Bowled Over

Chapter Twenty

Saint Just tucked Sterling's collar over his wooly scarf and gave the lapels a small tug. "Outfitted quite to a turn, my friend, and ready for all that winter can toss at you. Do you mind entertaining Evan for an hour or so, while Maggie and I try once again to find a way to work ourselves through this muddle?"

Sterling pulled his earflaps down and snapped the strap beneath his chin. "Not a bit of it, Saint Just. Evan and I are rubbing along famously. And there's nothing like a brisk walk on the boards, the sea air in our faces, to clear a man's head, and all of that."

"On the boards?" Saint Just smiled. "There was a time, you know, when we would think that meant to trod on the stage, emoting, rather than strolling along the seaside in search of any small shop that might have stayed open beyond the season. Our slang has changed, Sterling. So much of us has changed."

"But Maggie isn't to know that," Sterling said, nodding his head. "I remember. I'm to dub my mummer, correct?"

"Keep your mouth firmly closed on the subject, yes. Ah, Evan, you're looking much more the thing this morning."

"What thing?" Evan Kelly asked as he walked toward the small foyer, looking confused—a circumstance not entirely caused by Saint Just's words, or even the man's current legal and familial problems. Alas, for the man, since first Saint Just met him, had always borne that same nervous, faintly baffled expression. Without Alicia Kelly, the man seemed rudderless, adrift. Perhaps, as he might propose to Maggie at some point, her father needed his wife's firm hand.

"You look remarkably fine this morning," Saint Just expanded, helping Evan into his heavy tweed wool coat. "You don't mind accompanying Sterling on his daily exercise?"

"If he doesn't mind being seen with me, no," Evan said, and then sighed. "Do you English know that saying—he looks like he's just lost his last friend? Well, that's me. Lost my last friend. Every friend I ever had. They either think I killed Walter, or they don't want to be seen with the guy everyone else thinks killed Walter. You know what that means, Alex?"

"No, Evan," Saint Just said kindly. "What does that mean?"

"It means I never really had any friends. I thought I did. I thought I had lots of them. But I don't. Not if none of them will stick by me. My wife, my kids—except for Maggie, and maybe Maureen a little—my bowling buddies, the guys I have coffee with every morning up at The Last Sail? You name 'em, and they're gone. Fair-weather friends, fair-weather family."

Then he turned to smile much too brightly at Sterling. "Ready to go?"

"Evan, a moment if you will?" Saint Just said as Sterling, looking perilously close to tears, opened the door. "I'd like to show you something."

Evan stuffed his hands in his pockets, came out with a pair of obviously hand-knitted mittens. Love was in every stitch, Saint Just concluded, and talent in every fourth or fifth row of those stitches.

"When, Evan, you come upon one of these people—these fair-weather friends—I want you to do this. I will be you, and you will be the boorish idiot who dares to judge you. Watch carefully please."

Saint Just turned his back, and then turned around again, walked forward two paces and then stopped, as though suddenly aware of Evan's presence.

He opened his mouth, just slightly, breathed a silent ahhh, and then looked straight into Evan's eyes for precisely two seconds. He then pointedly raked his gaze downward, to Evan's toes, and slowly upward once more, again looking into Evan's eyes. Closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again, continued what was a look completely devoid of recognition. "So sorry, I momentarily mistook you for someone I once admired."

Then he lifted his chin slightly, turned his head to the left, and walked on, all the way past Evan, to the door.

He wheeled about on his heels, smiling. "Can you do that, Evan?"

Sterling clapped his hands in approval. "Not the cut direct. A cut above the cut direct. A combination of the cut direct and a verbal insult meant to depress any man's pretensions. Bravo, Saint Just, bravo! The quizzing glass to your eye would make it even better, as I've seen you do it, but good enough for Ocean City, and all of that."

"Thank you, Sterling," Saint Just said, and took a small bow. "You must strike first, however, Evan. Take the initiative, remove any chance of being snubbed before you deliver your insult."

"I don't know, Alex. I think I could ... maybe? I'm mad enough, I really am. I may not look it, but I'm really, really mad. If I looked more like you, there's maybe a chance I could pull it off ..."

"Done and done," Saint Just said, reaching for his sword cane and tossing it to the man. "Strike a pose for me, Evan. Legs slightly apart, the cane between them—no, not that close to your body. Ah, better. Lean one hand on top of the other—first ridding yourself of those mittens, please. Lovely as they are, I believe they do lack a certain elegance. Yes, much better. Now gaze out at the winter-dark sea, your thoughts lofty, even heroic in nature."

He held out his hand, motioning for Evan to raise his chin. "Higher ... higher ... and perfect. You see it don't you, Sterling? Appearance may not be everything, but it is far superior to walking about with one's head hanging down, one's feet shuffling. Never look the victim, Evan. Always, always, the warrior."

