Bowled Over

Chapter Twenty-Three

Maggie sat outside the jewelry store, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she looked through the large picture window while Carol waited on a customer who seemed to need nothing more than a new battery in her watch.

Maggie was wondering just what in hell was she doing here? She didn't want to talk to the woman. She didn't even want to see the woman, not ever again.

What did she say to her? Hi, I'm your lover's daughter—wanna do lunch?

The customer was digging in her purse now to pay for the new battery, so Maggie knew she could no longer put off the inevitable. Not if she wanted to talk to Carol before another customer showed up.

She got out of the car, hopped on one foot until she'd managed to open the backdoor and pull out the walker, and then carefully made her way to the sidewalk. She could put her broken foot down as she walked now, no more than five percent of her weight, pushing hard on the walker to support the rest of her. It was stupid, but it was still better than hopping, the cast dragging heavily on her bent leg—unless she had to go up or down. The curb was up, and she couldn't rest her weight on her left foot while she got her right up onto the curb.

So she hopped.

So the wheels on the front of the walker slid on some ice she hadn't seen.

So her first meeting with Carol the chippie took place out on the sidewalk—Carol looking down at her in real concern, Maggie looking up at her and feeling like a first-class klutz.

"Hi, I'm Maggie," she said as Carol helped her to her feet.

"Yes, I know, dear. I saw you in New York, remember? Are you all right? Nothing's hurting you? Would you like to come inside? I was just about to put up the Closed sign, for lunch. Are you hungry? I brought cold turkey sandwiches again today, leftovers from Christmas. Why I roasted a turkey and all the fixings for one person I can't tell you. Well, I could, but I bought the turkey before Evan was arrested, and ended up eating alone, in front of the TV. I'd be more than happy to give you a sandwich. I'm already so sick of turkey."

Maggie kept smiling and nodding as Carol kept talking about the difficulties inherent in cooking holiday meals for one, and before she knew it, they were past a thick beaded curtain and in a small back room, and Carol was helping her into a chair.

"You know you shouldn't have done that, right?" Maggie asked her as Carol opened a large insulated bag and pulled out two foil-wrapped sandwiches. "Talked to Holly Spivak, I mean."

"I know that now, yes," Carol told her, grabbing two paper cups from a small cabinet and two cans of soda from the same refrigerator she'd taken the insulated bag from a moment earlier. She worked with a quiet efficiency that was only betrayed once as she attempted to open one of the cans and her fingers shook so badly she couldn't get a firm grip on the pop-top.

"Here, I'll do that," Maggie said helpfully, motioning for Carol to push the cans over to her.

"Thank you, dear. I'm so nervous. I just thought that if I made the whole thing public, then the police would have to drop their charges against poor Evan. Would you like more mayonnaise on that sandwich? I keep some in the fridge."

"Er ... um ... sure, fine, that's good."

Maggie wanted to slide under the table. She wanted to take off her coat and look at her elbow because it was probably broken.

But those were small things.

What she really wanted to do was figure out how to shut Carol up and make her talk, both at the same time.

Of course, then there were the questions:

So you're really my dad's lover? Girlfriend? Chippie?

Do you know he doesn't really love you and was just using you for revenge on Mom?

Do you know he loves my mom? I don't know exactly why he loves my mom, but he does, and she loves him back. But, then, who understands what goes on inside a marriage, right?

Did my dad tell you what went on inside his marriage?

What were you two doing at your house on Christmas Eve? Exchanging gifts? Exchanging something else?

Do I really want to know?

"I suppose you're here to talk about Evan," Carol said, unwrapping her sandwich.

"Yeah, okay," Maggie said, wishing herself at the North Pole or somewhere, but not until she'd eaten her own sandwich, because she'd unwrapped it, and Carol used really good marbled rye, and wasn't stingy with the turkey, and even had put lettuce and tomato on the thing, for crying out loud.

Maggie's idea of a sandwich when she was working consisted of two slices of dry, hopefully semi-fresh bread and whatever lunchmeat hadn't yet turned green in her refrigerator.

