Bowled Over

Chapter Twenty-Two

Because Maggie's rental was low on gas, Saint Just found himself sitting in the front seat of her father's car, holding onto the Crock-Pot filled with meatballs as Maggie drove the one short and one long block to her mother's condo.

"I really must procure an operating license of my own," he said as the seat belt warning system annoyingly chirped faster and faster while he tried, in vain, to hook the seat belt and not lose his grip on the Crock-Pot. "I do not believe I have the constitution of a passenger."

"Wrong," Maggie told him. "You don't like having a woman drive you around—that's your problem. That male chauvinism thing. You can't believe a woman could drive as well as you. You really need to work on that, Alex. Oh, and while you're working on that, work on this—we're in this thing together, you and me. So stop making decisions without me, okay?"

"Meaning?" he asked, knowing full well why she was upset. The poor dear, she was such a sentimental little darling. Now, piled atop all her other worries, she was worrying about Henry Novack.

"Meaning, Alex, that you had no right to send Henry off to try to talk to Mae Petersen."

"You believe she's our killer, Maggie?"

"No," she said, pulling in to the curb, and rolling the front passenger side wheel up and over it, which caused her to direct a daggerlike stare at Alex that told him he would be well advised to ignore her small logistical misjudgment. "My money's on it being a man, definitely. Women, as a general rule, don't go around bashing a guy's brains in. We're neater than that. Unless it was a crime of passion, which I don't think it was, not when Bodkin was found on the beach, when only an idiot would go walking on the beach at night, in late December."

Saint Just opened the car door, now suffering a logistical dilemma of his own, as he needed to put the Crock-Pot somewhere and go around the car, take the walker from the backseat, and unfold it for Maggie. "I concur, totally. Our killer is male. Anything else?"

"Yes, there's something else. On top of the beach, I mean. Because our killer set up my dad to take the fall, which also screams premeditation, right? Somebody had a big hate for Bodkin."

Saint Just decided to place the Crock-Pot on the Kellys' porch, and withheld his comment until he'd done so. Then taking the walker from the backseat, he unfolded it, and opened Maggie's door. Modern life was so much more complicated than merely waiting for the coachie to put down the steps and then magnanimously handing his lady of the moment down from the carriage. "Unfortunately, there are so many male somebodies who could hold this big hate for Mr. Bodkin."

Maggie turned neatly on the seat and rather gracefully pulled herself erect outside the car even as Saint Just prudently held his hand just above her head, as she'd more than once hit that head against the side of the roof as she attempted her egress. "Which is why we're going to do this quick, and then start knocking on some female doors."

"Yes, do this quickly," Saint Just said, following Maggie to the curb. "And may I inquire as to just what, precisely, we are about to do quickly?"

"You'll see. I had an inspiration while I was in the city," Maggie said, grinning at him over her shoulder. "Just grab that Crock-Pot and follow my lead, okay? You'll like it, trust me."

"I adore you, Maggie. I worship at your dainty feet, even while you lumber about in that cast. But trust you, sweetings? Not when you grin the way you're grinning now. I cut my wisdoms too long ago to be so gullible."

Saint Just did not feel comfortable in the role, well, the role played by the trusting Sterling in their books, but Maggie seemed happy, something she had not seemed in several days. So, after voicing his concerns, he did as she suggested, and promised to follow her lead.

Follow her orders, that was, which had to do with him leaving the Crock-Pot on a table on the ground floor and heading upstairs to collect Tate and his friends, the Realtor and the lawyer, bringing them back downstairs to a waiting—and still happily smiling—Maggie.

"Hi, guys," she said, fairly dancing on one foot as she gripped the walker. "Thanks for coming down. I didn't think I could take another flight of stairs on my fanny right now."

"Yes, well, we don't have much time, Maggie," Tate said, carefully placing himself on the far side of his friends, as distant from Saint Just as he could get—a move that gratified Saint Just no small bit. "We have an appointment, some business to attend to this morning."

"Really? You mean like Cynthia here going to talk to Daddy about the night Bodkin was murdered? Listen to his side of things? Tell him what to say and what not to say? You know, confer with him? That kind of business?"

Cynthia Spade-Whitaker rolled her heavily mascaraed eyes. "Are you once again hinting that I'm not performing my duties to your satisfaction, Maggie? Because if you are—"

"Oh, heavens, no, Cynthia," Maggie interrupted, and Saint Just raised one expressive eyebrow, having decided that Maggie had her target in her sights and it was not, as he'd supposed, her brother, Tate. "I'm here to give you this. Alex? Show Cynthia what we brought for her."

