"If she's normal, I'm Donald Trump," Tate declared hotly.
"Oh, I don't know, Tate," Maggie said sweetly. "You might not have his money, but you might want to consider trying his comb-over soon. And now that the subject's out in the open—how dare you try to sell Mom and Dad's house out from under them?"
"Maggie," Evan said, "we'll handle this, your mother and I."
"How are we going to do that, Evan? I'm not talking to you, you philandering old fart."
"Me? I philandered? What about you, Alicia? If I philandered, it was only because you philandered first."
"Mom had an affair, too? Why did I think it was just Dad?" Tate finally found his way to a chair and sat down. "Oh, I love this. I just love this."
"You would," Maggie growled at him. "You'd love anything that gets them to split up so they let you sell the house."
"They were already splitting up. Mom kicked him out, remember? And I can sell this house anytime I want to sell this house. It's my house!"
"Oh, yeah?"
"Oh, yeah!"
"Over my dead body, sport!"
"And speaking of dead bodies, Maggie ... ?" Saint Just wasn't easily discommoded, but the idea that a family war might be about to break out in front of him was decidedly discomforting. In case everyone else had forgotten, they had a murderer to unmask. "If we could just get back to the point ... ?"
Maggie, who was pointing a finger within an inch of her brother's jutted-out jaw, dropped her arm to her side and sighed deeply. "Well, that was fun, wasn't it? Like a flashback, or something. You're right, Alex. Back to the problem at hand. This is an old problem, and we've embarrassed ourselves enough in front of you and J.P. Sorry, Alex, sorry, J.P."
"Don't worry about it," J.P. said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "It's not really a family fight until somebody throws something. My mom's favorite was always the TV remote. She had a real hate for my dad's TV remote."
Evan, intelligent enough to know that retreat was sometimes not only the best but the only option, crossed the room to stand beside Saint Just. "I think she's weakening, Alex," he said quietly as Maggie and her mother engaged in a low conversation on the couch. "Maybe if I bought her a gift or something? Jewelry? Jewelry would be nice, don't you think?"
"Ah, no, not jewelry, Evan. Not in this case."
"But Carol could probably get me her store discount on—oh. Right. Flowers?"
"A good thought, yes."
Maggie waved to him from the other side of the room. "Alex? Mom says she's ready to hear about Dad being in danger. Our theory on it, anyway."
"Excuse me, Evan," Saint Just said before crossing the room to take up a chair only in time to rise politely from it again as Maureen reentered the room, carrying a bowl of puffed rice and followed by Sterling, whose ears were quite red, obviously a result of overhearing the Kelly Family At War.
Saint Just was more than willing to explain his and Maggie's theory, even as he knew that theory had more than a few gaping holes in it that had to be filled in only by rather large leaps in logic.
When he was done, Evan Kelly was shaking his head. "Barry Butts? But I barely even know him. Why would he want to frame me for Walter's murder?"
"Because you were handy, Dad," Maggie explained. "You and Bodkin had that fight in the parking lot. Everyone saw it. You pretty much set yourself up to be a logical choice when Butts wanted to point the finger of suspicion—trite as that sounds—away from himself."
By now, Maggie had joined Saint Just as he stood in front of the gas fireplace. Evan, wonder of wonders, had taken his place on the couch, beside his wife.
"So this is all my fault," Alicia said, her spine straight, her chin raised. "It figures. One way or another, a woman always takes the blame."
"Now, now, Alicia," Evan said, patting her hands as they lay clenched together in her lap. "I did a stupid thing. I ... I let my outrage get the better of me. And Walter was so ... so smug. So happy with himself about what he'd done."
Maureen, sitting on the piano bench, lifted her apron to her face, hiding behind it.
"No, Evan, it's my fault. I never should have told you what I'd done. What Walter did to me, to ... well, you know."
Maureen's shoulders began to shake, and Maggie went to sit beside her, put her arm around her shoulders. "It's okay, Reenie."
"What's okay, Reenie?" Tate asked, and then smiled. Okay, leered. "Don't tell me Maureen—cripes, what is this, an outtake from Desperate Housewives?"
"Tate, I believe you owe your mother and sister an apology," Saint Just said smoothly.
"The hell I do. I'm not the one who was catting around. My God, my own mother?"
"That's it, big mouth. We've heard enough from you. Come with me. And I mean now, buster!" Maggie said, using her walker to all but herd him toward the kitchen. Saint Just filed away the thought that he might want to point out to his beloved one day that she might have more of her mother in her than she would suppose. But he would probably point that out from a distance.
This departure left Saint Just to answer J.P.'s next question. "Okay, I think I've got this now. Barry Butts—what a stupid name—wanted Walter Bodkin dead because his wife was having an affair with him, or pretending to have an affair with him. Because Maggie's mom and sister had also been ... victims of this guy. Evan and Bodkin were seen fighting, Butts figured the best way to keep suspicion off him would be to put it on Evan. How am I doing so far?"
"Well enough," Saint Just said, smiling. "Now ask the question you're burning to ask."
"I was just getting to that, English. I got the charges dropped against Evan. A good thing, or at least ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the population would see it that way. But you and sunshine think I've just put the man in danger. Drumroll please, here's the question—why?"
"We can't be completely sure, but it's possible that Mr. Butts believed that his wife had ... tender feelings for Evan."
"For me?" Evan looked at his wife. "Alicia, I swear—"
"Don't you talk to me, Evan. Don't you dare try to talk to me. Not ever again."
"You were kind to the woman, Evan," Saint Just explained quickly, "when you frequented the Laundromat where she was employed. For a man like Barry Butts, being kind to a woman he denied any male companionship could be misconstrued. Especially if Lisa Butts told her husband the sort of thing she told us—that you're a very nice man."
"I don't know if I swallow that. Isn't that pushing things, Alex?" J.P. asked him. "I know the type. They're mean, irrational. But to see Evan over there as a threat to his marriage?"
"Not to his marriage, J.P., not at the bottom of it. But as a threat to his fanatical control over his wife? He'd already believed that she'd strayed with Mr. Bodkin. To have her now saying nice things about another man? Mr. Butts would have felt he was losing his position of absolute power. Mrs. Butts is convinced, or so she says, that Evan is innocent. I think she has reason to know that Evan is innocent. Innocent, but still another man Mr. Butts's wife turned to, in defiance to him. After all, Bodkin was about your age, Evan, so Lisa turning from one man of a certain age to another of a certain age wouldn't be so unusual. What do they call it on Dr. Phil —a father figure?"
"I'll say it once more, Evan. Don't you ever speak to me again! That girl is our Margaret's age. Young enough to be your daughter!"