Bowled Over

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"He called her Ally? Really? And she rubbed his back? Omigod, that's almost creepy."

"You have such a fascination with that word—creep. Creepy. I must say that I was myself at point-non-plus for a few moments, but signs of affection between a man and woman do not, to my mind, extend to creepy."

"That's only because they're not your parents," Maggie told him as she used the walker to clomp her way laboriously up the two-level handicap ramp that led to the front door of the bowling ally ... lane ... establishment. "Damn, they couldn't find an easier way to do this? There must be fifty feet of ramp here, and all the sections of cement pavement are at different heights. I can't imagine trying to push a wheelchair over those bumps, going uphill. You know, I have a whole new perspective on what so many people laughingly call 'handicap access.' I say we make the jerks that design these things try to go up and down or in and out on walkers, on crutches, in wheelchairs. Because somebody's doing this all wrong."

"Yes, my dear, point taken, unless you wish for me to procure a soapbox for you to stand on as you continue your tirade," Alex said as he reached over to push the metal plate meant to open the glass doors to the bowling lane.

"See? I can't reach that thing from here, can I? They think I have nine-foot arms? By the time I press the plate, get myself back over to where I can go through the doors, the doors would be closing. Stupid! Yeah, well, I'm going to write somebody a real lollapalooza of a letter when this is over. Now tell me again what we're going to do here, while I tell you that we do none of it until we've sampled their snack bar. I'm thinking pizza."

"Which we will not consume using a knife and fork," Alex informed her as he held open the door for her (the push-plate didn't seem to be working), and she pushed her way into the noise and heat and disinfected-shoes smell of one of the least-favorite haunts of her youth. That was probably because the only bowling trophy she had ever won was as Most Improved Bowler. Which wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't improved from a score of thirty-one to finally, for one game of the whole season, breaking one hundred and fifty.

Erin was the bowler of the Kelly family. She'd copped more than a dozen trophies, twice as many ribbons, and their father's undivided time two nights a week and Saturdays.

Maggie figured she probably should forgive her sister for that. Forgive, and move on. Yes, definitely she had to write to Erin about what was happening on the home front, that it might even soon be safe to come home. Maybe even call her, and not just write to her. Eeeww, that thought hurt ...

"Maggie, did you hear me?"

"Hmm? Oh, right. Not with a knife and fork. I've only been telling you that for months. It tastes better when you just pick it up and shove it in your mouth. Now try it with some french fries rolled up inside. Trust me—pure gourmet. Snack bar's to our right."

"Perhaps we might try the bar, instead," Alex suggested, pointing to a flashing sign that blinked red and blue, not too inventively, The Eleventh Frame. "That's where Henry Novack encountered the members of the Majesties, remember?"

"Drinking beer before they get their practice games in? I don't think so. These are dedicated athletes, or whatever you call bowlers. We'd have a better chance of seeing one of them in the snack bar. Ah, smell that? Thank God garlic can overcome any smell, even that of rented bowling shoes."

They settled in at the counter, all the plastic booth seats already occupied, and Maggie quickly ordered two slices for herself and two more for Alex. And two fountain Cokes. She loved fountain Cokes, and since the snack bar hadn't seemed to have changed in fifteen years, she hoped the Cokes hadn't, either.

"Maggie Kelly, right?" the woman behind the counter asked as she put down the sodas and pulled a pair of straws from her apron pocket. "Heard about your dad. Cops let him go?"

Maggie smiled weakly at one of the many nemeses of her youth. "Hi, Mrs. McGert. Yeah, they figured out he didn't do it."

"Not the way I heard it. I heard they just didn't have enough to go to trial with, like that, you know? Probably pick him up again in a week or two, that's what my Jerome says. Is he going to show up here? I wouldn't, if I was him."

"Mrs. McGert, Dad's bowled here for as long as I can remember, and I never heard him say one bad word about you. You've worked behind this snack bar for as long as I can remember, and you've been bad-mouthing him to everyone who comes in this place ever since Christmas Eve, haven't you? Sure, you have. But that's okay, because I've learned something these past few days—forgive your past, and move on. So I'm going to forgive you, Mrs. McGert, and move on."

