Bowled Over mkm-6

by Kasey Michaels

  "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 ar
e 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 ..."

  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 f
irst 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."