Bowled Over mkm-6

by Kasey Michaels

  Maggie plopped herself down on the couch beside her stack of mail and sat back, chewed on the side of her thumb as she looked at the closed door.

  "So if I know who and what and how Sterling Balder is—who the hell just walked out of my condo?"

  She was still sitting there five minutes later, still gnawing on the side of her thumb, when there was a knock on the door. Oh, thank God! He'd come back, and they could talk some more. "Come in, Sterling."

  "It's Socks, Maggie."

  "Oh," she said, and did her best to push her unproductive thoughts about Sterling out of her mind for a moment. "It's open, Socks."

  He entered slowly, bent forward a little, and if he'd been holding a hat, the brim would probably have been clutched in both hands in front of him. He looked like a supplicant timidly approaching the throne.

  "Oh, cripes, Socks, not you. Please, not you."

  He stopped a good ten feet away, lowered his head. "You're right, I'm sorry. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking, was I? I'll go now."

  "No, no, don't go. Come on, come sit down," Maggie said, waving to the facing couch. "Now tell me what's on your mind. And how much."

  Socks rubbed at his wonderfully sculpted chin, which hadn't lent him much help landing a part on Broadway. Nor had his singing skills, or his dancing skills. But what Socks lacked in talent, he made up for in desire. At least to Maggie. "You're giving the money to Sterling."

  "We're giving the money to Sterling," Maggie corrected. "It was Alex's hundred bucks, Sterling's finger on the button, and my butt in the seat. That jackpot was a community effort, but Sterling gets the money, because Sterling is a wonderful guy who couldn't get a job in New York if everyone else left town, and the one time he did try to do something good he got mixed up in a terrible scam and could have been hurt. And why am I explaining any of this to you?"

  "So that I won't leave here and go straight across the hall to put my proposition to Sterling?"

  "Good point," Maggie said, shifting on the cushions. "Would you please do me a favor and feed the cats for me before they mutiny? The cans are in the long cabinet beside the stove. Oh, and I'd love a drink of water. From the refrigerator door—but no ice. Thanks."

  Socks hopped to do her bidding with a bit more alacrity than she found comfortable, and Maggie passed the time by picking up the large envelope from Toland Books and ripping it open.

  Fan mail was fun. It didn't used to be. It used to be like a grab bag that could have goodies inside, or a chainsaw waiting to shred her always threadbare confidence in herself as a writer.

  But then someone at the publishing house started vetting the mail first, and sending along only the good stuff. The bad stuff got tossed in the circular file, Maggie knew now, and the really bad stuff got filed away in Toland Books' Losers and Loonies file. In fact, if it hadn't been for that file, the rat thing a couple of weeks ago could have been a lot worse ...

  She frowned when she realized that none of the six envelopes had been slit open, which meant that nobody had screened the letters. The way employees came and went at publishing houses, it was no big surprise that a probable new hire hadn't gotten the word yet, and just sent out whatever had been addressed to Maggie in care of Toland Books.

  Well, how bad could they be? She had real fans, not just nuts.

  Maggie opened the first envelope.

  I never wrote to an author before, but I just had to tell you how much I love Saint Just ...

  Okay, that one was good. She'd put it aside to read the rest of it later, when she could enjoy it.

  I guess you hear this all the time, Ms. Dooley, but I have written a book and I think you'd like to publish it if you'd only read it. I've had the most interesting life, and I think the world would be better for hearing my story. And if you like it and think it needs work, I'd gladly share the profits if you rewrote it for me. If you would send me your address, I'd send you—

  "God, some people's kids," Maggie yelled to Socks, tossing the second letter back into the large envelope. "They think I actually publish the books. They think I do the artwork. They think I write the back cover copy. And they think I should write their books for them while I'm at it. When the hell do they think I find time to write my own books?"

  She looked toward the kitchen, but Socks was still out there, talking to the cats—who were talking back to him, one of the reasons she so loved Persians—so she picked up another letter, hoping for two good ones out of three.

  She read. She read again. And then she threw her head back and laughed out loud, causing Socks to run back into the room to ask what was so funny.