"Uh ... yeah ... you do that," the woman said and looked at Alex, shrugged. "She was always a weird kid," she told him and then turned her back to go get their pizza.

At which time Maggie quickly but carefully pulled off the paper at the top of her straw, eased the paper down the straw a good two-thirds of the way (she'd experimented, and two-thirds of the way gave her optimum control), put the exposed end of the straw to her mouth, took careful aim ... and blew the paper sleeve directly at Mrs. McGert's broad backside.

"I've still got it. Direct hit."

"Hardly a challenge, with apologies to Mrs. McGert's massive posterior. I thought I heard you say you were going to forgive your past and move on."

"Not without a parting shot, I wasn't," Maggie said, prudently losing her smile as Mrs. McGert slid paper plates in front of them. "You know, crazy as this is, what with Dad still not out of the woods, I'm really enjoying myself. Maybe I ought to come home more often? Nah, that'd be pushing it, huh?"

"As you seem to revert to near childhood on such occasions—and keeping in mind your own admission that you were not an easy child—yes, I would concur. Ah, and here comes my friend of the other day, Mr. Joseph Panelli, and look who is with him, sweetings—the footballing hero himself."

Maggie turned on her stool, her mouth still filled with the pizza she'd yet to bite through entirely. "Barry Butts," she said around the slice, and then bit down hard, the hot tomato sauce quickly burning the roof of her mouth. "Ow-ow-ow," she said, holding her mouth open as she swiveled toward the counter once more. "Coke. Ah need Coke," she said, grabbing her glass and sucking hard on the straw.

"Congratulations, sweetings. I do believe you've caught Mr. Panelli's attention." Alex stood up, extending his hand to the captain of the Majesties. "Joe, m'man, good to see you again!"

"M'man?" Maggie muttered. "Cripes, I have to get the man out of Jersey. Fast."

She turned around again in time to see Alex and a redheaded man about her dad's age shaking hands while Barry Butts looked on from a few feet away.

"Maggie? Maggie Kelly?" Barry said in that aw-shucks voice she remembered from high school. At the time, she'd thought he was the modest sports hero. Now she thought he was as fake as a three-dollar bill. "Lisa told me you'd been by to see her. And your friend, too, right?"

Ah. There may have been a little bit of an edge to his last statement, Maggie thought as she wiped her hands on a paper napkin and then shook hands with the one-time captain of the football team. The man had a grip like an iron vise. "Yeah, we did. God, it was good to see her. Sorry we missed you, but Lisa said you were at work?"

"Right. Not a lot of call for bikes in the wintertime, but I have to do repairs, stuff like that. You remember my dad's bike rental shop? Bikes, trikes, two– and four-seater surreys? Put your butt in a Butts? We do Rollerblades and skateboards now, too, and body boards. But the bikes are still the Number One rental."

"Do I remember? Like anyone could ever forget that fantastic slogan, huh? Still down at the north end of the Boardwalk, right, in the older part of town?" Maggie said, her cheeks starting to hurt because she had to fight to keep the smile on her face. After all, if Alex was right, Barry Butts had recently killed a man. And framed her father for the murder. And might want to kill her father. And was a bastard to her good friend, Lisa.

Well, she could think of Lisa as her good friend if she wanted to, damn it!

"Yeah, still in the same spot. Forty-two years now. Mom's been gone a long while, and Dad died a couple of years back, and it's mine now. The business, the house. I thought about moving away, years ago, after high school. But you know the saying—I'd rather be the big fish in a small pond, heh-heh. I have it good here."

In the back of her mind, Maggie was humming that Bruce Springsteen song, Glory Days. Barry and Lisa could have done walk-ons in the video ...

"You and Lisa have it good," Maggie corrected smoothly, pulling herself back to attention. "Your mom? Gosh, I remember your dad, but I don't think I remember your mom."