"With every outward appearance of pleasure, my dear," he said quietly, walking over to unzip the insulated cover and lift out the Crock-Pot that had spent the night in the refrigerator. He lifted the glass lid. "Cynthia? Even cold, do you smell that delicious aroma?"

Sean Whitaker leaned forward and looked at the contents of the Crock-Pot. And then, because, as Saint Just had already concluded, the man was not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, he announced unnecessarily, "Meatballs? You brought Cyndy meatballs?"

"Oh, no, I don't cook," Maggie said, laughing. "The last man I cooked dinner for ended up dead. It kind of put me off the idea. The meatballs are a gift. I had to go to the city yesterday, you understand, to see my orthopod, and while I was there a friend stopped by with the meatballs."

"No," Cynthia said. "I still don't understand. If someone gave you a gift, Maggie, why are you now giving it to me? Certainly," she added, sniffing, "not in lieu of my fee."

Saint Just lowered the lid on the Crock-Pot, at the same time surreptitiously looking at Maggie, seeing the way her knuckles had gone white as she grasped the walker, putting the lie to her seemingly genuine smile. What on earth was she about to do?

"Oh, heavens no, I'm not regifting in lieu of your fee," Maggie said, laughing. "Jerry Seinfeld would be appalled, wouldn't he? Regifting? Get it? Or maybe you don't watch Seinfeld reruns, huh?"

Ouch. That laugh sounded forced. Saint Just stepped closer to her.

"No, when I told my friend what was happening, about Daddy being arrested," Maggie went on, "he asked me to allow him to send my gift to me at another time, and deliver this gift to you." She looked up at Saint Just, blinking innocently. "That Salvatore. He's such a dear man."

And that's when, as Saint Just considered such things, the penny dropped, and he realized what Maggie was up to. No good, that's what she was up to.

How he adored her.

"Ah, yes, our own dear Mister C.," he said helpfully, pivoting slightly to look at Cynthia Spade-Whitaker, whose complexion had gone quite pale beneath her makeup, so that the blush on her cheeks stood out in stark relief. "So devoted to his friends. Very nearly parental, wouldn't you say, Maggie? Protective."

"Uh-huh." Maggie moved the walker forward a few paces. "When he asked who was helping Daddy I told him about you, Cynthia, and how lucky we were to have you. And he knew your name. He said you had defended a dear friend of his some little while ago, here in New Jersey. A Mr. Nicky Palmetto from Newark, was it? Such a small world."

"Cyndy? Palmetto. Isn't that the name of the concrete company guy you—well, you know," Sean Whitaker asked, taking hold of his wife's elbow as she staggered slightly in place. "But you got him off, so that's all right. Isn't it?"

"Shut up, Sean. For just this once, shut up. Salvatore Campiano," she said quietly. "That's who you mean, Maggie, right? Salvatore Campiano? Boffo Transmissions? And other stuff?"

"Well, he's more Alex's friend than mine," Maggie said, "but, yes, that's who I mean. Alex did his family a favor a little while ago, and you know how some people feel about returning favors. I told him—Mr. Campiano—that you're doing the very best that you can do for my father. Because you are, aren't you?"

"Uh ... well, yes ... yes, of course," Cynthia stammered. "The absolute best that I can. So you told Mr. Campiano that? That I'm devoting every moment to your father's defense?"

"Let's just say I told him what you've done so far," Maggie responded, not sounding quite so cheerful now. "He," and here she paused, a very pregnant, portentous pause, Saint Just thought, "sends his regards."

"Oh, shit ..."

"I beg your pardon? Shall I tell Daddy that you'll be by later, to talk about his case?"

"Huh?" Cynthia blinked several times, and then nodded. Furiously. "Oh, absolutely! Sean and Tate can go on without me. I mean, they're just going to go look at boats. Or yachts. Or something. Down in Cape May? It's much more important that I stay here, conference with my most important client."

"Yes, I rather think it is," Maggie agreed. Purred her agreement. "Alex? I believe I'm done here."

"Oh, wait a moment, Maggie," Cynthia said as Maggie turned for the door. "About that figure I quoted you as my fee?"

Saint Just discreetly coughed into his fist. If the woman wanted to, as the current saying went, score points with his beloved, she had most certainly chosen the perfect avenue.

"I've instructed my accountant to pay you the full retainer, yes," Maggie said, keeping her back turned to the lawyer. "You should have a check later this week or early next week."

"Yes, well, thank you, that's very ... very kind," Cynthia said. "But you know, you're Tate's sister, and I feel just terrible, taking advantage of Tate's little sister, and of this sad, sad situation. And it's Christmastime, and ... and, well, you know how that is. I was going to tell you later, but I may as well say it now. I've waived my fee. All of it. I'm going to defend your father pro bono. I couldn't feel comfortable any other way."

