Bowled Over

Chapter Eighteen

Maggie hesitated, the fork speared through half a meatball almost to her mouth as she sat in her dad's small kitchen a few hours later. "Come again? There's a what?"

Saint Just smiled, motioned for her to eat the meatball, which was dripping sauce on the tabletop. "Yes, that was rather my reaction, as well, although I, unlike you, managed to hide my dismay. Not without effort, I admit. I said, they have formed a club. Or at least my new friends Joe and Sam believe that. I've yet to approach your sister about the thing, feeling the subject to be rather delicate. I waited for you, and will allow you to broach the question."

Maggie spoke around the meatball, her third. "Gee, thanks—you coward. And how the hell do I do that? I mean, it's a real wowzer of a subject, Alex. Alex? What was that? Don't tell me you—"

"Oh, but I did." Saint Just had also heard the knock on the door, and stood up. "I'm confident you'll figure out exactly what to say. And that you'll be sympathetic, even kind. Sterling has your father nicely occupied at the movie theater, if you'll recall, so I'll go personally welcome her in, shall I?"

"Now? You invited her here now? Why did you do that? Now? I'm not ready for this. I'll never be ready for this."

He hid his smile, being a prudent man. "I had assumed you'd be returning earlier than you did, affording us more time to discuss the matter and formulate some sort of delicate approach. My apologies. But rough ground is to be got over as quickly as possible, yes?"

"I'm not riding a freaking horse, Alex. Damn, she's knocking again. Go let her in."

Saint Just inclined his head slightly to Maggie and walked to the door, opening it to see Maureen standing in the hallway, her seemingly ever-present apron visible beneath her opened coat, all of her looking sad, regrettably dumpy, and exceedingly nervous.

"Ah, good evening, my dear. Thank you so much for coming," he said, surprising himself by leaning forward to kiss Maureen's ice-cold cheek. "Maggie's in the kitchen. Do you like meatballs?"

"I ... uh ... I guess so," Maureen said as Saint Just took her coat. "I still don't understand why you wanted me to come over here, Alex. Is Maggie all right? I know she went to the doctor today. Does she need my help getting into the shower, or something? I know when John broke his leg I had to help him tape a garbage bag around his cast so it wouldn't get wet in the shower."

She turned to Saint Just, wrinkled up her nose. "They smell something awful when they get wet, you know. You don't want to be anywhere near when they finally cut off Maggie's cast, believe me."

"I'll be certain to keep that in mind, thank you," Saint Just said as, with a graceful sweep of his arm, he indicated that Maureen should precede him into the kitchen. At least the woman appeared talkative, not her usual quiet self. Could that be a good sign? Or a sign that she was highly nervous? Perhaps he hadn't been as cryptic as he'd hoped when he'd phoned to ask her to stop by the apartment.

Ah, well, Maggie would cope. She wouldn't like it, but she would cope. Pluck to the backbone, that was his Maggie. Unfortunately, she was also now armed with that ridiculous horn, and had been squeezing it whenever she didn't appreciate something he said.

Maureen didn't seem to be finished with the subject of the trials and tribulations relating to casts. "And with Maggie? No, she won't want you there when the cast is cut off. Especially not when she hasn't been able to shave her leg in—oh, hi, Mags."

"Hi, Reenie." Maggie waved weakly to her sister, and then glared at Saint Just. Obviously she hadn't as yet quite formed a definite plan of attack. "Want a meatball?"

Maureen slid onto the plastic seat opposite her sister, eyeing Maggie's plate with barely hidden trepidation. "You made those?"

"Me? Right. Would I be eating them, if I made them? No, they were a gift. Alex, get Maureen a plate and a fork, please."

"And ... and a glass of water?" Maureen added pitifully as she reached into the pocket of her apron. "I, um, I think I need to take a pill."