"Like I said, she left a long time ago," Barry said, a tic beginning to work in his cheek.

Maggie took the words, and the tic, as evidence that she and Alex were on the right track. Barry's mom had run off, so Barry was extra-possessive of Lisa, making sure she didn't do to him what his mother had done to him. Wow. Maggie's parents may have screwed her up some, but Barry had her in that department, hands down.

But he was still a murderer, and would get no sympathy from her.

"Why don't you sit down a while, Barry," she said, patting the stool beside her invitingly just as Mr. Panelli sat down on the stool on the other side of Alex, the two of them still deep in conversation. "You're getting ready for the big New Year's tournament?"

"Yeah. It's going to be a tough one. You know, what with half the team only coming on board this week. Frankie Kelso's a good guy, but I don't know that he can plug the two-hole. I'll be ... well, I'll be bowling in the four-hole, taking your dad's place."

"It's the most important slot, isn't it?" Maggie asked, only an effort of will keeping her from batting her eyelashes at the man. But she couldn't play that dumb, not when she'd been listening to bowling stories for nearly half her life.

"It can be, if we go down to the wire. If the match is out of reach, then it means nothing, and everybody's already walked away to watch another match. But, to my mind, the two-hole is the big one, if you want to pull away, pull away fast, you know? Lead-off strong, follow in the two-hole strong, and you're already halfway there, you know? But like I said, Frankie's number two."

"Even so, the four, um, hole, is a big responsibility. But, then, maybe not for the captain of the football team the year we went to states, huh?"

"The year we won states," Barry said, grabbing Maggie's second slice of pizza and shoving half of it into his mouth. "I'm used to pressure. I do my best, under pressure. You should have tried me out, Maggie, back in high school."

"You didn't know who I was, back in high school," Maggie said, this time losing her smile. But she recovered quickly. "You and Lisa and the others—you were the in-crowd. I was the ... I don't know what I was. Maybe the square peg in the round hole?"

Barry leaned closer to her, to whisper his next words in her ear. "That's the round peg in the round hole, Maggie. You don't know what you missed."

Then, before Maggie could say anything—or slap his stupid, grinning face—Barry got to his feet, smoothed down his shirt, and told Joe Panelli he'd meet him back at the lane. "Gotta hit the head first."

"I'd like to hit the head—his head—with something really, really hard," Maggie said, swiveling to grab onto Alex's arm.

Joe Panelli leaned forward and turned his head to look at her. "Like they say your daddy did?"

Suddenly Maggie couldn't wait to get out of the bowling alley, out of Ocean City, out of the past that hadn't changed all that much in the present.

"They dropped the charges against my dad, Mr. Panelli. Didn't Mrs. McGert tell you when she was making her general announcement?"

"I know, I was just joking. Tell your dad to come by later on tonight if he can, okay? I owe him an apology. A big one."

Maggie softened, nodded. "I'll do that, Mr. Panelli. I know my dad would appreciate it. The past few days haven't been easy."

"Tell me about it. No, it hasn't been easy, not for any of us," Joe Panelli said, and Maggie saw his gaze shift to his left, as if he could see Barry Butts walking away from him. "And it's not going to get any easier when I have to tell Barry he's off the team. If your dad wants to come back, that is. But don't say anything, okay? I want to ask him myself, when I apologize."

He then stood up, slapped Alex on the shoulder. "Good seeing you again. And don't forget to come watch a while when you're done eating. Lane twenty-seven. We'll be here until ten or so. Oh, and be careful to be good to Evan's daughter. I hear he's a real killer. Just kidding!" he added quickly, laughing as he headed out of the snack bar.

Maggie and Alex watched him go, watched as another man came up to him and the two stopped to talk.

"You know who that is, Alex? Another trip down Memory Lane, that's who that is, well, minus that beer belly he's carrying around with him now, and the hair he's missing on the top of his head. That's Frankie Kelso. He graduated two or three years ahead of the rest of us—Lisa, Brenda, Joyce, and me. I remember Brenda walking the halls our senior year, though, with his class ring hanging around her neck on a chain—you know, like your quizzing glass? I was so jealous."