Saint Just hoped that Maggie wouldn't give in to impulse, and throw a fist high in the air or anything else so amateurish for a woman playing for all the chips. He wasn't disappointed.

No, outward glee wasn't going to give Maggie away.

But got ya did. The need to let Cynthia know she'd been bested did.

Females. So lacking in subtlety. They simply didn't understand the nuances of a gentlemanly game of one-upmanship or the joys of a quiet self-satisfaction.

Maggie turned her walker and looked straight into Cynthia's wide eyes. "Yes, I thought you might," she said, sarcasm fairly dripping from every syllable. "Don't choke on your meatballs. Alex, could you get the door for me?"

He waited until they were back outside to take hold of her arm and tell her, "You were brilliant, sweetings, right up until that last moment. Was it truly necessary to gloat?"

"You bet your sweet bippy it was," she told him happily as she pushed off toward the car. "You're the cool, controlled Englishman, and that works for you. But I'm more the rub your nose in it ugly American type. Personally, I like my way better. And now maybe she'll actually do her damn job and get my dad off the hook. Because she is supposedly very good at what she does. I looked her up online when I was in the city, which is how I knew about her last case. The ethics of a two-dollar hooker, but good at what she does. And now she's damn well going to do what she does."

"J.P. will be back in the city within the week. You could have simply terminated Mrs. Spade-Whitaker, informed her that her services were no longer required." Saint Just pointed out as he stepped forward to open the driver's door for the bloodthirsty love of his life.

"And what fun would that have been, Alex?" Maggie asked, grinning at him. "Plus, we aren't going to need J.P., unless it's to sue the police department here for wrongful arrest or general stupidity, or something. You and I are going to solve the case, right? Get Daddy off the hook ourselves? But in a weak moment I'd agreed to that stupid retainer Cyndy demanded. I wasn't going to pay that if I didn't have to. Not with us doing all the work. I just didn't know how to do it, until I saw the meatballs from your mobster buddy. That guy does come in handy, doesn't he? And it worked. Don't you just love it when a plan comes together?"

"You're that persuaded of our chances for success?"

"I am, yes. I don't know why I am, but I am. Bodkin bedded one too many wives—what else could be the motive, right? One of the husbands did it, Alex. I just wish there weren't so many suspects to choose from, that's all. Once we're back in the car you can get out the list again, okay? I'll drop you off at Lisa Butts's place on Second, and then hit my first target—just find me a name somewhere in that same area—and we can meet up at Second and Wesley and ..."

"Yes, you were saying?" Saint Just asked as he folded the walker yet again, resisting the impulse to inquire as to how she thought she'd fare, hopping, in an attempt to get the thing out of the backseat by herself. But Maggie was feeling powerful at the moment, in charge, and he was reluctant to burst her bubble of independence.

"Alex, keep the door shut," Maggie said, balancing herself with one hand on the rearview mirror as she pointed to the door. "Do you see that? Granted the car is silver, and the sun's beating on it, but do you see that? Right there, around the lock? Those are scratches, right?"

Saint Just propped the walker against the backdoor and bent closer to the lock. "Why, yes, I do believe those are scratches. Faint, but there." He stood up straight once more and said, "My felicitations, sweetings. It would appear you've discovered a clue."

"Somebody picked Dad's lock," Maggie said, nearly losing her grip on the rearview mirror in her excitement. "Somebody broke into his car, Alex. And you know what I think? I think Dad kept his bowling ball in the car. In the backseat, probably. I mean, if you live on the second floor, and you go bowling three, four times a week, would you lug the ball upstairs every time you got home, lug it down when you needed it again? I'm just surprised he locks his car. Cripes, Alex, Dad doesn't even lock the door to his bachelor pad. Come on, we have to go talk to him. Do you think he and Sterling are back yet?"

Maggie had her answer two minutes later as they pulled up in front of her father's building to see Evan and Sterling just mounting the stairs. Maggie honked the car horn and they both walked over to the curb as Saint Just lowered the passenger side window.

"And how was your morning constitutional, gentlemen?"

"Oh, Saint Just," Sterling told him, beaming, "Evan was brilliant, simply brilliant. He performed admirably at the restaurant, walking in with his chin high, his look every inch the warrior. I think it's your cane, frankly. Lends one such an air, and all of that."

"But then I blew it," Evan said, handing the cane in through the open window. "I gave the direct cut, whatever you called it, to a guy on the street, before I realized who he was. I see Father Forest from the back of the church, usually, and didn't recognize him right away. And he was all bundled up in his coat, you know, so I didn't see his collar or anything."

Maggie leaned across the seat to grin at her father. "You snubbed a priest, Dad? What did he do?"

