Bowled Over

Chapter Twelve

As much as Saint Just was anxious to speak with Maureen Kelly Burda, he was infinitely more eager to speak with Attorney Spade-Whitaker, who seemed to be evincing a remarkable lassitude when it came to consulting with her client.

Yes, it was Christmas, a holiday even for lawyers, he imagined, but it seemed imperative to speak to Evan as quickly as possible, if nothing else to warn him not to speak to anyone. Save Maggie and himself, that is.

As he stood outside the condo with Sterling, enjoying one of his favored cheroots after partaking of Christmas dinner, and being quietly amazed at the amount of food the tall, painfully thin John Burda could consume without bursting open like an overripe melon, Saint Just began to review what he knew of the murder of Evan's bowling partner.

"Sterling, walk through this with me, please?"

"Where? You want to go down to the shore? Isn't it a bit nippy for that this late at night?" Sterling asked, already rising from the wrought-iron chair situated on the ground-level porch at the front of the condo.

"Perhaps we could stroll there tomorrow, Sterling," Saint Just said kindly. "I was, however, referring to the events of last night, as they pertain to the murder of Walter Bodkin and the erroneous subsequent arrest of Maggie's father. I believe I should like to put as much of the chronology in line as possible before we confront Evan once more, and attempt to beat down his refusal to speak openly with us."

"Oh, of course. My apologies. I'm afraid my mind was elsewhere. I've been sitting here, in point of fact, wondering how rude it would be of me to loosen my belt a notch."

Saint Just had already been mentally retracing the steps they'd all taken since driving up to the scene of Evan's arrest, but Sterling's words pulled him back to the moment. He looked at his friend with new interest. "I beg your pardon? Would you repeat that, please."

"Certainly. I know it isn't polite, especially in company, but as I said, I was thinking about how I would like to loosen my—Saint Just? Why are you looking at me that way?"

"Stand up, Sterling, if you'd please," Saint Just said, and then slowly walked around his friend, motioning for him to remain still as he circled him. And then circled him again. "Sterling, you're gaining weight."

Sterling pushed his hands against his chest and attempted to look down at himself. "I am? By George, Saint Just, you're right!"

He looked at Saint Just in the yellow light of the porch lamp, the expression on his mobile features one of mixed elation and confusion. "But ... but we don't change, Saint Just. Not unless Maggie changes us in our books. You said so. No matter how I first hoped to diet away this belly of mine, no matter how much I indulged in my favorite Ding Dongs, I am destined never to gain weight, never to lose it. We are and will remain as Maggie imagined us. I remember it all quite distinctly."

"Yes, yes, I also remember, Sterling. The scar on my shoulder was given to me by Maggie. Just as she gifted you with your delightful way of looking at life. Everything we are, we are because of Maggie. But we are as we are in our books. We don't age, we don't change."

Sterling sat down again, patting his stomach. "But I am changing, Saint Just. Perhaps that's because of how you have been striving to evolve, urging me to evolve, attempt to become more of my own man? By God, Saint Just, it's working! Does that mean we're staying, remaining on this plane, and all of that? It does, doesn't it? We aren't going to poof, as Maggie worries so about us doing. And ... and we're becoming free to be who we wish to be. Not that I wish to be anyone other than I am. I rather like myself, you know. And my Ding Dongs."

Saint Just smiled indulgently. "You're a good man, Sterling. No matter what happens, now matter how you evolve, you will always be a good man. Goodness is at the very center, the heart of you. I, however ..."

"You're also a good man, Saint Just," Sterling protested as Saint Just's voice trailed off. "You're a hero, remember? An upstanding member of the ton. The compleat gentleman, and all of that."

"I've killed a man since we've been here, Sterling," Saint Just reminded his friend. "I thought, at the time, that I was being myself, protecting those in my charge, persons for which I feel a responsibility. And if I had to revisit that same situation, knowing now of Maggie's horror at the time, I'd do it again, without compunction. Does that mean I haven't evolved ... or that I am becoming more the twenty-first century man than even I would feel comfortable being?"

"I don't know, Saint Just. Such a discussion requires much more concentration than I feel capable of at the moment. Pardon me for being so shallow, but do you think, if I am truly evolving, that this time, if I try one of those hair-growing miracles as advertised on the television machine, I would have a better chance at success?"

Saint Just shook himself back to the moment. "I can't imagine it would hurt to try, Sterling."