"If you wish to have my quizzing glass to hang about your neck, sweetings, you have only to ask. You were enamored of Mr. Kelso?"

"No. I was enamored of the way Brenda wore his ring around her neck. She looked so ... so self-satisfied, I guess. Now Brenda is a housewife—not that there's anything wrong with that—and her Frankie has just become a Majestic. Which means he'll be bowling three, maybe four nights a week until he's too old to lift the ball. Just like my Mom and Dad. History repeating itself."

"I promise never to take up bowling, sweetings," Alex told her as he helped her to her feet, positioned the walker for her.

"No, you wouldn't. Your hobby is sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. Not that I'm sorry, because you've been great so far. But this Samaritan thing, Alex? You still want to do that?"

"There are many things I want to do, Maggie," Alex told her as they made their way to the last row of seats directly behind lane twenty-seven. "First and foremost, I want to get this over with and return to the city. I begin to believe I was not fashioned for the hinterlands. Joe Panelli inquired as to whether or not I'd be interested in purchasing two tickets to the pork-and-sauerkraut dinner on New Year's Day at the local firehouse auxiliary building. And I found myself very nearly saying yes. Adding to that, I have no idea what a firehouse might be, let alone its auxiliary. Firehouse, bowling lane—I now have to assume both are buildings, don't I? And just when I had become used to partaking of breakfast in a house of pancakes. Sometimes I can say I truly feel Sterling's pain."

Maggie laughed out loud, causing Barry Butts to look their way as he took his ball from the return rack. "As you've probably already guessed, Alex, a firehouse is where they keep the fire trucks, and the auxiliary is the wives of the men who are the volunteer firemen—or, saying it another way, the women who run the socials and pork-and-sauerkraut dinners. And, speaking of sauerkraut, if I remember my history at all correctly, the First George ate sauerkraut or cabbage all the time. Couldn't speak a word of English, he made the Royal residences all stink like boiled cabbage all the time."

"Before my time, I fear," Alex told her quietly.

"Yeah, I know. Your George is still regent, isn't even the fourth George yet, not in our books. But I did a lot of research before deciding which era I wanted to write in, you know? I'm still looking for a way to slip it in that the household of the first George had only a little less than one hundred people living together—and employed only one laundress. I have a friend who sets her books in those times, and she once told me she makes sure her heroine and hero end up going swimming in a clear stream or get caught in the rain at least once a book, because those guys weren't exactly known for their personal hygiene habits."

"And you're digressing for what reason?"

Maggie slumped down on the uncomfortable plastic seat. "I don't know. I guess it's because Dad is going to show up soon, and then you're going to do your thing, and it's probably going to get messy."

"Hi, folks!"

"And speaking of things getting messy ..." Maggie said, slumping even lower in her chair. "Hi, Henry. What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, I guess," he said as he carefully juggled a plate of nachos and a vanilla milk shake. "Hey, move down two, will you? One seat doesn't do it for me. Wanna nacho?"

"Thanks, but no. Henry, I thought we discussed this. Your mother isn't overfeeding you now—you're overfeeding you."

"Maggie ..."

"Sorry, Henry," she said, noticing how his smile had slipped away. "So, what have you been doing today, since I saw you, that is?"

"Nothing much. I drove home to see the body shop guy about my go-cart. Gonna cost me a penny or two I don't have. But Gabe, he's my friend, and a real genius, he told me the guy who hit me drives a black car. He could see the transfer—that's what he called it. He said I should have called the police, and I guess I should have, huh? But that's my information for tonight. The guy who hit me drives a black car. How much is that worth to you?"

Maggie sighed. "Considering the fact that every other car out there that isn't silver is black? But I think different car companies use different black paints, so maybe we should look at your paint as extra evidence the cops can use once we turn the killer over to them."

Henry looked at Alex. "The killer? You got him figured out? Naw, no way. Not this fast."

