"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 anything 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.
"Pete named us and she's ... well, she's sometimes crude, although she's a lovely person, really."
With an unfortunate growth of hair on her upper lip, Saint Just remembered, and then quickly discarded the thought.
"Allow me, please, Maggie. After spending much of the early afternoon with Joe and Sam—I'd rather not identify them beyond that—I fear I am now a veritable font of information. Pete," Saint Just interjected, "is one Mae Petersen. She bowls as a member of the Majesties."
"I need another meatball," Maggie said, pushing her plate at Saint Just. "And maybe the better part of a fifth of Scotch. A woman named Pete bowls with my dad and boinked Bodkin. My sister and my mother boinked Bodkin. Enough women in this burg boinked Bodkin to form a club. At least it isn't the Triple B, or some such idiocy. You know—Bopped By Bodkin? Do you gals feel less like victims saying it your way? Is that it? And what in hell does a W.B.B. club do? And skip the reading scripture business, okay?"
Maureen sat down again, sipping at the glass of ice water. "Well, like I said, we meet once a month, except in the summer. Too many of us going on vacations, you know? We play Hearts, we have a covered-dish supper twice a year. We ... we counsel new members. We're, basically, I guess you could say, a mutual support group. A recovery group?"
"Hold the meatballs," Maggie ordered, shaking her head. "I think I'm feeling a little sick. How many members are in W.B.B., Maureen?"
Maureen looked up to the ceiling, as though mentally taking roll at the last meeting of the W.B.B. "At last count? Fifteen? Susan Powers moved to Cincinnati this past October, and Hilda Klein died, poor thing. So fourteen. Maybe fifteen. Is that important?"
Maggie leaned forward on her elbows. "Hilda died? She's dead? When? How old was she?"