Bowled Over mkm-6

by Kasey Michaels

  "Margaret, are you quite finished?"

  Maggie looked up at Saint Just, who nodded.

  "Yeah, Mom, I'm done. And now I do apologize. I fell into a trap, one people under stress fall into all the time. We don't want to think about Daddy, about the trouble he's in, so we fight about anything we can fight about. I'm sorry."

  "As well you should be," Mrs. Kelly said, falling back into her more recognizable form. "Now, tell us how much of this jackpot you get to keep, dear. I seem to have missed that. Enough to pay Cynthia to find a way for your father to beat this rap?"

  "Beat this—uh." Maggie gave her head a quick shake. "Well, yeah, sure, Mom. I have enough money to help Dad prove his innocence. But not from the jackpot. I'm giving my winnings to Sterling. He ... um ... well, he was the one pushing the Max button. I'd found the Cash-out button, and would have pushed it, but he was having so much fun that I let him keep pushing the button, and it wasn't as though it was my money we were wasting, you know, so in some ways it is Sterling's win, not mine. And that guy, that Novack guy? I did take his machine."

  "My congratulations, my dear," Saint Just told her as everyone else in the room opened their mouths, but it was as if Maggie had hit some sort of invisible Mute button, because no words passed anyone's lips. "They've been struck dumb."

  It was Cynthia Spade-Whitaker who rallied first. "Margaret, here's some free legal advice. Never say that again. Any of it. To anyone. Ever."

  "She'll be very careful, I assure you," Saint Just said, at last pushing himself up from the arm of the chair, as sitting close beside Maggie hadn't seemed to do much to protect her from her family.

  "Good, because some ambulance-chasing lawyer would jump all over that statement. By the way how did you break your leg?"

  "Maggie ..." Saint Just muttered beneath his breath warningly.

  "My foot, you mean? Well, it's the silliest thing. I was jogging in Central Park when this man came running by yelling 'The sky is falling, the sky is falling.' And he was naked. Did I mention that he was naked? And this cop comes out of nowhere, to throw a tackle on the guy, and the guy rolled into me, we both went down—bam, broken foot."

  "Really? You could probably sue, you know. I represented a similar case not six months ago. Smithers v. the City of New York City, and—"

  "She made that up, Cynthia," her husband told her, glaring at Maggie. "She writes fiction, Tate said, remember?"

  Cynthia coughed slightly. Shook back her shoulders. "Very amusing."

  "Yes," Saint Just said. "Our Maggie is easily amused. Now, if we might return to the subject of the murder?"

  "The alleged murder," Cynthia corrected. "The detective refused to give me any pertinent information as to TOD, MOD, COD. The whole thing could have been an accident, and this arrest-happy cowboy just took it from there."

  "Time of death, manner of death, cause of death, right?" Maggie asked Saint Just, who merely nodded. He watched The Learning Channel faithfully, as well as all the CSI programs, and was familiar with all of the terms.

  "Ah, but we do have at least a preliminary cause of death," he told everyone. "Evan and I had a small coze before Maggie and I adjourned here, and we deduced, from the questions posed to him from the detective, that Mr. Bodkin succumbed to a blow to the head with a heavy object. Several blows, to be precise, as I understand that Evan saw the murder weapon that had been sealed in a heavy plastic evidence bag, and was told that what he saw on the weapon was blood, bits of bone, and gray matter."

  "Oh, yuk," Maggie said, wrapping her arms around her midsection. "So, what was the weapon?"

  "A bowling ball," Saint Just told them, watching them in turn as he paused, let the tension build. "A bowling ball inscribed EEK: Evan Edward Kelly." He looked over his shoulder at Maggie. "Nearly as unfortunate as your We Are Romance writers organization, yes? Do you Americans never think of these things?"

  "Did they read him his rights before they showed him the bowling ball? Did he identify the bowling ball as his? That's why they showed it to him. Has to be. If they asked him, they're out of line."

  "That, Attorney Spade-Whitaker, I could not say."