"We have made a few assumptions, Henry," Alex told the man. "We believe it was a crime of jealousy, even of passion."

"But premeditated," Maggie put in quickly. "Because the killer was trying to kill two birds with one bowling ball."

"You're weird," Henry said, popping another nacho into his mouth. "So is he here? The killer, I mean?"

Maggie leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Yeah, he's right up there, sitting on the front bench in that ugly yellow shirt."

"There's three guys sitting there in ugly shirts, Maggie. Which one is he?"

Maggie was about to point to the guy in the middle, Barry Butts, when she felt hands on her shoulders and turned her head to see her father standing behind her. "Hi, Dad. Where's Sterling? You didn't come alone, did you?"

"Sterling's at the snack bar," Evan Kelly told them, his wistful gaze on the Majesties. "And there they are. My team. My friends." He shook his head. "Never take anything for granted, Maggie. It can all be gone in an instant. Poof."

Maggie felt Alex put his hand over hers and she closed her eyes, all the old nervousness back. Alex was here now, but for how long? "I'll ... I'll try to remember that, Daddy. Oh, look, Mr. Panelli has seen you and he's waving to you. No, wait, don't go, Dad, here he comes."

"Evan, good to see you, buddy," the captain of the Majesties said, extending his hand.

Evan Kelly pulled himself up to his full height, looked straight into Joe Panelli's eyes, then raked his gaze down the man's figure and back up again, blinked, and said, "Excuse me? For a moment, I mistook you for—"

"I've got a big mouth, Evan, and I went off the handle like a jerk. I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry. We want you back, Evan. The Majesties need you."

"—Someone I once admir—what?"

"I said, I'm sorry, Evan. And we want you back."

Alex squeezed Maggie's hand again as she blinked back sudden tears. Bowling with the Majesties might not be her idea of nirvana, but for her dad, being on the team meant everything to him. "Oh, Daddy, isn't that wonderful?"

"Well, yes ... I suppose it is," Evan said, looking confused. "So who's off, Joe? Barry, right? Frankie was number one on the list, Barry number two. So Barry goes?"

"Easy, Dad ..." Maggie warned quietly.

"Yes, Evan, now's not the time to worry about such things," Alex said, getting to his feet and reaching out his hand to Maggie's father. "Allow me to congratulate you, sir."

"Thanks, Alex," Evan said. "But I don't think I want to be here, Joe, when you tell Barry. If that's all right with you?"

"Sure, Evan," Joe said, looking over his shoulder to where Barry Butts was now standing on the lane, looking good in his ugly yellow Majesties shirt, staring down the pins at the end of the alley. "This isn't gonna be fun ..."

"You don't know the half of it, Joe," Evan said, and this time Maggie reached up and grabbed his wrist, squeezing it to warn him off. God, she hated confrontations. And yet, Alex seemed to live for them.

Except maybe not tonight.

"Alex? You're being awfully quiet."

"Probably because a fool should keep his mouth shut and allow people to suppose he is a fool, rather than to open that mouth and prove it fact," Alex said, helping her to her feet. "Henry? If you'd step out of the row and hand Maggie her walker, please? We need to speak privately. Oh, and there you are, Sterling, just in the nick of time. Allow Evan to take you back to his house, if you please?"

"Alex, what's wrong?" Maggie asked once Sterling and her father were on their way out of the bowling lanes ... bowling establishment. God, Alex was ruining her for American English. "And why are you a fool?"

"Can you guys talk louder? I'm missing most of this," Henry said as the three of them stood close to the wall, beneath the sign for The Eleventh Frame.

"In a moment, Henry," Alex said, nodding toward the lanes.

Maggie watched as Joe Panelli spoke to Barry Butts, Barry's face getting redder and redder by the moment.

Joe kept speaking, gesturing, and Barry started to breathe so heavily that Maggie actually could see his chest going up and down from where she stood.

"Can you imagine how Lisa must feel if he looks at her the way he's looking at Mr. Panelli?" she asked Alex, feeling a shiver go down her spine. "I'd be scared spitless. I think I already am, to tell you the truth."