  "Read ... read this," she said, waving the letter above her head. "Out loud. I want to hear it out loud."

  Socks took the letter and frowned at it, and then grinned. "It's short and to the point, isn't it, Maggie? You really want me to read it out loud?"

  "Yes, please," she told him, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. "God, how I needed that laugh. I should have the thing framed. Talk about keeping me humble."

  " 'Dear Ms. Dooley,' " Socks began, and then looked at her. "Do you ever get used to it, Maggie? Being called Ms. Dooley? Cleo Dooley?"

  "No, not really. I was being a little crazy when I made up the name, but now that I've got it, I'm sort of stuck with it. And I still do like the Os."

  Socks nodded. "Sort of the way my pal Jay got stuck with Jayne when he started doing the drag queen thing. He said he did it off the top of his head, but now he's stuck with it, now that he's so popular in the clubs. He really wanted to be Raquel. I don't know, I think Jayne's okay, don't you?"

  "Raquel might be a little over the top," Maggie agreed, doing her best to keep a straight face. She'd never been lumped in with a drag queen before. It was kind of neat, seeing how Socks's thought processes worked.

  "Yeah, it probably is. Anyway, I'll read the letter now: 'I am a new reader and just love your Saint Just Mysteries series books. I do not like regular historical romances and understand you started out writing them, and so I'm wondering if there is a way I can get a list of the regular historical ones you wrote to make sure I don't buy them when I shop at the used bookstore?' "

  It was just as good the third time, and Maggie clutched her stomach as she rolled with laughter. "I'm supposed to send her a list of my historicals. To be sure she doesn't buy them! A kiss and a slap, Socks. Two slaps—considering she buys used, and I don't get a bent penny out of the deal. I love it!"

  "Maggie? Are you all right? It's funny, sure. But it isn't that funny," Socks said carefully.

  "I know, I know. Okay," she said, wiping her eyes once more. "I'm under control again, I promise. You know I have a car picking me up out front in an hour, to take me to the doctor's office? Good. Now, tell me about your idea. Because you have one, right?"

  Socks sat down once more, perching on the edge of the couch cushion, his back ramrod straight, his hands folded in his lap. "It's Jay and me, both. Who got the idea, I mean. We've been thinking about it for a long time. I mean, Jay's pushing forty, and belting out Over the Rainbow every night is getting a little old, you know? And I'll never make it on Broadway, I know that. I've known that for a while."

  "I'm sorry it hasn't worked out for you, Socks. So you two are looking to switch careers."

  "Yeah, that's what we're looking for. Do you remember my mama's pies, Maggie?"

  Maggie had to shift mental gears, but she managed it. "Sure, I do. She makes great pies. Why?"

  "Well, I've got all her recipes. Her grandmama's recipes, that is. And her fried chicken recipe. And her—well, lots of recipes. You know when I go to auditions? I usually take some of Mama's pecan brownies or her fig bars with me. Everybody loves them. I almost got a part in the chorus of Wicked, the producer liked her pralines so much. She makes the best pralines."

  "Is this going anywhere, Socks?" Maggie asked, as she had pulled a few more pieces of mail out of the pile, and saw that they were all personal letters from people she didn't know,
four of them addressed to the "The Jackpot Winner." And there'd been only one mailing day since she won, what with the Christmas holiday. If this was today's mail, what would tomorrow bring?

  "Jay? Well, Jay cooks. I don't cook, but Jay does," Socks went on hurriedly, obviously aware he was in danger of losing his audience. "We'd need a place, of course, and some start-up money for inventory, things like that. We already went to the Small Business administration for a loan, but they give most of them to single moms and like that. Not a lot of loans out there for a gay tap-dancing doorman and a cross-dressing Judy Garland impersonator. Jay says it's discrimination, but I don't know. Anyway, we were thinking—"

  "You were thinking about asking me for a loan," Maggie finished for him, hating to see him so nervous.

  "We'd pay you back, you know that, right?"