Saint Just watched as Evan's cheeks colored. "He was very nice, actually. And then he reminded me that he listens to Confessions every Saturday from three to four and again from six to seven. There isn't anyone in this town who believes I'm innocent, Maggie. Nobody."

"We do, Daddy," Maggie said fervently. "Alex, tell Dad about the scratches."

"First things first, Maggie," Saint Just told her. "Evan? Could you tell us, please, where you secure your bowling equipment when it's not employed in your recreational activity?"

"Huh?"

"Sometimes I feel like I'm freaking translating from one language to another." Maggie nearly fell into Saint Just's lap as she leaned across the seat again. "The bag, Daddy, where do you keep your bowling bag?"

Evan lifted his hat to scratch just behind his ear. "Well, it's two floors, you know? So I keep my bag in the backseat of my car. Makes the finger holes cold, but the ball warms up fast. Why?"

"In a moment, Evan. And where was your bowling ball Christmas Eve, when you left the bowling establishment? In the backseat of this vehicle?"

Evan nodded. "Since I didn't even go home, yeah, that's where it was. That's where I told the cops to look for it. The bag was there, but it was empty. That's when they arrested me."

"Yes, and as I recall the thing, that's when you refused to say where you had been that evening between the time you departed the bowling establishment and returned here," Saint Just said. "You're an honorable man, Evan."

"I'm afraid of my wife, Alex," Evan Kelly said with as much of a smile as a man laboring under the knowledge that his wife could probably pin him in the best two-of-three falls could muster. "But now that Carol has gone on television and told the world, I guess it doesn't matter anymore. The cops might not be so sure I killed Walter, but Alicia will never take me back."

Once again, Maggie leaned across the front seat. "But, Dad, now we know what happened. You went bowling, you put your bag in the backseat, you went to see your—you went to see Carol—and while you were there, somebody picked the lock on the car and copped your bowling ball to use it to bash in Bodkin's skull. This all could have been over Christmas Eve, if you'd just told the truth. You were set up, and the scratches on the car door prove it."

"The police just said I was a slam dunk, a truly stupid murderer, and once the prints from the bowling ball came back from the lab, I could just make everybody's job easier and plead guilty," Evan said, not looking convinced. "There really are scratches on my car door? How bad? Will I need to have the door repainted? I'm not sure if I should report that. It could raise my rates, you know, and repainting a door probably wouldn't exceed my deductible anyway. Let me come around and see how bad it is, okay?"

Maggie laid her head back against the seat. "He's worried about his insurance rates? We just get him off the hook, and the man is worried about his deductible? Now do you see why I left home, Alex, hmm? They're nuts. All of them. Even more nuts than I am."

She lifted her head when her father knocked on the window and pushed the button, lowering the glass. "Happy now, Dad? In the words of patsies everywhere, youse wuz framed."

Evan was still inspecting the scratches. "I don't know, Maggie. Can we prove when these scratches got here? Do they look fresh?"

"Your father has a point, depressing as the thought is, my dear. How do we prove that the scratches were made by someone attempting to break into the car? How do we, in point of fact, prove that we didn't make those marks, hoping to create evidence after the fact that will remove your father from any list of suspects?"

"I'm surrounded by killjoys, all of them poking holes in my balloon," Maggie grumbled, closing her eyes. "Damn the stupid cops! If they'd impounded Dad's car like it was evidence, or something, then everyone would know how those scratches got there. But, no, they take the bowling bag and leave the car."

"It was Christmas Eve, sweetings. Perhaps their minds were not entirely on their jobs. In any event, I concur. Your father has been deprived of exculpatory evidence," Saint Just said as, on his side of the car, Sterling sighed audibly.

"I was so hopeful there, for a moment. What shall we do now, Saint Just?" his friend asked as Evan rejoined him on the curb.

"Sterling, as our dear Maggie often says, I assume we now go back ten and punt. Maggie? I believe you said Mrs. Butts resides on Second Street?"

"Right, we go back to the original plan. Go upstairs, fellas. Eat some meatballs." Maggie hit the buttons that raised both front windows, put the car in gear, and pulled away from the curb, not saying another word until she stopped the car once more, on Second Street.

"We had it, Alex. We had the evidence. We had Dad off the hook." She sighed. "And now we don't."

"But we will persevere, Maggie, and we will prevail. We always do, don't we?"

"Yeah, right. Go see Lisa, see if you can charm her, and I'll meet you up at the corner on Wesley in, what, an hour?"

"As we've already planned, yes. And you will be visiting one of the other W.B.B. members in the interim?"

She shook her head. "No, much as I don't want to, I think it's time I talked to the little chippie ..."