Alex stepped in front of her as Barry Butts shouted a word that would have gotten Maggie's mouth washed out with soap if she'd said it within her mother's hearing. He grabbed his bowling ball, shoved it in his leather bag, picked up his street shoes, and took the steps up to where they were standing two at a time.

"Where is he?" he demanded, his eyes wide and wild. "Where's your murdering father?"

"I suggest, sir, that you step back," Alex said quietly, his hands positioned on his sword cane, ready for action.

"Yeah? And who the hell are you? Where's your father, Maggie?"

Maggie put a hand on Alex's arm, wishing he'd move away from her, and pushed her walker forward. "You're through, Barry. We know what you did."

Barry opened his mouth to say something—Maggie didn't think it was to blurt out a confession—and then turned on his heel and stomped toward the exit, still in his bowling shoes.

"He didn't change his shoes," Henry said unnecessarily. "Man, I wouldn't want to meet that guy in a dark alley."

"Or on a deserted beach," Alex said, holding onto Maggie's walker until Barry Butts was no longer visible. "And that's the piece that's missing, isn't it? How Barry Butts lured Walter Bodkin to a deserted beach at midnight, in December. All right, I believe we can go now."

"Go where?" Maggie asked, clomping her walker and wishing it, and her cast, on that deserted beach, no longer necessary. "And why are you a fool?"

"Because we were wrong, sweetings," Alex said as he pushed open the door leading to the steps and the handicap ramp.

"Wrong? Barry didn't kill Bodkin?"

"Oh, no, he killed him," Alex told her. "We don't have much time, if I'm right. Lisa could be in danger."

"Lisa? Not Dad? Why is everybody always in danger? You're getting to be like that robot, Alex. 'Danger! Danger Will Robinson!' Jeez."

"Lost in Space. I loved that show. Who's Lisa?" Henry asked from behind them.

Maggie looked at him over her shoulder. "Henry, go home."

"The hell I will. This is starting to be fun. Now, who's Lisa?"

Alex picked up Maggie and carried her down the steps and to the car, Henry still huffing and puffing along behind them, still asking questions.

"That's it, don't tell me. Just leave me here," Henry said as Maggie slid into the driver's seat. "Everybody always leaves me, sooner or later. Yeah, well, you know what? Not this time, folks. I don't know where you're going, but Henry Novack is going there with you."

He headed for his van, parked nearby, nearly at a run.

"Poor Henry. We could have taken him with us," Maggie said as Alex closed the door on the passenger side and buckled his seat belt.

"He'll follow. We're going to Lisa's, Maggie. And hurry. I was wrong, wrong from the beginning. Barry Butts didn't kill Walter Bodkin or frame your father for Bodkin's murder because he was jealous of the association—real or imagined—with his wife."

"He didn't? Is that what you were being so quiet about earlier? You were thinking? And you ended up thinking you thought wrong?"

"I'll parse those sentences later," Alex said, holding onto the dashboard as Maggie turned onto Wesley. "Think, Maggie. We saw the Majesties tonight, watched them for some length of time."

"Maybe you did. I was just looking around, being bored."

"Honest to a fault. All right, I was watching them. Observing them. The Majesties are quite the team, aren't they?"

"You know they are, Alex. Don't drag this out with the obvious. Mae Petersen told Henry, who told me, that you just about have to have someone die to get a place on the team. There's a waiting list and everything, so they say, and—omigod, Alex!"

"Exactly. When Bodkin was killed, an opening was created on the Majesties. One Frankie Kelso, first on the list, took Bodkin's place. And, when your father was arrested, shamed, and dismissed from the team, the man second on the list, Barry Butts, took his place."

Maggie stopped at the red light, which gave her time to gawk at Alex. "Don't sit there and try to tell me that Walter Bodkin was killed for his place on a bowling team."

"Think back to watching the team tonight, Maggie. Think back to the moment Henry asked you to point out Barry Butts to him."

