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 are 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.