Saint Just had carried her. Steve watched while she struggled.
And was there anyone in the civilized world who might wonder why, when caught up in associations with both men, she'd opted for her imaginary hero with the lovely Regency Era manners and the belief that women were to be treated with every courtesy?
"Thanks for the help," Maggie said, sort of glaring at him when Steve finally leaned over and pushed open the now unlocked door. "Oh, cripes!"
Steve caught her before she could tumble over the huge box just inside the door.
"Steady," Steve warned, and then slid through the doorway to lift the box out of the way. "Wow, this is heavy." He leaned his face down toward the top of the box. "But it smells good."
"Sterling!" Maggie called out loudly, and a moment later Sterling poked his head out of the doorway across the hall. "The box?"
"Oh, oh yes," he said, hurrying across the hall. "Mr. Campiano sent it for you. It arrived a little while ago, a belated Christmas present. We've got one as well. I've opened ours. Meatballs—Saint Just's favorites. Isn't that a lovely, thoughtful present?"
"Hey, at least it's not a horse's head in your bed," Steve said, depositing the box on the dining table. "And it's not everyone who gets a box of meatballs from New York's premier mobster. Caroline's right, Maggie—you live a strange life."
"And you're happier being out of it, right?" Maggie said, finally managing to make it to the couch, where she sat down heavily. "How is your girlfriend, anyway? You two had fun on the slopes?"
Steve blushed to the roots of his shaggy light brown hair. "We ... uh ... we never really made ... made it to the slopes."
"You couldn't locate them?" Sterling asked as Maggie gave it up and began to laugh. What was the matter with her, poking at Steve that way?
Although she'd liked the guy, sure, she'd chosen Alex. But Steve, unbeknownst to her, had been choosing Caroline-the-orthodontic-assistant or whatever she was at the same time Maggie had been realizing that, although Steve was nice, and normal, what she really wanted was Alex. Maybe that's what bugged her. Which was stupid, and entirely too female a reaction to make her feel good about herself.
"You said I was going to ask you something, Maggie?" Steve reminded her as she sat there, thinking her stupid thoughts.
"Hmm? Oh, right. Aren't you going to ask me how I broke my foot? Because I've got some real zingers lined up."
Steve grinned, making his handsome, boyish face adorably appealing. She really did like him. He just had come into her life at the wrong time—which was at the same time Alex had poofed into it. "I already know how you broke it. Sterling told me when I called one day last week or so. But hit me with a couple anyway. I know you're dying to."
"No, that's all right," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "Well, okay. Just one. I tripped trying to get out of Donald Trump's way when he spied a dime lying on the sidewalk."
Steve nodded. "Okay. Not great, but okay. You have more?"
"You didn't like that one? I thought that one was pretty good. Okay, one more. I tripped trying to get out of the way when Donald Trump ran away when he saw Rosie O'Donnell coming down the sidewalk?"
"Don't give up your day job, Maggie. Stand-up comedy doesn't need you."
"Yeah, well, I'm working under a handicap," she said, shrugging.
"Your foot?"
"My dad's arrest," Maggie said, forgetting her foot, and the stupid nonwalking walking cast that was going to be her constant unwelcome companion for the next six weeks.
"Right, your dad." Steve was looking nervous again.
"You're here because you're going to go back to Ocean City with me, right? Talk to the cops there? Cop to cop?"
He shook his head. "I can't, Mags. That's what I came to tell you. I didn't want to do it in a phone call, and I've only got a minute, but I wanted you to know. I was up for the next case, and got hit with a triple homicide this morning. I'm primary, can't get out of it. I'm sorry."
Maggie bit her lips between her teeth, nodded. "It's okay, Steve. We'll ... we'll manage."
"You and Alex? You'll have half the Ocean City police force putting in for early retirement before you're through," he said, and then laughed without much humor. "But I did call down there for you."
"And?"
"And ... not much. They pretty much told me they don't have more than circumstantial evidence against your dad. That's probably why he got bail so easily. They knew they probably didn't have enough to hold him too long, but since he was all they had, they put the collar on him anyway, trying to look good for the morning papers. Amateur hour, you know?"
"Did they tell you what they have?"