  Maggie smiled. "I know that. Do you and Jay know that about seventy percent of all small businesses fail in their first year? And restaurants most especially? It's like Yogi Berra said about a restaurant one time, 'Nobody goes there anymore, it's too crowded.' One minute a Manhattan restaurant is hot, and the next minute it's the new parking garage."

  Socks nodded as if he understood, and then blew it. "Who's Yogi Berra?"

  "Okay, so we've ruled out the Bronx near the stadium as a spot for your restaurant," Maggie said, grinning. "Where do you want to put it?"

  Socks coughed into his hand. Choked, actually. "Well ... you know that house you bought?" Then he looked at her, blinking like the innocent she knew he wasn't. "I should have waited, shouldn't I? But, no, I had to go and open my big mouth. He said he'd talk to you while you were in Jersey. Didn't Alex talk to you about that yet?"

  "We've been a little busy. Didn't Alex talk to me about what yet?"

  "About the bottom floor," Socks said, getting to his feet. "Well, I've already been gone too long. Can't leave the lobby unguarded, right? I'll go watch for that car for you, buzz you when it shows up, okay?"

  "Sit ... down."

  Socks danced in place as he short of shuffled his arms toward the door. "I'd really rather ..."

  "Sit!"

  "But I really need to ..." Socks looked at Maggie, whose eyes were most probably popping out of her head. "Oh ... okay ... sure thing," he said, plopping back down on the edge of the couch.

  "Now talk."

  Socks cleared his throat. "Okay. But Alex is going to be pis—er, he probably wanted to talk to you himself. The house? That big building? It's mixed zoning, or something like that. He asked that Realtor lady, and she said it would be okay. Even the way the place is built is really terrific—with the squared off first floor, and the rounded ones sort of climbing on top? And four whole floors? Alex says nobody needs to live on all four floors, not even the three of you. You, Sterling—"

  Maggie rubbed at her aching forehead. "I know who I'm going to be living with, Socks. Unless I kill Alex, that is. But then there will be even more room, won't there? For what?"

  "Well ... on the one side, our S&J Pies and Soul Food shop. It was a dream, you know? Having the place maybe, but not the money. Not until you won the—well, we won't talk about that anymore. Except for one thing. Not a restaurant, a shop. Takeout, you know?"

  "Charming. So, as your landlord and your banker, I guess I wouldn't starve, huh?"

  Socks spread his arms wide, his smile even wider and said fervently: "All the free food you'd ever want, definitely!"

  "Uh-huh," Maggie said, mentally collecting rent, which she knew was prudent of her, but which she knew Alex would call just being herself—cheap. "I hadn't thought of the house as income property. It makes it all seem less an indulgence, doesn't it? But you said one side. What would go on the other side?"

  "I can't, Maggie. I really can't. Alex will tell you."

  "Oh, Alex is going to be telling me a lot of things when I get back to Jersey, trust me."

  "Right, you have to go back there," Socks said, looking at her sympathetically. "How's your dad doing, Maggie? A killer? Somebody's got to be totally off their wheels, thinking that. But Alex is there, hunting for clues, right? He'll take care of this. Doesn't he always?"

  Maggie attempted a confident smile. "Yes, that's our Alex. Always riding to the rescue ..."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ocean City was a pleasant metropolis, if rather thin of company in the winter months, but it didn't hold a patch on Brighton, where Saint Just had often been a guest of the Prince Regent during the Season.

  The prince's pavilion, of course, had been an architectural marvel. Why, his royal majesty's horseflesh had been housed better than most of his majesty's subjects, their stalls lit by the huge crystal chandeliers that hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling.

  And the food? Ah, say what you will about the spendthrift heir to the throne, the man most certainly knew how to entertain. Course after course, delicacy after delicacy. Poor Sterling, he ate with his eyes, often allowing much more to be piled on his plate than he could possibly consume comfortably. But, if it was on the fine china plate, it must be eaten, unless he wished to insult his host. Sterling had always persevered, even if he had to take to their rented townhouse for the entirety of the next day, existing on nothing more than watered wine and bits of toast.