"Maureen, you do not need to take a pill," Maggie told her firmly. "I don't need a cigarette, you don't need a pill. Oh, okay, I want a cigarette. You want a pill. But we're not going to give in, either of us."

"I really need a pill," Maureen said, looking up at Saint Just, her eyes filled with pleading.

"Allow the woman her medication, Maggie," Saint Just said, placing a plate, fork and small glass of water in front of Maureen. When had he become a member of some personal Maggie wait staff? How lowering. If only Maggie could make the character of Clarence, his butler, as real as she'd made him and Sterling, so that good man could join them on this plane of existence. And the man definitely had a way with boot black and the pressing iron ...

"Thank you, Alex," Maureen said, pulling a ridiculously small chip of pink pill from her apron, removing the lint on it, and popping it into her mouth. She drank the water. "I'm very careful to ration them. Ah, that's better."

"What's better, Reenie? What was that, a quarter of a pill? And it hasn't even hit your stomach yet. You know what those pills are? They're a crutch, that's what they are. You don't really need them. You just think you need them."

Saint Just sat down beside Maggie, said softly, "Someone's digressing. And preaching. You've stopped smoking, and that's wonderful, commendable. But perhaps it's true, as I once heard someone say, that converts are usually the most righteous. And the most annoying. Ah, wait a moment. That was you who said those particular words, wasn't it?"

"Okay, okay, point taken, so knock it off. You don't have to hit me over the head with everything I ever said," Maggie said, pushing away the plate in front of her. "Maureen, we have to talk."

"About Daddy?"

"Well ... sort of about Daddy. More so about Walter Bodkin."

"No! I don't want to do that. I came here to help you take your shower." Maureen shot to her feet, clearly ready to bolt for the door.

"Reenie, don't do that, don't run away," Maggie said, holding out her arm, unable to reach her sister. "Alex, make her sit down."

"From doorman to wait staff to warden. How much further can a London gentleman possibly fall in one short evening, do you suppose? Maureen? Please retake your seat—this is for your father. You wish to help him, don't you? Maggie and I believe you possess the power to help him."

"I do? How?" Maureen sniffled, but sat down once more, folded her hands together tightly on the tabletop. "I don't think I know anything, but I want to help Daddy. I really do."

"That's the girl," Maggie said encouragingly. "We found something out today, Reenie. Well, Alex did. Something that might help Daddy. You see, so far he's the police's only suspect. We'd like to give them more suspects to choose from. That make sense to you?"

"No," Maureen said quietly. "You think I'm a suspect?"

"Hell, no."

"But I had ... had an affair with Walter. I know Mom told you. I could ... I could be the woman scorned."

Maggie and Saint Just exchanged looks, and Maggie pushed on. "But you weren't the only woman scorned, right?"

Maureen's eyes went wide. "Mom's a suspect?"

"You might want to speed this up a bit, my dear, thus limiting erroneous conclusions on your sister's part," Saint Just suggested, wishing himself sitting beside Sterling at the movie theater, possibly even partaking of some popcorn. Or, better, a large box of those lovely chocolate-covered raisins.

"Alex found out today that Bodkin was a ... that he was ... that he got around. A lot."

Maureen lowered her gaze. Shrugged. "He got around to Mom and me. So I guess you could say that."

"Alex also found out that there are people in this town who believe that some of the women who Bodkin, well, you know, that some of the women actually formed a club. Is that right? Do you know anything about that?"

Maureen nodded. But said nothing.

"I feel like I'm pulling teeth here," Maggie muttered to Saint Just.

"Patience is usually rewarded. You're doing fine."

"Thanks. I guess that means you're just going to sit there, and not help. Okay, if we're playing Twenty Questions, it's time for another one. Reenie? Do you belong to that club?"

Maureen nodded once more and began digging in her apron pocket again.

"Is Mom a member of that club?"

Finally, Maureen looked at her sister. "Mom? Are you kidding? Nobody knows about Mom and Walter. Well, except for me. And Dad, since I slipped and said something. And you guys ..." She began to blink furiously. "People really know about the club?"

