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."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Saint Just opened the car door and slid onto the front seat, feeling very much the conspirator. "She wants to talk to you," he said without preamble as he reached over to turn up the heat, as he'd been standing at the windy corner for more than ten minutes, and had begun to feel the chill. "Now."
"Who wants to talk to me now? Lisa? Lisa wants to talk to me?" Maggie's eyes were wide. "She hates me. She never talked to me in school. She didn't even know who I was until the day I unstuffed her, for crying out loud. Why on earth would she want to talk to me?"
"She didn't confide that information to me, but I think you should see her, Maggie. She's one of the ghosts from your past, isn't she?"
"Ghosts? Like I'm haunted or something? Don't go all Doctor Bob on me now, Alex."
"Lisa Butts is a very unhappy woman, Maggie. And, I believe, a considerably frightened woman."
"Lisa? She ruled the world, Alex. Well, our world."
"Time moves on, and the world changes. When I first arrived, introduced myself, she seemed wary, unwilling to talk. But I'd had the happy coincidence of arriving in the midst of a small meeting for refreshments—Lisa called it a coffee klatch? At any event, two of the women there were on our list of W.B.B. members, although the third was not. Still, the topic of conversation was, as one would expect, the murder of Walter Bodkin."
"Hold it. Back up a minute, okay? How did you introduce yourself? You never told me how you were going to get through the door."
Saint Just smiled. "Why sweetings, I took a page from our books, you might say. I told them I was an author friend of yours in town with you for the holidays, and planning on writing a recap of the murder for my next true crime anthology."
"You're kidding. You have got to be kidding. You and Henry, both using variations on a theme? And they swallowed that?"
"I have no idea if any of them even know the definition of anthology. I have found, much as you dislike hearing such things, that once I've bowed over a woman's hand and complimented her eyes, there is nothing all that difficult about having myself invited in from the cold for tea and biscuits."
"It's a damn good thing you're no Ted Bundy."
"And now I have no idea what you mean. However, if I might return to what I've learned?"
"My irresistible perfect hero. I should give you a wart on the end of your nose in your next book, and maybe it will show up on your face here and—no, forget that. That would mean I'd have to look at the wart, wouldn't I? I'm not a masochist. Who were the other two women?"
"Jeanette Bradley and Brenda Kelso. As I said, both on the list of W.B.B. members. Not that anyone volunteered that particular snippet of information. They both seem fairly innocuous women with uninspiring husbands, and I believe we can cross them off our list. In any event, we chatted about the murder for some minutes, Mrs. Butts lending very little to the conversation, as she seemed fully occupied in shredding her paper napkin and keeping her eyes downcast. It was only when the others left that she asked about you, asked me to bring you to her."
"And you said yes," Maggie said on a sigh. "Why? Do you think she knows something? Because of the way she was acting?"
"I do, yes. I know the good Left –tenant Wendell would remind me that feelings are not evidence, but as Steve is not here with us, I think we can go with my powers of observation and the conclusions I draw from those observations. At least for the nonce. Now, are you willing to face your ghost?"
"I really wish you'd stop saying that," Maggie told him as she put the car in gear and executed a very neat U-turn, heading back down Second Street to the gray two-story house sadly in need of fresh paint. "And, before we go in, I've got some information for you. Well, not exactly information, but something Carol said started me thinking that maybe we've missed something."
"Indeed," Saint Just said, looking at her in some interest. "How depressing to believe we are not infallible."
"I'm not writing this story, Alex, so get used to it—it's not like we're following some outline I've already gotten the bugs out of, plugged up all the plot flaws so you can look good."
"Ah, then it's not me that's no longer infallible, but you. Just so that we're clear on that."
"Bite me," Maggie said, turning off the car's motor. "Carol said, wondered, who Dad's enemy is. Not Bodkin's enemy—Dad's."
Saint Just reached inside his topcoat and extracted the grosgrain ribbon that held his quizzing glass, began swinging it idly back-and-forth at chest level as he considered Carol's question from every angle he could muster. "Hmm, an interesting twist on the thing, isn't it?"
"Right," Maggie said, unbuckling her seat belt and turning toward him on the seat. "The murderer could have set up anybody, well, nearly anybody, if we stick to our theory that the killer is married or was married to a W.B.B. member. Or he—the murderer—could have just bopped Bodkin with a hammer or a tree branch, or any number of weapons, and not tried to frame Daddy or anyone else at all. Right? But he didn't. He went out of his way to break into Dad's car, steal his bowling ball, use it as the murder weapon. So why, Alex? Why did the murderer do that? And why Dad, just about the last person in the world anyone would think capable of murder?"
Saint Just lifted the quizzing glass and began tapping its edge against his chin, cudgeling his brains for an answer to that question as he looked toward the vast ocean, the water gray and cold with winter. "We had thought it could be because of that contretemps your father and Bodkin partook
of in the parking lot outside of the bowling establishment a few weeks ago. There were witnesses, correct?"
"Yeah, I thought about that one. And I ran into Henry—not literally, not this time—and he talked to Mae Petersen this morning, and he said that what she told him about was seeing the fight. There probably isn't anyone in town who doesn't know about the fight."
"If I were to murder someone," Saint Just said, still tapping the quizzing glass against his chin, stopping only when he realized what he was doing, and how Maggie had written that affectation into their books, "I might consider it prudent to find a way to cast suspicion on someone else and away from me. Prudent, and plausible. Indeed, I might even first discover that idea after observing the man I wanted dead and another man rolling about a parking lot, beating on each other for all to see. But that would only be a theory, one not easy to prove."
"So you think Dad didn't have any enemy, that Bodkin's murder wasn't a two-for-one shot—kill one, convict the other and send him up the river and, bam, two enemies gone with one blow? I'm finding that scenario pretty hard to believe, myself. So, bottom line here, you think that the fight with Bodkin just gave the murderer the idea to try to pin the blame on Daddy?"
Saint Just considered this for a full minute. "Yes, the latter theory seems more logical," he said at last.
"But you aren't buying it, are you? Not one hundred percent."
"No, I don't think I am. At least not completely. The more I learn, the more I realize—we realize—that the late Walter Bodkin's amorous adventures may have been the worst-kept secret in this relatively speaking small town. There was no real reason to go to the trouble to select your father from so many possible suspects, so many cuckolded husbands. Indeed, if the police would only let go their grip on their conviction that your father is their slam dunk, they would probably have at least two-score names to put on their suspects list."
Maggie sank back against the seat. "So Daddy does have an enemy. That's what you're saying, isn't it?"
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