When this woman had lunch, she had lunch.

"He's really the sweetest man," Carol said, resting her elbows on the table, her fisted hands tucked beneath her chin. With her blond curls, her small, upturned nose, her neatly pressed Peter Pan collar peeking out from above a pink angora sweater, her single strand of pearls, she looked like Richie Cunningham's mom, Marion, the menopausal version. Pretty, fairly clueless, and totally harmless. Except, with Maggie's dad arrested for murder, these certainly weren't Happy Days, were they?

"Yeah, Dad's one of the good guys."

Carol smiled. "He didn't betray his vows, you know. Not with me. We were just friends. Very good friends, but no more than that. I think he thought he wanted more, should want more, when we first began seeing each other, but he didn't. I invited him up for coffee after we'd been out for dinner for the third time, and he didn't even know what that meant. Such a sweet man. He loves your mother very much, and she hurt him very badly."

"With Bodkin. Yeah, I know."

"Oh, good," Carol said, at last picking up her sandwich. "I'm so glad he's told you about that. Walter Bodkin was a bad man, a very bad man. I did my best to explain that to Evan, explain that your mother was a victim. The way ... the way I was a victim." Maggie put down her soda can with an audible thump.

"Holy cripes, was there a woman in this town the guy didn't boink—I mean ... well, you know what I mean. Sorry."

"Don't be. I was a grown woman, recently divorced, and horribly lonely. I thought I knew what I was doing. I doubt he lingered with any woman beyond a week or two, and then went on his merry way again. But few held that against him. As I told your father, Walter Bodkin had this, well, this way about him. By the time Walter was gone, I was also ready to move on with my life."

"Yeah, a way about him. I heard he was very ... talented."

Carol looked down at her sandwich, her cheeks coloring becomingly. "That I didn't tell Evan. Walter was charming, convincing, even caring. Always a sympathetic ear, you understand? And before you knew it, he was—well, he was very good at what he did. A lonely woman appreciates feeling so ... so, um, catered to. It wasn't until at least a year or so after Walter had moved on to greener pastures, and greener pastures after that, that I realized I had been used, and not the other way around. I had been looking for comfort, some sort of reassurance that I was still an attractive woman, and he gave me that gift. But Walter was also a predator. That was the whole truth. He was keeping score in his own sick, private game. Possibly the lonely women he romanced were as guilty as he was, and might not have blamed him too much. Because I can't honestly say he didn't provide ... provide a service."

Maggie looked at her half-eaten sandwich and decided she'd lost her appetite. If she stayed in this town another week or so, she'd have lost all of the weight she gained when she quit smoking. "Mom blames the hormone pills her doctor gave her," she said, then wondered why the hell she'd said it, why she was defending her mother for doing something so completely stupid.

"We all had our reasons, I'm sure. I understand there are some women who were actually grateful to Walter, even after he moved on."

"The W.B.B.s," Maggie said, reaching for her walker. "It's a club. But you didn't join, did you?"

Carol smiled sweetly. "No, I didn't. I'd like to think I still had some pride, when it was over. But maybe a club isn't so far-fetched. Isn't that why wives are so unhappy? Men have their clubs, their activities. They golf, they fish, they bowl. My ex-husband made a second career out of sports, card games and beer, all with his friends. What have we women got? Our homes, juggled careers, children if we're lucky? Oprah? And nobody plays bridge anymore. We live in a small town, Maggie, and it's even smaller in the winter months, with the tourists gone. Walter was excitement. And I believe I got your father to understand that, understand what happened to Alicia. So when he came here Christmas Eve, it was to exchange presents, and to say good-bye. I'm moving to Colorado next week to be with my grown daughter and her children. I'll come back, if there's a trial, of course, to testify in Evan's behalf."

Maggie pushed herself to her feet, feeling better, much better. "You're a good friend to my dad, Carol. Thank you."

Carol also got to her feet. "I gave him a tie," she said as she walked with Maggie to the door of the store. "You know, Christmas Eve, when we exchanged presents. He gave me a food chopper. I don't know how I'm going to pack that and get it through airport security." She leaned over to kiss Maggie's cheek. "You're a good daughter. He's very proud of you. He talked about you all the time. You, and all the children."