"They're just guessing, I'm sure. But now we know for sure. So tell us about the club. What do you do in this club?"

"It's the W.B.B."

"Pardon me?" Maggie asked, looking increasingly frazzled.

Saint Just felt it was time he stepped in. "The Weeb, Maureen? I don't understand."

At last Maureen smiled. "That's what we call it. It's really the W.B.B. Weeb?"

"Ah, like your WAR, Maggie," Saint Just said, sitting back against the cushions. "So the letters mean something?"

Maggie held up a hand. "Wait. Don't tell me. I want to guess. W.B.B? We ... um ... Women Who Boinked Bodkin? No, too many W's. Hey, and try saying boinked Bodkin five times, fast. Talk about your tongue twisters."

"Maggie!"

"Sorry, Reenie. Do I get another chance? Best two out of three?"

"Maggie, sweetings, you are perhaps being a little bit—"

"Snarky," she interrupted. "Yeah, I know. But consider the subject matter, for crying out loud."

Maureen got to her feet, taking her empty glass over to the dispenser on the refrigerator door. "It's actually We Banged Bodkin, but nobody really says that. It's too embarrassing. We tell people we're the Women's Bible Babes, and that we get together once a month to read scripture." She sighed deeply. "We're all probably going to Hell, aren't we?"

"Not my call," Maggie said, spreading her hands, and then bit her bottom lip. But not before a small giggle escaped.

"Pete named us and she's ... well, she's sometimes crude, although she's a lovely person, really."

With an unfortunate growth of hair on her upper lip, Saint Just remembered, and then quickly discarded the thought.

"Allow me, please, Maggie. After spending much of the early afternoon with Joe and Sam—I'd rather not identify them beyond that—I fear I am now a veritable font of information. Pete," Saint Just interjected, "is one Mae Petersen. She bowls as a member of the Majesties."

"I need another meatball," Maggie said, pushing her plate at Saint Just. "And maybe the better part of a fifth of Scotch. A woman named Pete bowls with my dad and boinked Bodkin. My sister and my mother boinked Bodkin. Enough women in this burg boinked Bodkin to form a club. At least it isn't the Triple B, or some such idiocy. You know—Bopped By Bodkin? Do you gals feel less like victims saying it your way? Is that it? And what in hell does a W.B.B. club do? And skip the reading scripture business, okay?"

Maureen sat down again, sipping at the glass of ice water. "Well, like I said, we meet once a month, except in the summer. Too many of us going on vacations, you know? We play Hearts, we have a covered-dish supper twice a year. We ... we counsel new members. We're, basically, I guess you could say, a mutual support group. A recovery group?"

"Hold the meatballs," Maggie ordered, shaking her head. "I think I'm feeling a little sick. How many members are in W.B.B., Maureen?"

Maureen looked up to the ceiling, as though mentally taking roll at the last meeting of the W.B.B. "At last count? Fifteen? Susan Powers moved to Cincinnati this past October, and Hilda Klein died, poor thing. So fourteen. Maybe fifteen. Is that important?"

Maggie leaned forward on her elbows. "Hilda died? She's dead? When? How old was she?"

"Maggie, I don't think we're looking at a serial killer here," Saint Just told her.

"Hilda was seventy-eight. Her son said her heart just gave out," Maureen said. "We W.B.B.s collected for a lovely flower arrangement."

"Seventy-eight? Bodkin was what—Alex?"

"Sixty-something. Sixty-three? Clearly a man of eclectic tastes."

"Clearly an immoral son of a—Maureen, how could you have done this? I saw the photograph of Bodkin in the newspaper. He wasn't exactly George Clooney. More like George Burns. I don't get it. What was the big attraction?"

Maureen was now wringing her hands together, clearly agitated. Saint Just knew he wouldn't have asked that particular question of the poor woman, had he been in charge of the ... the inquisition? But, clearly, this last inquiry of Maggie's had been purely a female reaction.