Evan kept his chin high as he turned for the door, forgetting to move the cane and nearly tripping over it. But as he passed through the doorway he took a moment to turn, look at Saint Just. "I'll do the best I can. I have to live here, don't I? I have to stop hiding."

"You are innocent of any crime, Evan," Saint Just reminded him. "Not a victim of a mistaken police, but an innocent man, unafraid of any charges because you know that, in the end, you will prevail. Head high, chest out—the world is not on your shoulders, Evan. You walk on top of the world!"

The door closed behind Sterling and Evan, and Saint Just let out a long breath. "I've just sent two innocents out onto the ice floes. Heaven help the both of them," he said, walking toward the kitchen, where Maggie was working on the list of names Maureen had brought over earlier.

"Dad's gone?" Maggie asked, putting a finger on a spot halfway down the list and looking up at him.

"He and Sterling both, yes. Off to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and deflect them and all assault with the indomitable weapons of truth and innocence."

"He's going to do all of that? Dad? My dad?"

"I tutored him in the way of the cut direct and pointed insult, and then armed him with my sword cane."

Maggie's eyes went wide. "You didn't tell him you've got that sticker inside the cane, right? Alex?"

"Please, credit me with some small intelligence. Sending your father out with what he knew to be a sword cane would be rather like handing you Sterling's crepes pan. You might look fairly competent, holding it, but the results, were you to attempt to employ it, would be disastrous."

"Funny man," Maggie grumbled, motioning for him to sit down across the table from her. "I've been working on this list. Maureen finally figured it was fourteen women, remember?"

"I recall the number, yes. But you've drawn lines through some of the names, I see."

"Reenie crossed out two of them. Widows, and past the age of swinging bowling balls. Along with Pete, they were the charter members of W.B.B. Then we went through the list together and crossed out five more. Two never married, three are divorced, and none of them, according to Reenie, ever had anything but the nicest things to say about Bodkin."

"And about his particular talents."

"Let's not go there, Alex. Not now, not ever again, okay? So now we've got seven—six, after we deduct Reenie."

"And John?"

Maggie looked at him, shrugged. "What do you think?"

"I think I'd compare your brother-in-law to your father, as far as homicidal tendencies go."

"Yeah, me, too. With a list this long, we've got to trust our instincts, eliminate wherever we can. Then, if none of the names we kept pan out, we can go back, punt to the others on the list."

"Your mind, sweetings, is a constant delight. If you weren't writing fiction, you might wish to become a detective."

"I'll leave that to you, Samaritan, thanks. So, we've got six names. All married. None of them older than forty, so their husbands are still able to heft a bowling ball over the head and swing it with force. Man, I can't believe the names on here. I went to school with three of them. Brenda, Joyce, Lisa. Cheerleaders, all three of them—real popular, had their own little clique. One I could get nowhere near, trust me. Lisa was the head cheerleader, and a real pain in the butt. But I outted her in our senior year. Another of my few fond memories of high school."

"Outted? I'm sorry. You did what to her?"

Maggie waved a hand in dismissal. "You don't want to hear it. I mean, I'm not quite as proud of what I did now as I was back then."

Saint Just leaned back at his ease against the plastic cushion, folded his arms across his chest. "I'll wait."

Maggie lowered her eyes to the page. "Wait for what?"

"For your professed maturity to melt away so that you can tell me what it is you did to this Lisa person."

"Oh, okay," she said, and Saint Just grinned—he knew his Maggie so well. "Here's the thing: Lisa stuffed."

"Am I supposed to understand what that means? Stuffed?"

Maggie leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "Stuffed, Alex. She walked around in her cheerleader sweaters, all hot, and pushing her chest out, you know? But one day I had to leave gym class early because I ripped my shorts sliding into second base—it was spring, and we were playing softball—and I was alone in the locker room. I'd had a private bet with myself since the ninth grade about Lisa, figuring she wore a padded bra, you know?"

"You do have this fascination with women's bosoms, don't you, Maggie? Have you ever discussed this with Doctor Bob?"

"You don't understand, Alex. Men in general don't understand. Women ... women use those things. For power. It's ridiculous, but that's just the way it is and always has been. And don't tell me guys are any different. They couldn't be, or I wouldn't get a dozen spam e-mails a day asking men if they want to enlarge their—well, never mind."

"Yes, indeed. Never mind."

"Right. We're talking about Lisa here, remember? She'd gotten a note from her mom about how she was shy, and the school had to let her use a private shower and dressing area—there was a law, or something, that allowed her mom to insist. The rest of us walked around together like idiots, trying to cover ourselves with those small towels the school gave us. But not Lisa. She had her own damn shower. So I got dressed quick, and then I hid right next to her private shower area, waited for her to come in, strip for her shower, and then I checked. And she stuffed!"

"No, I'm sorry. I still don't understand."