"Yeah, they did. Professional to professional. Bloody bowling ball at the scene, his prints on the ball. Hearsay about him getting in some knockdown with the vic a couple of weeks previous to the murder. But then some woman came forward with an alibi for him. So they're probably going to have to drop the charge, refile if they get something else. They're still digging. But he's still their Number One guy—since they don't have anyone else."
"Holly Spivak threw money at the alibi," Maggie told him, and watched as he winced as if in real pain. "Yeah, I know. Not good, right?"
"Not great, no. Is Bernie here? I thought you said something to me on the phone about calling Bernie to come home. She might be able to help."
"She's not coming. Or Tabby, either, who's visiting her in-laws in Nebraska or some other godforsaken place. Not that I could figure out why I'd need my literary agent at a time like this—but you know Tabby. She worries," Maggie told him as Sterling—hopefully back to his helpful, uncomplicated self—handed her a glass of cold water. "Thanks, Sterling. And Bernie's not coming because she met somebody, some international banker who will probably turn out to be an international jewel thief, or an international gold digger."
"A miner?" Sterling sat down on the facing couch. "I would imagine that would be a very interesting occupation."
Maggie smiled at her friend. "I love you, Sterling."
"I love you, too, Maggie," Sterling said. "I said something silly and entirely inappropriate again, didn't I?"
"Uh ..."
"Gotta go, Mags," Steve broke in, slapping his hands against his thighs as if he was about to turn to his trusty horse, mount up, and gallop into the sunset. "You need anything, you let me know."
Maggie waited until Steve had closed the door behind him before speaking to Sterling once more. "You don't say silly or inappropriate things, Sterling. You say very entertaining and sweet things. You're extremely ... literal. That's how I created you to be. You can't help it. You're only being you."
"Yes, I suppose so," he said, getting to his feet. "But I shouldn't be. Not now that I'm ... er, um ... will we be driving back to Ocean City yet tonight, Maggie? I should imagine we should start soon, then, as I was listening to the weather birdie box chirping and there may be snow soon."
"The weather birdie—oh, right. That weather box thingie you bought. Yes, sure, we'll go back tonight. Nothing keeping us here, and maybe Alex found something out today, snooping around."
"Saint Just doesn't snoop, Maggie. He detects."
"By snooping," Maggie said, pushing herself to her feet. "You were going to say something, Sterling, a moment ago? It seemed important."
"Me? No, not me. I rarely ever say anything important," he said, walking over to the large box. "I know what's inside this box, Maggie. A lovely Crock-Pot—that's what Mr. Campiano's man called it—filled to the brim with meatballs from Mr. Campiano's favorite restaurant. Saint Just complimented them when they dined together, remember? They're still hot, and soaking in a lovely fragrant red gravy. Shall we take them with us?"
"Two Crock-Pots full of meatballs? Hey, why not," she said, smiling slowly. "We'll take one to Dad's place ... and I think I have an idea of where to deliver the other one. Give me ten minutes, Sterling, and we'll leave."
"You look like the cat with canary feathers protruding from the corner o
f her mouth, Maggie. What are you planning?"
"Oh, nothing much. And it will all be entirely innocent. Only I doubt the person on the other end is going to think so. Sterling, you are a sweet, kind, loving person. Believe it. But me? I'm mean. I'm mean to the bone ..."
Chapter Eighteen
Maggie hesitated, the fork speared through half a meatball almost to her mouth as she sat in her dad's small kitchen a few hours later. "Come again? There's a what?"
Saint Just smiled, motioned for her to eat the meatball, which was dripping sauce on the tabletop. "Yes, that was rather my reaction, as well, although I, unlike you, managed to hide my dismay. Not without effort, I admit. I said, they have formed a club. Or at least my new friends Joe and Sam believe that. I've yet to approach your sister about the thing, feeling the subject to be rather delicate. I waited for you, and will allow you to broach the question."
Maggie spoke around the meatball, her third. "Gee, thanks—you coward. And how the hell do I do that? I mean, it's a real wowzer of a subject, Alex. Alex? What was that? Don't tell me you—"
"Oh, but I did." Saint Just had also heard the knock on the door, and stood up. "I'm confident you'll figure out exactly what to say. And that you'll be sympathetic, even kind. Sterling has your father nicely occupied at the movie theater, if you'll recall, so I'll go personally welcome her in, shall I?"