"Oh, capital, Saint Just! And I can exercise on Maggie's treadmill to lose weight, and cultivate a beard if I so chose, and learn how to play the guitar—I've harbored that wish for some time now, you understand. Oh! And I can cease and desist being not in the petticoat way, as Maggie created me. I think I should like to chase a few petticoats, not that the ladies wear them anymore, I suppose."

Saint Just tossed his cheroot toward the street, watching it soar into the darkness and disappear. "You—we—are also going to begin to age, Sterling. We will, if I've been correct all along in my assumptions, begin to grow older. Suffer aches and pains. We will have become ... vulnerable."

Sterling was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke, it was quietly, and in some awe. "What will it be like for you, Saint Just, to ... to go into battle if it becomes necessary, knowing that you could ... well, you know? Die?"

"A very good question, Sterling," Saint Just said, leaning against one of the porch posts. "I am not by nature a cowardly man, I don't believe. But I will say that, over the course of our varied experiences since arriving here, I've taken more than a modicum of solace from the idea that, no matter what I did, no matter what perils I might face, I would prevail. And survive."

"Gives a person pause, don't it?" Sterling asked, biting his bottom lip. "I imagine you feel rather as that super fellow did, when he discovered the existence of kryptonite, hmm? You'd think it would be lowering enough to be forced to fly about in those horrid blue tights."

"I beg your pardon? No, never mind, I imagine we can dispense with an explanation of that last statement for the nonce. Yes, indeed, Sterling, this revelation does give me pause. Which is why, Sterling, Maggie is not to know this. Any of this. Do you understand?"

"I believe so, yes. She won't let you be a hero if she knows you could be hurt, will she?"

"She'd attempt to wrap me in cotton wool and put me figuratively on a shelf, at the very least," Saint Just agreed, frowning. He needed some time now. Time to think about this evolving business. Time to remember why he had thought it so important that he do so, for one.

He would age. Along with Maggie, he would age.

He rather liked that. Maggie would be ecstatic, having more than once complained that she'd be collecting social security and playing shuffleboard in Boca, and he'd still be thirty-five, and vital, virile, chased by all the women who weren't slowed down by arthritic hips and bifocals, like her.

Maggie had such an interesting imagination ...

He would die. Along with Maggie, he would one day die.

He didn't really mind that. Life without Maggie would be a hell on earth, or whatever plane of existence would be left to him once she was gone, once her imagination no longer kept him and Sterling alive.

He could live with all of that. Die with all of that.

But how was he to live with the idea that he was no longer the perfect hero? Indomitable. Indestructible.

Capable of—egad!—failure!

How quick would he be to unsheath his swordstick, knowing that he could suffer a fatal injury as well as inflict one?

And why now? Now, when Maggie needed him more than ever, to save her father? Why did he have to discover all of this now? How could he possibly fail her now?

"Saint Just! We can get the sniffles now! Toothaches! Why, the list is endless, isn't it?"

Saint Just shook himself back to the moment. "And this pleases you, Sterling?"

"Yes, I suppose it does. We're here, my dear Saint Just. We're here, and we're not going back. Not poofing back into Maggie's mind, into the pages of our books." He giggled, actually giggled. "I am Sterling Balder. I am a real person—hear me roar!"

"I'm sure you know just what that means, my friend," Saint Just said, deciding to give up his own less amusing thoughts, as none of them quite pleased him. "Only you must remember, Sterling. Maggie isn't to know."

"I'm not such a booby, Saint Just. My tongue doesn't run on wheels. I've not got loose lips, and all of that. Not a word, I promise. But she will notice, you know. Eventually."

"And eventually is more than soon enough. Now, to get back to the problem at hand. Is that possible for you, Sterling?"

"I suppose so," he said, loosening his belt slightly. "Ah, that's better. Um ... what was the problem at hand, Saint Just?"

Saint Just mentally retraced the conversation, and realized that he hadn't said anything of any importance prior to realizing that Sterling's waistline had expanded, not beyond, at least, a suggestion that they review events since last evening.

"It wasn't really important, Sterling," Saint Just said, pushing himself away from the post. "I believe I'd like to go back inside now, speak with Attorney Spade-Whitaker before their party leaves for Atlantic City."

"I suppose that's a good idea. Although, wouldn't it be better if Attorney Spade-Whitaker was speaking to Evan?"

Saint Just turned just as he was about to open the door, and smiled at his friend. "Yes, Sterling, you are evolving, aren't you? Not that you haven't always had a fine mind, one I admire vastly. But that hint of sarcasm in your voice as you made that last suggestion? That is new, my friend. My felicitations."

