Kasey Michaels - Bowled Over

"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?"

"I'm saying, Maggie, that we cannot discount the notion that your father could have been the real target, and Bodkin tossed in as the victim as a sort of two-for-the-price-of-one, thus getting rid of the local lothario at the same time. Even if I can think of only one other person of my acquaintances I would consider less likely to ever cultivate an enemy than your father."

"Sterling," Maggie said, smiling slightly. "You know, I think I must have unconsciously patterned Sterling a little on my dad. Minus the being browbeaten, I mean."

"I would say that we should curtail their excursions about town, except that as long as your father remains the primary suspect, he's probably safe. If the charges against him were to be dropped, however, and he truly does have an enemy who is also already a murderer, we'll have to rethink the situation. In the meantime, I believe we've kept Mrs. Butts waiting long enough."

"Oh, right," Maggie said, reaching over to pull down the sun visor in front of Saint Just and checking her makeup, pushing at her hair. "How do I look?"

"No longer seventeen and vulnerable," Saint Just told her, taking her chin in his hand. "But let's do something about that mouth, shall we?"

Maggie tried to look in the mirror again, even as he held her chin steady. "My mouth? What's wrong with my mouth?"

"I don't think it has been kissed in at least two hours," Saint Just said as he leaned closer, took her mouth with his own. He sucked lightly on her bottom lip, then slanted his mouth as he ran his tongue around the sensitive skin behind her upper lip, smiling against her as she moaned low in her throat and pulled him even closer.

When he moved away from her, it was to see her with her eyes still closed, her mouth soft, moist, and faintly bee-stung. "There. Perfect."

Maggie opened her eyes. "Well, that was interesting," she said, and then sighed.

"Hmm, yes, although you might wish to explain why you taste, delightfully, of sugar," Saint Just told her, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and brushing at the bits of white powder and small particles of sugar littering the front of her coat. "And then tell me why you seem to be decorated with it as well."

"Henry. He gave me donuts when I saw him. I didn't want them, but he forced them on me."

"Held you down and shoved them into your mouth, did he? The unmitigated cad! Do you think I should call him out? Go-carts at ten paces?"

"Aren't you a riot? I'm hunting a killer with a guy auditioning to be a stand-up comic." Maggie pushed his hand away and opened the car door. "We're keeping Lisa waiting, remember?"