"Tissues, Alex. Lisa stuffed her thirty-eight-D with tissues. Cripes, must have been half a box of tissues."

"How gratifying for you, to have been right."

"Damn straight. It was even more gratifying when I copped the tissues. And all the toilet paper in her hotsy-totsy private dressing area. And her socks. I was thorough, left her with nothing to use for stuffing. Lisa went to gym class that day a thirty-eight-D, and left it an hour later as a thirty-two-double-A." Maggie leaned back, sighed. "It was a shining moment in my life."

"I repeat an earlier observation, Maggie. I do not believe you were an easy child."

"I got a three-day suspension when Lisa went berserk and the gym teacher figured out what happened, and Mom had a cow when she found out. But it was worth it."

Saint Just was left with nothing much else to say to his beloved, so he slid the paper across the table and began to read down the list of names that had yet to be crossed out. "I may be leaping to conclusions here, but I would imagine that I will be the one to interview one Lisa Butts?"

"Ya think? She must have married Barry Butts. He was the captain of our football team—maybe captain of every team he was ever on. Big, blond, huge teeth, all athlete—certainly not a brain trust. A real legend in his own mind. If ever two people deserved each other, it's the two of them."

Maggie sat forward once more, grabbed the list. "Anyway, you can have Lisa, and Brenda and Joyce. I'll take Jeannette, Kay, and Jackie—they're older than me and hopefully won't remember me well enough to slam the door in my face. Now—what do we say to them? What do we ask them?"

"And therein lies our dilemma," Saint Just said, cocking his head toward the window beside him. "Did you hear something?"

Maggie shook her head. "I know. It's not like we can go knock on doors saying, hi, we heard you were bopping Walter Bodkin—so, did you kill him? And if not you, how about your husband? He handy with bowling balls? Okay, that I heard. What was that?"

"Pebbles striking the window beside us would be my guess." Saint Just slid himself across the plastic banquette and pulled back the vertical blinds. Looked down toward the alleyway. "Why, I believe we have a visitor, Maggie. One Mr. Henry Novack."

"You're kidding." Maggie scooted over to the window. "Nope, not kidding. Look at him, wearing that big white fuzzy coat with the New Jersey Devils emblem on it, straddling that go-cart. He looks like a Zamboni. You know—one of those machines that scrapes the ice between hockey periods? Oh, never mind. Get my coat for me, will you, please, Alex? Clearly we have to go down to him. If he tried to climb two floors he might explode like the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man, and I'd have to clean up the mess."

"Feeling particularly mean today, Maggie?" Saint Just asked as he helped her put on her coat as she balanced on one leg.

"Well, he makes me so mad," she told him, jamming an arm into her sleeve. "Novack says he's fat because his mother overfed him. Is she tying him in a chair today, stuffing brownies down his throat? No, she is not. He's feeding himself. He's feeding himself right into that go-cart, and probably straight into a coronary. He can't keep blaming his mother for—oh, damn it!"

"Is that a bell I hear pealing, and so very close to home?"

Maggie rolled her eyes. "I know, I know. Looking at Novack is like looking in a mirror. Granted, a much larger mirror, but you know what I mean. It's probably why I get so mad at him—and feel so sorry for him."

"Far be it from me to attempt to stand in lieu of the esteemed Doctor Bob, but I do think you're making something of a breakthrough here, sweetings."

"Yes, I know. I am, I know I am, and I'm here to tell you it isn't painless. And why now, Alex? I've got too much going on to go sit in a corner somewhere and contemplate my navel, or whatever. It's been three days since Dad was arrested, and we're nowhere. Less than nowhere. I can't stand to look at him, he looks so sad. I'm mad, I'm upset, I'm frustrated, and I'm looking for a target to take out all my aggressions on. Nobody is safe around me. Nobody. So consider yourself warned."

Saint Just took hold of her coat lapels, much as he had with Sterling earlier, but this time it wasn't to smooth an unruly collar. This time it was to pull Maggie closer so that he could capture her mouth with his own and kiss her with all the expertise eight novels extolling his romantic prowess had instilled in him.

She fought him, but it was a predictably short fight, and with an extremely satisfying capitulation at the end of it, as she lifted her arms up and around his neck, pulling him even closer.

"Am I safe around you, sweetings?" he whispered against her ear a few moments later.

"You don't play fair," she whispered back, her body melted against his. "I so admire that in a man."

There was another shower of pebbles against the window, this assault containing at least one fairly good-size stone that cracked hard against the glass.

"Unaware that I am perhaps saving his life, our co-conspirator becomes anxious," Saint Just said, helping Maggie as she steadied herself on the walker. "Ready now?"

"Ready to bump down two flights of steps on my backside to find out what Secret Squirrel has been up to at the bowling alley? Oh, sure. I've been itching to do this all day. Grab the list, will you? Maureen put the addresses on it. Might as well do as much as we can before I have to face the stairs again."