"Do I thank you now? Or was that also sarcasm?"

"Don't hurt your head, Sterling. You've nothing to prove," Saint Just told him, and then stood back in the shadows, as Tate and his small party were approaching down the spiral staircase leading to the front door, Tate speaking quietly, almost, one could say, conspiratorially.

Not that Saint Just was an advocate of eavesdropping.

Unless the opportunity fell into his lap.

"So now you've seen all of it, Sean, top to bottom. Five bedrooms, four and one-half baths, the large living and dining area above us, a fully equipped kitchen—with island. And then this smaller, completely equipped apartment down here, on the lowest level, with its own small kitchen. It could be walled off somehow, don't you think, given its own entrance? Make this a two-income property? Oh, and the dumbwaiter. I showed you the dumbwaiter?"

"Yes, Tate, I've seen the dumbwaiter," Sean said, slipping a fur coat Bernice Toland-James would have committed deviant sex acts to acquire, over his wife's shoulders. "A good idea, that, with the building having so many levels. Especially with the kitchen on the second floor. You've got two parking spaces out back, off the alley, but no outside under-cover parking."

"True, true," Tate said, his tone bordering on the defensive. "But it's a two-car garage."

"With no separate storage for body boards, bicycles, strollers. By the time all that paraphernalia is stored away, there's only really a one-car garage. The house sleeps ten—fourteen with the two sofa beds. But, in reality, you only have off-street parking for three cars. At the height of the season, parking is at a premium here. A discerning buyer will notice that."

"Wesley's quiet up here, near the end of it. There's never any trouble, parking out front, not even in the summer," Tate argued. This time he wasn't being defensive. He was whining. "You're looking for reasons to go low on the price, Sean, but you can't do it. Parking's not an issue."

"All right, then. The Boardwalk. You're a long way from the Boardwalk, Tate. I'm rather surprised you didn't think of that when you bought this place."

"This very green place," Cynthia Spade-Whitaker interjected. "It reminds me of lime Jell-O. I detest lime Jell-O. But it is a nice kitchen, Sean, and well equipped, unless all those pots hanging over the island are your mother's and will leave with her. Still, it isn't all terrible."

Saint Just listened to Tate's nervous laugh, and was glad they couldn't see him, standing just outside the door, keeping it open just a sliver with the toe of his shoe, so that he could hear clearly.

"And it's off-season, so prices are a little lower. You forgot to add that," Tate grumbled. "Anything else? Or are you going to hit me with a price?"

"Don't get all bent out of shape, Tate," Sean said. "Cyndy and I were playing with you. It's a great condo. I know what you paid, I know how long ago you bought the place. We both know the market has cooled off a bit, that interest rates have climbed more than a point. All that said, I think I can promise you a half million-dollar profit, including my commission. Not bad for a four-year investment, right?"

"That much? Okay, that's good, that's good. Hell, Sean, that's great! Let's do it!"

"I'd like to stage it, though, Tate. You know, get all your mother's things out of here, furnish it more like a seashore condo—at your expense, but we'll take that out of the proceeds. Get all the personal things gone. How soon did you say she could be out?"

"I don't know. How soon can you talk her into filing those divorce papers, Cynthia?"

"Soon, Tate. But all work and no play doesn't make Cyndy a happy camper. You did promise us some fun when you invited us, remember? I don't call it fun, being yanked down to the local police station on Christmas Eve."

"You'll get him off, right?"

"I'll get him off before there can be a trial, don't worry about that. But I'm also going to enjoy dipping deeply into your jackpot-winning sister's purse while I'm at it. Do you mind?"

"Me? Hell, no. And the more you drag it out, the more Mom is going to want to sell, maybe even leave town to get away from the scandal. I can get her something fairly cheap in Florida, take another profit—you know ... later on."

Saint Just felt he had heard enough. More than enough. He opened the door and stepped inside, his face (he hoped) a reflection of his pleased surprise at seeing the three people standing there in the foyer. "You're off, then?" he asked, smiling. He held the door open. "Sterling? Are you coming in?"

Sterling strode into the foyer, his own face beet red, and not from the December chill. "I'll be upstairs, perhaps making dear Mrs. Kelly a pot of tea," he said tightly as he brushed past Tate and his friends, an act of rudeness the Maggie-created Sterling would have been incapable of pulling off without faltering, apologizing, and blushing even more deeply. Especially if he realized that the belt as well as the top button of his corduroy slacks were hanging open.