The light turned green. "Alex! Just say it, okay? No guessing games. We're only a few blocks from Lisa's house now."

"All right. I suppose I'm still so angry with myself for attempting to find some deep, psychological reason for the murder that I'm embarrassed to realize that greed is the motive in at least half the murders in this or any other country. I really must stop watching Dr. Phil."

"And The Learning Channel," Maggie said, turning onto Second Street. "Now spill it!"

"Joe—Mr. Panelli was sitting on one side of Barry Butts when you were attempting to point him out to Henry. Miss Petersen on his other side. All three of them wearing those atrocious yellow shirts, correct? And what was Mr. Frankie Kelso wearing, hmm?"

"I don't know. Was it green? Yeah, it was green. With a Jets logo on the back. Now tell me what that means."

"It means, Maggie, that Frankie Kelso had no idea he was soon to become a Majestic, and he does not own one of those ugly shirts."

"But Barry, who was number two on the waiting list—he already has a shirt. Alex! He already has a shirt, because he knew he was going to kill Walter Bodkin!"

"Except," Alex said as Maggie pulled to the curb two doors down from the Buttses' house, "removing Walter Bodkin would not assure Barry Butts of a place on the team. He needed to be rid of two players."

"Dad," Maggie said, cutting the engine. "Don't tell me, I think I've got it. When Dad and Bodkin fought, it lit a lightbulb in Barry's brain. If he killed Bodkin and framed Dad for the murder, then he'd get his spot on the Majesties without having to wait for someone else to grow old and croak on their own." She banged her fist on the steering wheel. "The man killed to get on a bowling team!"

"Ludicrous as it seems, yes, I think we finally have the correct motive. But there's still the matter of just how Barry was able to lure Bodkin onto the beach at midnight on Christmas Eve."

"And that's where Lisa comes in?" Maggie asked, feeling a knot beginning to form in the pit of her stomach. "Oh, please, Alex, please don't tell me Lisa was involved."

"How else would you lure a man like Bodkin to the beach, Maggie? Willingly or unwillingly, I believe Lisa made an assignation with the man. Except, of course, instead of Lisa, it was Barry who made an appearance on the beach. After stealing your father's bowling ball from his bag while he, your father, was not quite having an assignation of his own, but close enough as to make this entire thing a dance of supposed lovers, and send us guessing in all the wrong directions."

"If she did it, she was forced into it, Alex. Lisa is a scared woman. She looked scared when we saw her. And, okay, maybe a little guilty, now that I think back on it, so she probably knew, at least after the fact, that her husband killed Bodkin. And that's also why she was so very sure Daddy wasn't the murderer ..."

"We'll sort it all out later, Maggie. For now, I want you to stay here while I go pay a visit to the Butts family."

"Because you're worried about Lisa. Barry was pretty mad, wasn't he?"

"Yes. The wheels, as I've heard you say, are coming off his world. He wanted to know where your father is but, lacking Evan as a target, I believe Lisa will be the one to receive the brunt of his anger."

"Then I'm coming with you," Maggie said, unbuckling her own seat belt, just as the front door of the Buttses' house burst open and Barry came running out, heading down the street the short distance to the Boardwalk, and the building containing the Butts Bicycle Rental Shop.

"He's running! We can't let him get away!" Maggie said—shouted in the closed car. "And there's Lisa, standing at the door. Ah, man, look at her, Alex. She's holding a knife! Good for you, Lisa!"

But Alex was already gone, trotting after Barry, and Maggie turned the key in the ignition, not willing to be left behind. She wanted to be in on the kill, er, that is, the capture.

One hundred yards later, she slammed on the brakes, threw the gear shift into Park, and stumbled out of the car, already reaching for the backdoor and her walker, one eye on Alex, who was banging on the doors, calling Barry's name, doing both even as he was looking for a way to get inside the bicycle shop.

"Wait for me!" she yelled, hopping toward Alex, reaching him just as one side of the wide double doors flew open and Barry Butts raced by them on one of the rental bikes. Up the ramp he went, onto the Boardwalk, turning south.