"Now? You invited her here now? Why did you do that? Now? I'm not ready for this. I'll never be ready for this."
He hid his smile, being a prudent man. "I had assumed you'd be returning earlier than you did, affording us more time to discuss the matter and formulate some sort of delicate approach. My apologies. But rough ground is to be got over as quickly as possible, yes?"
"I'm not riding a freaking horse, Alex. Damn, she's knocking again. Go let her in."
Saint Just inclined his head slightly to Maggie and walked to the door, opening it to see Maureen standing in the hallway, her seemingly ever-present apron visible beneath her opened coat, all of her looking sad, regrettably dumpy, and exceedingly nervous.
"Ah, good evening, my dear. Thank you so much for coming," he said, surprising himself by leaning forward to kiss Maureen's ice-cold cheek. "Maggie's in the kitchen. Do you like meatballs?"
"I ... uh ... I guess so," Maureen said as Saint Just took her coat. "I still don't understand why you wanted me to come over here, Alex. Is Maggie all right? I know she went to the doctor today. Does she need my help getting into the shower, or something? I know when John broke his leg I had to help him tape a garbage bag around his cast so it wouldn't get wet in the shower."
She turned to Saint Just, wrinkled up her nose. "They smell something awful when they get wet, you know. You don't want to be anywhere near when they finally cut off Maggie's cast, believe me."
"I'll be certain to keep that in mind, thank you," Saint Just said as, with a graceful sweep of his arm, he indicated that Maureen should precede him into the kitchen. At least the woman appeared talkative, not her usual quiet self. Could that be a good sign? Or a sign that she was highly nervous? Perhaps he hadn't been as cryptic as he'd hoped when he'd phoned to ask her to stop by the apartment.
Ah, well, Maggie would cope. She wouldn't like it, but she would cope. Pluck to the backbone, that was his Maggie. Unfortunately, she was also now armed with that ridiculous horn, and had been squeezing it whenever she didn't appreciate something he said.
Maureen didn't seem to be finished with the subject of the trials and tribulations relating to casts. "And with Maggie? No, she won't want you there when the cast is cut off. Especially not when she hasn't been able to shave her leg in—oh, hi, Mags."
"Hi, Reenie." Maggie waved weakly to her sister, and then glared at Saint Just. Obviously she hadn't as yet quite formed a definite plan of attack. "Want a meatball?"
Maureen slid onto the plastic seat opposite her sister, eyeing Maggie's plate with barely hidden trepidation. "You made those?"
"Me? Right. Would I be eating them, if I made them? No, they were a gift. Alex, get Maureen a plate and a fork, please."
"And ... and a glass of water?" Maureen added pitifully as she reached into the pocket of her apron. "I, um, I think I need to take a pill."
"Maureen, you do not need to take a pill," Maggie told her firmly. "I don't need a cigarette, you don't need a pill. Oh, okay, I want a cigarette. You want a pill. But we're not going to give in, either of us."
"I really need a pill," Maureen said, looking up at Saint Just, her eyes filled with pleading.
"Allow the woman her medication, Maggie," Saint Just said, placing a plate, fork and small glass of water in front of Maureen. When had he become a member of some personal Maggie wait staff? How lowering. If only Maggie could make the character of Clarence, his butler, as real as she'd made him and Sterling, so that good man could join them on this plane of existence. And the man definitely had a way with boot black and the pressing iron ...
"Thank you, Alex," Maureen said, pulling a ridiculously small chip of pink pill from her apron, removing the lint on it, and popping it into her mouth. She drank the water. "I'm very careful to ration them. Ah, that's better."
"What's better, Reenie? What was that, a quarter of a pill? And it hasn't even hit your stomach yet. You know what those pills are? They're a crutch, that's what they are. You don't really need them. You just think you need them."
Saint Just sat down beside Maggie, said softly, "Someone's digressing. And preaching. You've stopped smoking, and that's wonderful, commendable. But perhaps it's true, as I once heard someone say, that converts are usually the most righteous. And the most annoying. Ah, wait a moment. That was you who said those particular words, wasn't it?"