"He ... he was kind," Maureen said at last. "He understood women. He opened car doors. He knew no woman should live without a dishwasher or an adequately-sized hot water heater. He ... um ... he complimented us. And he ... and he ... in bed, you understand? He knew just how to ... well, John? John seems to think I should, but that he should never have to—you know, like on his birthday? Must I do this, Maggie?"

Maggie looked at the meatball she'd speared, and then put it down on her plate again. "No, you don't have to say anything else, Reenie. Really, I think I've—we've—heard enough." She looked at Saint Just, her expression pained. "More than enough. Alex?"

"Are you handing the questions over to me, Maggie?" Saint Just asked her, watching as she pulled out her nicotine inhaler, had the cylinder nearly to her lips, and then quickly stuck it back in her pocket, blushing.

Ah, the modern American woman. What a delight they all were.

"No, never mind, I can do this. Reenie—we need a list of names. All the members of your little club."

"Why? I can't do that. Nobody knows about the club."

Maggie pulled a face. "We've already been through this part. They know, Reenie. They talk about it at Mack and Manco's over a pepperoni slice. We need suspects. Women scorned are great suspects. So give us the names."

"But my name would be on that list! You'd turn me in to the cops, Maggie? Your own sister?"

Maggie looked at Saint Just, who decided—cravenly, he knew—that he really wasn't a part of this decision.

"And nobody from W.B.B. would have killed Walter. We loved him."

"O-kay," Maggie said, motioning for Saint Just to move so that she could slide out of her seat. She grabbed at her walker and pulled herself to her feet. "They loved him? I'm outta here, Alex. She's all yours. There are just some things sisters don't need to know, you know? I think that last asinine statement just about tops the list."

Saint Just waited until Maggie's clomp-clomps with the walker could no longer be heard, and then crossed to the refrigerator to take out the bottle of wine he'd opened earlier for dinner.

He retrieved two glasses from the dishwasher (his increasing domesticity amazed even him), and poured himself and Maureen each a generous measure of the zinfandel. He placed one in front of her before sitting down with his own glass.

"Thank you," she said, grabbing the glass and downing half its contents. "I've shocked her, haven't I? I'm her baby sister. I'm supposed to still be playing with dolls, or something."

"Maggie will be fine, don't worry about her," Saint Just said reassuringly. "But I will admit to being confused. I thought you said, earlier, that your small organization is in the way of support for each other. Mr. Bodkin hurt all of you, correct? And you joined together, companions in your misery?"

"I did sort of say that, didn't I?" Maureen's smile was unexpectedly wicked, her eyes shone, and Saint Just at last saw the physical resemblance between Maggie and her sister. "That was a big fib. Maggie wouldn't understand. We liked Walter. All of us. He made us feel special, and important. And pretty. Oh, we all knew that Walter was using us—he thought he was using us—but we really didn't mind, not all that much. Because we were using him, too."

"Amazing. Utterly amazing," Saint Just said quietly, thinking about his varied and quite substantial romantic exploits in his Saint Just Mysteries. All the women he had bedded. And left. Perhaps Maggie would understand. But he doubted that. Maggie wrote fiction ... she didn't want to live a fiction.

If he, today, tomorrow, in twenty years, had so much as the glimmer of a notion of behaving with other women as he did in their books, he felt one hundred percent certain his now evolving, mortal remains would be found somewhere, with Maggie's hands still clutched convulsively about his neck.

"Alex? What's wrong? You're looking at me funny. You think I'm crazy, don't you? You think we're all crazy. Not hating Walter for what he did to us? And maybe we are, but we're all better for it, you know? Well, except for me, once I found out that Mom—you know."

Saint Just took another sip of wine, for his throat had gone slightly dry. "Your mother, Maureen. How did she feel about Mr. Bodkin? Was she as forgiving, as ... grateful to him?"