Maggie blinked furiously as tears stung at her eyes. "Do you have any idea who might have killed Walter? My ... my friend and I are trying to figure out who did it, to get Dad off the hook."

Carol sighed. "No, I'm afraid I don't. I wouldn't think your father had any enemies."

"Enemies? My father?" Maggie forgot her tears. "But it was Bodkin who was killed."

"Yes, dear, I know," Carol said, unlocking the door and holding it open for Maggie. "But out of the many men in this town, why was your father the one who was chosen, made to look guilty? Such a kind, gentle ... well, such an almost timid man. Not a murderer at all. It seemed an odd choice for a—is the term fall guy? Evan called me yesterday, to tell me that you and your English friend are hoping to uncover the real murderer, and that you've done this sort of thing before, and are quite good at it. Maybe, when you find the person who really killed Walter, he'll answer that question for you: Why Evan?"

"I gotta go," Maggie said, her heart pounding. "I've got to meet, um, meet my English friend. Carol, thank you so much. Thanks for being there for my dad when my mom tossed ... well, when he was vulnerable. Thanks for coming forward as his alibi, because I know that couldn't have been easy. I hope you're very happy in Colorado. But I've really gotta go ..."

She hopped off the curb with more success than she'd managed in her attempt to climb it, shoved the walker into the backseat and just about fell into the front seat, trying to aim the key at the ignition at the same time.

Why Dad?

Dad had an enemy?

Oh God, oh God, oh God ... why hadn't she and Alex thought of that possibility?

Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, Maggie realized she'd only been with Carol for about fifteen minutes. Alex would have just been getting into Second Stage Charming with Lisa Butts in that amount of time, but she'd drive past Second and Wesley anyway, just to be sure.

He wasn't there. She knew he wouldn't be there. Damn it, she needed to talk to him!

So where to now? She had at least a half hour to kill. It would be stupid to go back to her father's place, because it would take ten minutes to bump up the stairs, and she'd get to the apartment just in time to bump herself back down again.

Sherlock Holmes never had this kind of problem ...

She was just about to turn around, go back to Second and Wesley, wait it out there, when she saw Henry Novack's van parked in front of the donut shop.

Seeing Henry hadn't been on the top of her To Do list, but the donut shop wasn't a bad idea.

Maggie parked out front, in the loading zone, and waited only a minute or so before Henry came waddling out with a huge box of donuts. She beeped her horn and motioned for him to come over, join her in the car.

"You got any crиme-filled?" she asked him as he wedged himself into the front seat, sucking in his breath until he could reach the lever that allowed him to push the seat back as far as it would go. "Not the custard cream, the white stuff. The sugary stuff?"

"I don't know, boss lady. How bad do you want one?" Henry asked, lifting the lid only slightly, then using it as a fan, to spread the smell of fresh donuts throughout the car.

"Don't toy with me, Novack. Do you or don't you?"

"If I did, and if my boss wanted one, that would mean I was on the job while I was in the donut shop, right? And then there's all my time getting to the donut shop, and my time now, of course. Hundred bucks? On top of what you already owe me for tracking down Mae Petersen and pumping her. Because I just came from seeing her."

The smell of powdered sugar was really getting to Maggie. And she had just saved that huge retainer she was going to pay Cyndy the Shyster. Besides, she really had to stop counting pennies—pinching pennies, as Alex called it. She'd been making strides in believing herself successful. She'd bought the house, she'd ... okay, she'd bought the house. That was it, so far. Now maybe it was time really to let loose in all areas of her life. If nothing else, spending all this money was one sure way to get her back to her computer, and writing another book.

"All right, all right, it's a deal. Henry, have you ever considered a future in used car sales? Or maybe as a cemetery plot salesman? Politics?"

Henry laughed. "I like you, Maggie, I really do. You're so weird. Here you go—one crиme-filled. I've got glazed, too."