"Okay, okay, point taken, so knock it off. You don't have to hit me over the head with everything I ever said," Maggie said, pushing away the plate in front of her. "Maureen, we have to talk."
"About Daddy?"
"Well ... sort of about Daddy. More so about Walter Bodkin."
"No! I don't want to do that. I came here to help you take your shower." Maureen shot to her feet, clearly ready to bolt for the door.
"Reenie, don't do that, don't run away," Maggie said, holding out her arm, unable to reach her sister. "Alex, make her sit down."
"From doorman to wait staff to warden. How much further can a London gentleman possibly fall in one short evening, do you suppose? Maureen? Please retake your seat—this is for your father. You wish to help him, don't you? Maggie and I believe you possess the power to help him."
"I do? How?" Maureen sniffled, but sat down once more, folded her hands together tightly on the tabletop. "I don't think I know anything, but I want to help Daddy. I really do."
"That's the girl," Maggie said encouragingly. "We found something out today, Reenie. Well, Alex did. Something that might help Daddy. You see, so far he's the police's only suspect. We'd like to give them more suspects to choose from. That make sense to you?"
"No," Maureen said quietly. "You think I'm a suspect?"
"Hell, no."
"But I had ... had an affair with Walter. I know Mom told you. I could ... I could be the woman scorned."
Maggie and Saint Just exchanged looks, and Maggie pushed on. "But you weren't the only woman scorned, right?"
Maureen's eyes went wide. "Mom's a suspect?"
"You might want to speed this up a bit, my dear, thus limiting erroneous conclusions on your sister's part," Saint Just suggested, wishing himself sitting beside Sterling at the movie theater, possibly even partaking of some popcorn. Or, better, a large box of those lovely chocolate-covered raisins.
"Alex found out today that Bodkin was a ... that he was ... that he got around. A lot."
Maureen lowered her gaze. Shrugged. "He got around to Mom and me. So I guess you could say that."
"Alex also found out that there are people in this town who believe that some of the women who Bodkin, well, you know, that some of the women actually formed a club. Is that right? Do you know anyt
hing about that?"
Maureen nodded. But said nothing.
"I feel like I'm pulling teeth here," Maggie muttered to Saint Just.
"Patience is usually rewarded. You're doing fine."
"Thanks. I guess that means you're just going to sit there, and not help. Okay, if we're playing Twenty Questions, it's time for another one. Reenie? Do you belong to that club?"
Maureen nodded once more and began digging in her apron pocket again.
"Is Mom a member of that club?"
Finally, Maureen looked at her sister. "Mom? Are you kidding? Nobody knows about Mom and Walter. Well, except for me. And Dad, since I slipped and said something. And you guys ..." She began to blink furiously. "People really know about the club?"
"They're just guessing, I'm sure. But now we know for sure. So tell us about the club. What do you do in this club?"
"It's the W.B.B."
"Pardon me?" Maggie asked, looking increasingly frazzled.
Saint Just felt it was time he stepped in. "The Weeb, Maureen? I don't understand."
At last Maureen smiled. "That's what we call it. It's really the W.B.B. Weeb?"
"Ah, like your WAR, Maggie," Saint Just said, sitting back against the cushions. "So the letters mean something?"
Maggie held up a hand. "Wait. Don't tell me. I want to guess. W.B.B? We ... um ... Women Who Boinked Bodkin? No, too many W's. Hey, and try saying boinked Bodkin five times, fast. Talk about your tongue twisters."
"Maggie!"
"Sorry, Reenie. Do I get another chance? Best two out of three?"
"Maggie, sweetings, you are perhaps being a little bit—"
"Snarky," she interrupted. "Yeah, I know. But consider the subject matter, for crying out loud."
Maureen got to her feet, taking her empty glass over to the dispenser on the refrigerator door. "It's actually We Banged Bodkin, but nobody really says that. It's too embarrassing. We tell people we're the Women's Bible Babes, and that we get together once a month to read scripture." She sighed deeply. "We're all probably going to Hell, aren't we?"
"Not my call," Maggie said, spreading her hands, and then bit her bottom lip. But not before a small giggle escaped.
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