  "I can get any confession thrown out," Cynthia told them confidently, sitting back and crossing her long legs. "If they'd taken him straight to Cape May, let the county prosecutor's office handle everything from the get-go, or even called in the state police, we might have more trouble. But they didn't, not on Christmas Eve. With any luck at all, we can have this whole thing tossed, at least for a few weeks, until they have more than a bloody bowling ball. The weapon might be Kelly's, but that doesn't mean they can prove he had possession of the ball at the time of the murder. OJ got off with a lot more against him."

  "So if the bowling ball doesn't fit, they have to acquit?" Maggie asked, then rolled her eyes at Saint Just.

  "You're being very encouraging, counselor," Saint Just complimented, ignoring Maggie. "But I think we have a sticking point here. Mrs. Kelly seemed to believe, at first blush, that Evan murdered the late Walter Bodkin for her. Mrs. Kelly? Would you care to explain that statement?"

  Maureen muttered something under her breath, picked up the tray of crushed cookies, and escaped toward the kitchen. Saint Just watched her go, something about the woman's reaction whenever Walter Bodkin's name was mentioned in relationship to her mother niggling at him. Combined with her blurted giggle at the police station, it was enough to make him believe that he'd have to speak with the woman sometime soon.

  "No. I don't care to explain anything to you," Mrs. Kelly said, also getting to her feet. "It's late, I'm tired, and don't want to think about any of this any more tonight. Tate, see to your guests. Margaret, go take care of your father. We're done here."

  And that was that. Maggie might be his general at the moment, but Alicia Kelly clearly remained commander-in-chief.

  Chapter Nine

  Maggie and Alex had walked the long block from her father's borrowed bachelor apartment to her mother's condo. Well, Alex had walked it. Maggie had hopped it. They now retraced their steps slowly, by necessity, Maggie with her chin tucked into the collar of her new winter coat against the late December wind off the ocean as she hopped, stopped, rested, hopped again.

  "Smell that, Alex? I really like this city, much as I was glad to get away from home. I miss the smell of the ocean," she said during one of her rest stops. "But I think I enjoy it more in July, when my teeth aren't chattering. At least it isn't snowing tonight. No white Christmas this year."

  "It will be midnight in another minute," Alex told her, slipping his arm around her waist during one of her long pauses to catch her breath, drawing her against the side of his body. "Happy Christmas, sweetings."

  She peered up at him in the light from a streetlamp. "Our first Christmas together, a house of our own, my stupid foot, a jackpot, a murder. I guess we'll never forget this first one, huh? Alex?"

  He pressed a kiss against her forehead. "Yes, my dear?"

  "There's something you should know."

  "There are many things I should know, beginning with why your mother seems to, as you say, freak out every time Walter Bodkin's name is brought into a conversation."

  "Well, yeah, we need to know that. Definitely. And did you notice Maureen? She went sort of ape herself, don't you think? Even her little pink pills couldn't disguise that she was—well, that she's hiding something. If we can't get Mom to talk with us tomorrow, she'll be my next move."

  "Ah, Maggie, we're splendid together, do you know that?"

  "Meaning? Oh. So you saw it, too. Maureen's reaction. Even for her, it wasn't quite right."

  "Was there really any question that I would notice?"

  "No, I suppose not. The great Viscount Saint Just is on the case. And, for once, I'm not arguing with you or telling you to butt out. But that's not what I wanted to say to you right now. I just think you should know something. Not all families are like ours. You know—wacko? They really aren't."

  "Then those families must be
exceedingly dull and uninteresting," Alex told her as they turned the corner on Thirty-seventh Street, heading up the sidewalk for one short block, to Evan's apartment.

  "We're dysfunctional, textbook dysfunctional," Maggie pushed on, needing Alex to understand. "Doctor Bob said that to me, first thing. Although he'd be proud of the way I stopped myself when I started off on that tangent about being the unappreciated middle child—although finally putting at least some of how I feel into words, and saying those words to Mom, really was liberating there for a moment. But it was also petty. I'm learning, Alex, I really am. I'm a big girl now, and I have to accept my past, understand it, forgive it, and then move on. I can't just keep blaming my unhappy childhood for everything and never become my own person."

  "And you made a great leap in that direction this evening, my dear, no pun intended. My felicitations."

  "Yes, I think I did. And they love me. I know that, somewhere down deep inside. And I have to acknowledge that every hang-up I have can be pretty much laid at their doorstep, but if I believe that, then I also have to believe that anything good about me also came from them."