"Mom? She never said. I mean, not about what it was like when Walter was paying attention to her. I don't think she was proud of what happened. When ... the day she came to me, warned me away from Walter, and then found out that I'd already—you know? She was pretty upset that day. Said how dared he go from mother to daughter. What a bastard he was. Like that, you know? Said she'd kill—oh! She didn't mean that," Maureen went on quickly. "She said it. But she didn't really mean it."

"No, no, of course not," Saint Just assured her. "Maggie and I have already eliminated your mother from our list of suspects."

"But not me? Not the other girls? I didn't kill Walter. I couldn't!"

Saint Just heard the clump-clump of the walker as Maggie returned, and suppressed a relieved sigh. He'd faced down angry men intent on killing him. Stood toe-to-toe with deadly weapons unsheathed, without a blink. But this conversation? Clearly there were some things gentlemen, at least those of his particular, Regency Era sensibilities were better off not knowing.

"I heard that," Maggie said, clomping to the table to stand looking down at her sister. "You're something else, you know that, Reenie? You go out and have yourself an affair, and then go all wacky-wacko when you find out your own mother got there first. You start popping pills, you let yourself go, you turn into this timid little mouse who belongs to a club filled with other idiots like yourself—you have covered-dish suppers, for the love of heaven. But, no, we know you didn't kill Bodkin."

Maureen sagged against the cushions in relief. "Thank you, sis. So you don't still want the list?"

Maggie rolled her eyes as she sat down beside Saint Just. "Yes, I do still want the list. You may say everyone else felt like you do, not really angry with Bodkin. But what if you're wrong, Reenie? What if one of them was just faking it? We won't give the list to the police, I promise. But Alex and I have to talk to these women. You see that, don't you? The police may not have all that much on Dad, but they might have enough. Juries are weird. The only way we can be sure to clear him, keep this business about you and Mom and Bodkin out of it, is to find the real killer. Fast."

"Well, put, Maggie," Saint Just said approvingly. "Although I believe we'd probably be better served to look to the husbands, if there are any. Swinging a bowling ball with enough force to crush a man's skull like that is probably beyond the strength of many women."

"Not Pete. She's a plumber, she's strong as an ox," Maureen said idly, and then blanched. "Do you guys think—"

Saint Just shook his head. "It's early days yet, Maureen. We're merely gathering clues at this time. But we most certainly will be speaking to Miss Petersen, won't we, Maggie?"

"Yeah. You can be charming, and I'll grill her. That should work. And not a word, Reenie, not to anybody. Reenie? Are you listening to me?"

Maureen looked at her sister, her complexion deathly pale. "You're going to look at the husbands? That's what you said, Alex, didn't you? You're going to look at the husbands? Oh, God, what have I done!"

Maggie opened her mouth to say something, but Saint Just touched her arm, shook his head. "Maureen, my dear," he asked gently, "does John know about your indiscretion with Mr. Bodkin? We'd wondered, but we couldn't be sure."

Maureen nodded her head furiously, and then buried her face in her apron. "I ... I wanted him to go to therapy with me. We were all going to go, Mom said, before Mom threw Dad out. If Dad knew, then John should ... you know. Know? I told him a couple of months ago."

"Oh, cripes," Maggie said, grabbing Saint Just's wineglass. "What is it with this family? First Mom, and now you? Confession is good for the soul? Is that what you thought? What a bunch of bunk! Alex, if I tried passing off this plot in a novel, nobody would believe it."

" ' 'Tis strange—but true; for truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.' "

"Don't quote Byron at me, Alex. Not now."

"Ah, you recognize the quote, and know the source. And here you insist on saying you write, but you do not retain. You're so self-deprecating at times, my dear. You might want to work on that with Doctor Bob in your therapy sessions."

"Bite me," Maggie growled at him, and then reached over to her walker as she punctuated her suggestion. Oooga-oooga.