"And therefore also a strong man, Mrs. Kelly? To carry out his own repairs on the buildings. Was he also a large man?"
She nodded. "He used a sixteen-pound ball."
"Dad uses a twelve," Maggie explained to Alex, happy for the change of subject, away from Bodkin's talented hands. "When I ordered it, the guy told me a lot of women use twelve-pounders, but men go a little heavier. But Dad liked the loft he could get, I think he said, with a lighter ball. But sixteen pounds? Wow, Bodkin must really have been a strong man."
"And tall, Mrs. Kelly? Was Mr. Bodkin tall?"
She nodded her head. "He was a ... a very active man."
Maggie sat back in her chair. "So he was tall, strong, active. We know, from the newspaper story, that he was sixty-three, same age as Daddy. My dad isn't exactly short, Alex, but no one could call him a giant. He's in his early sixties, and I saw one of those rubber disks in one of his kitchen drawers. You know, Mom, the kind you use to help get the top off jars?"
"I always have to open his pickle jar for him," Alicia Kelly said, sighing. "He probably hasn't had a good gherkin in months."
"Right," Maggie said quickly, as her mother looked ready to cry again. "One's tall, strong, one's medium height, no Schwarzenegger back when he was on steroids. So how, Alex, did my dad conk Bodkin over the head with his bowling ball? He would have had to carry a footstool with him."
"Not if he first disabled the man, swinging the ball at Bodkin's knees, for instance, so that the man was down when Evan delivered the fatal blows."
Maggie shot him a fierce look. "Don't help anymore, Alex. I'm trying to prove that Dad couldn't have done it."
Alex got to his feet. "In which case, my dear, we'll have to wait for more information, won't we? Where it happened, when it happened, the logistics of the scene. The results of the autopsy. Perhaps there were bruises, contusions, elsewhere on Bodkin's body. We know the cause of death from the blood and bone evidence on the bowling ball itself. We know his skull was badly smashed. But we don't know all of it, do we?"
Mrs. Kelly put a hand to her mouth and ran out of the room.
"Well, that helped, big mouth. You had to talk about the autopsy? We haven't learned a damn thing."
"On the contrary," Alex said, getting to his feet. "We know your mother had feelings for Walter Bodkin. And, if we know, it's more than possible that your father knew as well."
Maggie's mouth dropped open. She looked to the doorway, where her mother had disappeared, and then back to Alex. "Cripes, Alex, my mother is a little chippie!"
"Shhh," Alex warned, walking over to the now opened doorway. "Ah, your sister has returned. Good cop or bad cop, Maggie?"
"Hmm?" she asked, still struggling with the idea that her mother might have had not one, but two affairs. It was difficult to believe there were that many men in this one small town who'd had the courage to take her on.
"I said, your sister has returned. We've agreed that we need to speak to her, yes?"
"We do," Maggie agreed, turning her walker in the direction of the kitchen. "But not now, Alex. I know you want to troll for clues, but Tate and his friends will be back soon, and people still have to eat. Let's get all of that out of the way, and then grab Maureen later and grill her. Tate already announced that he's taking his pals up to Atlantic City for some show at seven. John will be snoring on the couch by then, and we'll have a free shot at Maureen."
"Agreed. Now, where do I hide this box of wine, so that we can hope she'll still be reasonably coherent by that time? And then please explain to me again why anyone would purchase wine that comes in a box."
Chapter Twelve
As much as Saint Just was anxious to speak with Maureen Kelly Burda, he was infinitely more eager to speak with Attorney Spade-Whitaker, who seemed to be evincing a remarkable lassitude when it came to consulting with her client.
Yes, it was Christmas, a holiday even for lawyers, he imagined, but it seemed imperative to speak to Evan as quickly as possible, if nothing else to warn him not to speak to anyone. Save Maggie and himself, that is.
As he stood outside the condo with Sterling, enjoying one of his favored cheroots after partaking of Christmas dinner, and being quietly amazed at the amount of food the tall, painfully thin John Burda could consume without bursting open like an overripe melon, Saint Just began to review what he knew of the murder of Evan's bowling partner.
"Sterling, walk through this with me, please?"
"Where? You want to go down to the shore? Isn't it a bit nippy for that this late at night?" Sterling asked, already rising from the wrought-iron chair situated on the ground-level porch at the front of the condo.
"Perhaps we could stroll there tomorrow, Sterling," Saint Just said kindly. "I was, however, referring to the events of last night, as they pertain to the murder of Walter Bodkin and the erroneous subsequent arrest of Maggie's father. I believe I should like to put as much of the chronology in line as possible before we confront Evan once more, and attempt to beat down his refusal to speak openly with us."
"Oh, of course. My apologies. I'm afraid my mind was elsewhere. I've been sitting here, in point of fact, wondering how rude it would be of me to loosen my belt a notch."
Saint Just had already been mentally retracing the steps they'd all taken since driving up to the scene of Evan's arrest, but Sterling's words pulled him back to the moment. He looked at his friend with new interest. "I beg your pardon? Would you repeat that, please."
"Certainly. I know it isn't polite, especially in company, but as I said, I was thinking about how I would like to loosen my—Saint Just? Why are you looking at me that way?"
"Stand up, Sterling, if you'd please," Saint Just said, and then slowly walked around his friend, motioning for him to remain still as he circled him. And then circled him again. "Sterling, you're gaining weight."
Sterling pushed his hands against his chest and attempted to look down at himself. "I am? By George, Saint Just, you're right!"
He looked at Saint Just in the yellow light of the porch lamp, the expression on his mobile features one of mixed elation and confusion. "But ... but we don't change, Saint Just. Not unless Maggie changes us in our books. You said so. No matter how I first hoped to diet away this belly of mine, no matter how much I indulged in my favorite Ding Dongs, I am destined never to gain weight, never to lose it. We are and will remain as Maggie imagined us. I remember it all quite distinctly."
"Yes, yes, I also remember, Sterling. The scar on my shoulder was given to me by Maggie. Just as she gifted you with your delightful way of looking at life. Everything we are, we are because of Maggie. But we are as we are in our books. We don't age, we don't change."
Sterling sat down again, patting his stomach. "But I am changing, Saint Just. Perhaps that's because of how you have been striving to evolve, urging me to evolve, attempt to become more of my own man? By God, Saint Just, it's working! Does that mean we're staying, remaining on this plane, and all of that? It does, doesn't it? We aren't going to poof, as Maggie worries so about us doing. And ... and we're becoming free to be who we wish to be. Not that I wish to be anyone other than I am. I rather like myself, you know. And my Ding Dongs."
Saint Just smiled indulgently. "You're a good man, Sterling. No matter what happens, now matter how you evolve, you will always be a good man. Goodness is at the very center, the heart of you. I, however ..."
"You're also a good man, Saint Just," Sterling protested as Saint Just's voice trailed off. "You're a hero, remember? An upstanding member of the ton. The compleat gentleman, and all of that."