"Keep it on the back burner for me," Maggie said around her first bite of donut. "Oh, God, this is good. Donuts, fudge, saltwater taffy, caramel corn—I can't get within a mile of the ocean without craving all of them. So, what did Mae have to say to you?"

"I get paid no matter if the information is good or not?"

"You want a written contract, Henry? I've got a hot-shot mob lawyer here in town on retainer. And she works cheaper than you."

"Naw," he said, Maggie's sarcasm sailing right over his head, "I trust you to pay me. I'm just rattling your cage, making a joke. All fat people are jolly. Everyone knows that. Mob lawyer, you say? Hey, aren't they all? Here, take the glazed. It's still sorta warm."

Maggie looked at the donut, debated for a full two seconds, and then grabbed it. "Got any napkins? How did you approach Mae, anyway?"

"Ah," Novack said, wiping a bit of eclair custard from his chin, "that's the beauty of it. I skunked her. Well, first I stalked her, then I skunked her. Followed her to the supermarket and cornered her in the produce department. Told her I worked as a stringer—that's a publishing term, Maggie, stringer —for the New York Post, and was sent here to do a story on Cleo Dooley's murdering papa. Even took my digital camera along, to take pictures of her, you know? I had her pose with the persimmons. Let me tell you something, Maggie, the woman is no brain trust. She bought everything I said, hook, line, and sinker. I thought I'd never be able to shut her up."

Maggie sighed audibly. "I couldn't have run into a nun on sabbatical in the casino? Oh no, I've got to run into Henry Novack, man of many talents, blackmail not being the least of them. And she knew who Cleo Dooley was—is? That she's me, I mean? Isn't that terrific—not. But go on, what did she tell you?"

"Not much," Novack said, losing his grin. "All she really wanted to talk about were the Majesties. How they're the best bowling team in South Jersey, how the four of them have been together for, like, since forever, how somebody has to die before anyone on the waiting list gets to be on the team. I have to tell you, Cleo—I mean, Maggie—these people are seriously bent. Bowling? Get real. You throw a ball and knock over some pins. You have beer frames, and those might be fun. But—bowling? It's not even a real sport."

"Don't say that around my father, Henry," Maggie warned him before stuffing the last of the glazed donut in her mouth. "So that was it? You couldn't get her to talk about the murder? She didn't tell you if she thinks my dad did it?"

"Oh, she says he's guilty, all right. She saw the two of them fighting one night in the parking lot, a couple of weeks before the murder, you know? Said they were really going at it, except that your dad was kind of hitting the air a lot, and the dead guy was sort of dancing around, and laughing when your dad missed him."

"Did you ask her the question Alex wanted you to ask her? If she got a call on Christmas Eve, inviting her for free bowling? Did she tell you who called her?"

"Oh, right, that. Yeah, she got the call. From Bodkin."

"Damn. That's who Dad says called him. We even have the message on his answering machine. Fat lot of good that does us—the dead guy made the calls. And there's no way of knowing who called him, if anyone did. Which the murderer probably did, to get Dad and him to the lanes. To try get the whole team there, actually, then wait until Dad and Bodkin left, and he followed Dad, got the bowling ball, then somehow got Bodkin to meet him on the beach, in the dark."

Novack was working on his second eclair. "You talking to me, or to yourself?"

"I'm sorry, Henry. You did a fine job, really. But I have to go now, pick up Alex. What are you planning for the rest of the day?"

"I dunno. I thought maybe I'd go see if I can talk to the redheaded guy—Panelli, right? You know, the captain of the big bad bowling team? If Mae Petersen could believe I'm a reporter, I'll bet I can make him believe it, too."

"All right, I guess. Just be careful. We already know somebody thinks you're being too nosy. At least now, pretending you're a reporter, it makes your nosiness explainable."

"No problem-o, Maggie. I just hope we don't crack the case too soon. I want to get my go-cart repainted, and that doesn't come cheap."

"Glad I can help," Maggie said as Novack pushed his way out of her father's sedan. "As long as you're not stalking me anymore, I'm happy."