"I told you to stay here."

"And I didn't listen," Maggie said, looking inside the bicycle shop. "Quick, Alex, one of those surreys. See that red one? It's a two-seater."

"And what do you propose I do with it?" he asked, even as he pulled the contraption forward.

"Simple. You pedal with both feet, I pedal with one foot, and we catch up to the bastard, take him down. Or do you know how to ride a bike? I never had you ride a bike in any of our books."

"Point taken," Alex said, lifting her onto the seat, and trotting around to climb into the other side. "Show me."

Maggie did a quick tutorial on how to work the pedals, and they were off, climbing the ramp onto the Boardwalk and heading after Barry Butts in the dark.

"How long is this Boardwalk, Maggie?"

"I don't know. Twenty-six, twenty-eight long blocks? But he'll go down one of the ramps and back onto the street at some point, don't you think?"

"Yes, I do. Keep pedaling."

There was no one else on the Boardwalk and the streetlights on the ocean side of the thing were the only illumination. But Barry wasn't that far ahead of them.

"He should be out of sight by now," Maggie said, holding onto Alex's cane as he steered the surrey and they both pedaled for all they were worth.

"He's bleeding, Maggie," Alex told her. "I saw blood on his shirt when he burst past us."

"Lisa! That took guts, didn't it? Or maybe she'd just plain had enough. Pedal faster, Alex!"

"You'll never catch him, you know."

Maggie sliced her eyes to the right, to see Henry Novack and his go-cart riding neck-and-neck with them. "Stop following us, Henry!"

He ignored her. "I can take him, you know. You've never seen me put the pedal to the metal. My pal Gabe souped it up for me. Extra battery power, or something. How much?"

"How much what?" Maggie called out in the cold wind that was slamming at them from the ocean. "How fast can you go, you mean?"

"No, Maggie," Henry shouted back. "How much is it worth to you for me to catch him for you?"

"He's a murderer, Henry. He's already killed one man, and he tried to run you down, remember?"

"I remember. Still not going to do it for free! How much!"

"Five hundred dollars, Henry," Alex said, still pedaling, even though Maggie had sort of forgotten to keep up her end.

"Oh, hell," Maggie said, leaning against the back of the seat. "Go get him, Henry. We'll catch up."

"Right," Henry said, and then surprised Maggie by pulling the sword cane out of her hands. He waved it once, above his head, pointed it out straight in front of him, yelled, "Charge!" and was gone, pulling away from the surrey as if it was standing still.

"Go, Henry, go!" Maggie shouted, leaning forward now, pedaling for all she was worth with her one good foot.

She saw Henry pulling closer to Barry, who seemed to be running out of gas—well, figuratively.

Closer.

Closer.

"Sic him, Henry!"

Closer.

Henry drew abreast of the bike and lowered the cane, sticking it between the spokes of the back wheel of the bicycle.

There was a noise. Not a nice noise. Sort of a twanging noise, probably caused by the metal inside the cane colliding with the metal spokes.

"My cane!" Alex shouted, and then added more quietly. "My beautiful cane."

But, as brakes went, you didn't really get much better than sticking a sword through bicycle spokes.

Barry Butts flew over the handlebars, doing a remarkable somersault, and landed, well, on his butt. That way he didn't have too far to fall when he fainted.

Alex slowed and then stopped the surrey and hopped out of it in time to see Henry holding the cane, bent into nearly a ninety degree angle, over Barry, daring him to try to get up.

"Got him!" Henry crowed.

"But my cane ..."

"Oh, get over it, Alex," Maggie told him as she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed 9-1-1.

"My cane ..." Alex said again, and Maggie began to giggle. She'd never seen Alex so flustered. "Was that entirely necessary, Henry?"

"Seemed so to me," he said, handing the cane to Alex. "And I did it, didn't I? I'm a hero now. A five-hundred-dollars-richer hero, that is."

"Yes, you are," Alex said dully, still looking at his cherished, bent possession. "But my cane ..."