  "A reasonable conclusion, yes."

  "If I hadn't wanted so badly to get away from them, prove myself, I might never have gone to New York, might never have written one book, let alone all the books I've written. I might still be living here, maybe working in a bank, or something, and popping little pink pills, like Maureen."

  "You're thinking that you might never have imagined me, aren't you, Maggie?"

  She felt her cheeks grow hot, even in the fairly frigid breeze. "According to you, I've been imagining you since I hit puberty, in one way or another. Which is fairly disturbing. Like I've been looking for, and imagining, a white knight for most of my life. I'm an independent woman. A modern woman."

  "A hopping woman."

  "Now you're laughing at me," she said, pushing herself out of his light embrace and hopping ahead of him before turning about to face him once more—man, she was getting good on this walker. If they made walker-hopping an Olympic sport, she might just capture the bronze.

  "Indeed, no. Don't you realize what you did this evening, sweetings? You took charge. In the usually daunting face of authority, in the face of the policeman's uniform, in the face of your mother's anger, your brother's usual ridiculousness, Cynthia Spade-Whitaker's cool condescension—I could go on—you stood tall, you stood your ground. You were, in a word, magnificent. A modern Boadicea. And all by yourself. Or may I take any of the credit? I'd like to think I could."

  Maggie let him put his arm around her again. "It is nice, knowing you have my back," she admitted. "Does that give me a new problem—I'm nothing without a man?"

  "I have no idea what that means," Alex told her. "Are you tired? I can carry you, you know."

  Maggie looked at him, so handsome in the light from the streetlamp. He wore his long black cashmere topcoat with flair, as he wore every stitch of his clothing with flair; the creamy ivory silk scarf hanging loose around his neck setting off the perpetual light tan of his face beneath the wide, flat brim of his black hat that always reminded her of one worn by a young Clint Eastwood in those spaghetti westerns. Black leather gloves, his gold-topped sword cane—the man was, as they had said in the Regency, well set up, and definitely well put together.

  On most other men, the clothes might look like a costume. But Alex was so self-assured, so comfortable in his own skin (and designer clothes), that all a person could do was be impressed. Damned impressed.

  She certainly was impressed.

  And he was going to be bunking in with Sterling, just as he had when he and Sterling had first poofed into her life. After a few lovely weeks of sharing her bed. Was she an unnatural child to think about that right now, rather than concentrate on her father's terrible problem?

  Well, yeah.

  But that's life.

  Maggie looked up the block, to see that they were only two doors away from the stairs leading up into her father's building. "No, I can make it, thanks. I don't know about those steps, though. I might let you play Sir Galahad this time, and carry me up them, instead of me bumping up them on my fanny. Alex?"

  He fell into step with her once more. "Hmm, yes?"

  "I miss you."

  She didn't turn her head to see his smile, but she could feel it.

  "I miss you, too, sweetings. As incentives go, I believe being denied the pleasure of watching you fall asleep in my arms will go a long way toward the speedy resolution of your father's dilemma."

  "You watch me sleep? Oh, God, Alex, don't do that. I probably drool."

  "No comment, as I pride myself on being a gentleman. Which means, naturally, that I also refuse to mention the occasional soft snore."

  "Bite me," Maggie said, and then hopped around in a half circle so that she had her back to the wide wooden steps. She lowered herself down, slowly, carefully. "Wanna neck a while before we go in? That is, my hero, do you wish to partake of a small, necessarily limited romantic encounter?"

  "I thought you'd never suggest it," Alex said, sitting down beside her and pulling her into his arms. "You're more than usually beautiful in the moonlight, sweetings. Your eyes seem to shine with a special light."

  She blinked once, and then smiled up at him. "It's not the moon, it's the streetlamp. But don't let me stop you. Tell me more about my eyes. And don't use any lines I've put in your mouth over the years."

  "Never. Let's see," he said, trailing the tips of his fingers down her cheek. "Where do I begin? With the soft velvet of your skin ... the pertness of your perfect little nose ... the lush, sweet fullness of the most delectable lips I've—stay here."