"We're driving up to Atlantic City, yes," Tate said, looking at Saint Just in a way that showed he was afraid he'd been overheard discussing the sale of his mother's house out from under her. "Um ... do you and Maggie want to go with us? I can't promise Maggie another jackpot, but it could be fun."

"Thank you, no. Maggie will wish to get back to her father, I believe. Your father, that is. Your collective father," Saint Just said, apologetically, feigning embarrassment at his verbal faux pas. "Have you ... have any of you spoken with him today?"

"You mean me, don't you, Alex?" Cynthia said in her usually clipped, crisp professional tone. "It's Christmas Day, remember? Nobody's going to be asking me to bring him back in for voluntary questioning until tomorrow, at the earliest. I'll speak with him tomorrow. He's to do what I said—talk to no one. Has he talked to you, Alex?"

Saint Just had never struck a lady and never would. But he realized that, evolving as he was, outraged as he was at all he'd heard in the last few minutes, the idea did hold some appeal. "No, Mrs. Spade-Whitaker, he has not."

"Good. I like an easy client. Alex?"

"Yes, Cyndy," he returned cordially.

"Tate was telling me about your ... your exploits. Yours and Maggie's. In fact, Maureen pulled out a scrapbook Maggie's mother keeps on your press coverage. It made for interesting reading. The two of you seem to have a penchant for getting mixed up in murder investigations."

"We've had our moments, yes."

"Yeah, right," Cynthia said, pointing a finger at Saint Just, coming within inches of his nose with her index finger. "Here's the deal as I see it. Maggie's the daughter. You're the concerned friend. And that's it. Don't go poking around like amateur detectives. Not in this case, not with me on board as attorney of record. Because I don't work with amateurs. Have I made myself clear? Are we clear on this, Alex?"

"As crystal, madam," Saint Just said, bowing to her. "Everyone, enjoy your evening."

Cynthia and Sean swept through the doorway, leaving Tate behind, looking at Saint Just.

"Um ... about what you heard ..."

"Heard? Did I hear anything?"

"I don't know. Did you?"

"I heard Attorney Spade-Whitaker—as I've heard it said on numerous crime programs on the television—warn Maggie and me off the case. Was there anything else?"

"Uh, no, no, not if you—you heard, didn't you? I can see it in your eyes. About selling the condo?"

"Of course I did. You have lovely friends, Tate," Saint Just told him, turning the screw, just a tad. "A lawyer and a Realtor. A redoubtable pair, although you might have added one other profession to the mix."

Tate swallowed down hard, glared at Saint Just. "Oh yeah? Which profession?"

"Why a physician, of course," Saint Just purred, taking his quizzing glass from his pocket and holding it up to his left eye, the black grosgrain ribbon dangling.

He then took a single step forward, looked Tate up and down, as if inspecting the man for flaws—and finding them. "Because, if you somehow manage to force Maggie's mother out of this house before she is ready to go, I will personally find you, corner you, and cane you to within an inch of your selfish, pathetic little life—a caning, Tate, as you are too low and loathsome, for a gentleman such as myself to even think of directly soiling my hands on you. And as I inflict this beating, I will enjoy your every squeal and whimper to the top of my bent. So," he ended, smiling, "as your attorney friend asked me just a moment ago—are we clear on that, Tate?"

Tate opened his mouth to say something—Saint Just was fairly sure it would have been something astoundingly stupid, such as "Oh, yeah?"—but then shut it again and bolted out of the house.

That had gone well. And employing snippets of dialogue Maggie had fed his imaginary self for one of their books into his little monologue had bordered on the delicious, actually.

"Remarkable," Saint Just said to himself as he lightly rubbed the quizzing glass against his sweater, polishing it. "Although an idiot, Tate Evans is tall, young, and exceedingly fit. He could probably give, or at least think he could, as good as he got. Yet, knowing that, I was, and am, more than willing to take him on. Even eager. Once an unremarkable reaction, but not now, having so recently discovered my own vulnerabilities. By God, I'm still a hero."

Satisfied, and not a little elated, Saint Just walked through the living room, eager to find Maggie, steal her away somewhere for a moment, and kiss her quite soundly. She was such an intelligent puss. Not only had she gifted him with looks and brains. She'd gifted him with a strong backbone, one that did not bend, even as he grew more mortal.