  Of course, none of it was real, not to Saint Just, because the Viscount Saint Just was not real. The pavilion? Yes, that had been real, was still real. The Prince Regent had been real, or as real as historical research could make him. It had been Maggie, however, who had given poor Sterling his uncomfortable post-banquet bouts of dyspepsia.

  Maggie had taken her creations, Sterling and himself, and paged through her research books as she recreated the pavilion and the prince and all the others.

  It was still difficult, from time to time, to wrap his brains around all of it—what had been real, what he had only lived, experienced, courtesy of Maggie's imagination. They'd have to travel to Brighton one day, tour the pavilion, and he could then see for himself how correct Maggie's descriptions had been.

  Or perhaps not. He had memories of the prince's Carleton House, too, but that had been ripped down not too many years after the Regency had ended. So depressing.

  Still, he was here, and not in Regency England, and he should enjoy this seaside resort for what it was.

  He'd come up onto the Boardwalk to reconnoiter, as it were, the Eighth Street Music Pier, where Mr. Novack had suggested they meet tomorrow night. The assignation might have ended in being canceled, but it was always best to be prepared for any eventuality.

  The pier jutted out toward the shoreline, but didn't quite reach it, unless a higher tide might push water against the large pilings upon which it had been built. A cursory inspection, however, was all Saint Just needed to ascertain that there would be precious little space for Novack or anyone else to hide, as three sides of the Pier were fenced off, unavailable to the public.

  There was only an area to the right of the structure, lined with wooden benches, where a person might hide himself in the shadows. It had a clear view of anyone approaching from either side or from the front, via a long ramp leading off the far side of the Boardwalk and down to Eighth Street itself. A convenient access for Mr. Novack's go-cart?

  Saint Just raised his cane, let it rest on his shoulder as he looked up the Boardwalk that ran to Twenty-sixth or Twenty-eighth Street—not that it mattered—and then to the north until it reached past First Street. There were a few other people braving the wind off the water and the winter chill, riding on bicycles or in wheeled surreys they propelled with pedals.

  A young boy on Rollerblades skated by, calling for Saint Just to get out of his way—how Sterling had failed at that particular mode of transportation brought a smile to Saint Just's face. Perhaps, next time they visited the resort town, Sterling would wish to bring his motorized scooter with him?

  Most of the shops had closed for the season, but there seemed to be life going on inside a shop bearing the sign Mack and Manco's, and Saint Just made his way th
ere, now lured by the aroma of freshly made pizza.

  The place had the look of a local eating spot, a year-round place for tourists and the citizens of the town. Saint Just was not surprised to see the tables nearly all occupied, and more than a few gentlemen sitting on stools, their elbows on the counter, chatting among themselves.

  He joined them, tipping his hat to the red-haired man who turned to look at him curiously before returning to his conversation.

  Saint Just ordered a slice, amended that order to two slices, added a request for a glass of ice water, and then pretended an interest in the plastic-coated menu.

  He listened to the conversation going on beside him. After all, two things were certain to him: men gossip as much or more than women; and two, the murder was probably the main topic of that gossip in a town as small and quiet as this one.

  And his deductions were quickly rewarded.

  "I told you—I told him. Saw him yesterday, showing up to buy donuts, just like regular people. I went up to him and I said—I said, 'Evan, you're gone. Out. Tossed. His-tor –ee.' "

  "Damn! Just like that?" the man beside him asked, hunching his shoulders as he cradled a mug of coffee between his hands. "After all these years? Man, that's tough. I'd go nuts, Joe, you know?"

  "Yeah? Well, we're going nuts, so just screw Evan. We've got the New Year's tournament coming up with Sea Isle, and we've got to go with two alternates. Raw, untested."

  "I know who one of them is. Frank Kelso, right? He's first alternate?"

  "Eight years now, right. He should be okay, I guess. He took over those two weeks last year when Pete had that gall bladder thing, remember?"

  "So who's the other guy? Tiny?"

  "No, not Tiny. He's third alternate. Barry Butts." Joe made a face.