  "Huh?" Maggie opened her eyes as Alex rapidly stood up, unsheathing his swordstick and pointing it into the darkness beyond the circle of light cast by the street lamp. "Alex, what in hell are you—oh, shit ..."

  "Google," Henry Novack said proudly, sitting in the street, perched on his stupid motorized go-cart. He wore a bright green nylon ski jacket over his considerable bulk, one with orange Day-Glo reflector stripes on the sleeves, and a huge orange woolen cap—with earflaps. He looked, to Maggie, like a cross between a duck hunter and the logo for the Orange Bowl parade.

  "Google what?"

  "The Google, the one on the Internet. All you need is a name. Okay, and a city helps. Evan Kelly. Ocean City. And up pops the address. I followed you here from there. Man, you move slow. You and me, Kelly, we're gonna deal."

  "Oh, yeah? Really?" Maggie said, pushing herself to her feet—foot, anyway. "I'm on one foot, sure, not able to run away. But tell me something, Novack. Did you happen to notice this guy with me, huh? The tall, athletic one with a freaking sword in his hand, pointed at you? We're not going to do anything I don't want to do. Not now, not ever. Not unless you want me to sic him on you."

  "I begin to believe, sweetings, that this hero-to-the-rescue business has begun to go to at least one of our heads," Alex told her dryly, not taking his eyes, or his sword, off Novack. "I remember a time when you weren't quite so comfortable depending on me."

  "Yeah, well, I wasn't hopping around in this stupid cast then, either," Maggie pointed out, still rather heady with her earlier bravado at the police station and at her mother's house. "Novack? You still here? Why are you still here? Oh, I know. You want to ask me how I broke my foot, right?"

  "What the hell do I care how you broke your damn foot?"

  Maggie grinned. "Don't do that. I could begin to like you, Novack. Tell me something—how many miles a charge do you get on that thing?"

  "You stole my machine. You stole my jackpot."

  "Mr. Novack," Alex said, lowering the sword to his side, "you become wearisome, not to mention redundant."

  "You've got money," Novack went on, as if Alex hadn't spoken. "I Googled you, too. The great Cleo Dooley. You didn't need that jackpot. I need that jackpot. Sam says you'll pay me, just so I don't sue. Just so you can keep your face out of the papers and off the news, because
the great Cleo Dooley can't be seen as cheap, and a cheater. Especially not with her daddy in the slammer for murder. And me handicapped, too. That's the topper."

  "Who's Sam?" Maggie asked, subsiding onto the wooden stair once more. She'd had worse days, but she couldn't think of any of them at the moment.

  "My lawyer, that's who Sam is," Henry Novack crowed in some satisfaction. "My brother's second daughter's husband's cousin—and he's smart, too."

  "It's possible, seeing as how he's not your blood relative," Maggie said, reaching into her pocket for her empty nicotine inhaler.

  "Sam says Fox News eats up stuff like this. And that blonde with the bulgy eyes on CNN? Her, too. What's her name? I can't remember. Haircut like she belongs on one of them Dutch Boy paint can labels. Now there's a real barracuda for you. They'd all want me on the air."

  "I'll just bet they would," sparing a moment to think of Alex's "pal" at New York's Fox News, Holly Spivak. She wasn't Nancy Grace, thank God—the barracuda—but she sure did love a juicy bit of scandal. Maggie searched through her purse for her very last, hoarded, nicotine cylinder. And people who couldn't get through stressful days without their caffeine or their daily booze wondered why other people smoked ...

  "Every week, I play that machine. Every week since the day the machines went in. Do you know how much money I've put through that machine?"

  "Maybe you should have used that money to join a health club instead," Maggie muttered under her breath, figuring the man weighed four hundred pounds if he weighed an ounce. No wonder he used a cart—he could have used a U-Haul.

  "Mr. Novack," Alex said, stepping in front of Maggie. "Impressed as we both are by your tenacity, if not your arguments, we would appreciate it greatly if you were to, um, retire from the field for the night. Now, what would it take, Mr. Novack, for you to do just that, hmm?"

  "Here it comes," Maggie muttered, then sucked on her inhaler.

  "I want to talk, that's what I want. I want to deal. You deal, you do right by me, and I won't talk to reporters anymore."