’t have
to rub it in.”

When he could finally straighten up again, he leaned
on the counter in front of me. “What do you think I do, specially
mark each one in case it gets robbed?” he said, still grinning.

I took out the slip of paper with Anne Mignano’s
handwriting on it. “Well, how about this, then?” I said. “You
recognize any of these kids? They might come in here after
school.”

Bob didn’t even bother to look at the paper. “What,
you think I know their
names?”
he said, starting to chuckle
again. “You think I’m, like, the local malt shop owner, and when
Archie and Jughead and Veronica come in, I call out their names,
and they say, ‘hi, Pops!’? Is
that
what you think?” He
started laughing again, and I tried a french fry. It was still cold
on the inside.