"Oh, God. I'm a dead woman," Maggie said, bowing her head over the walker, and looking rather abject for the winner of a three-million-dollar jackpot. "You know it's only a matter of hours before someone sees my face and recognizes it. And my mother? What's she going to say? No, don't suggest anything. I can already imagine what she's going to say: 'Margaret? Can't you do anything without making public spectacles of us all?' I think I'm going to be sick."
"Ah, yes, but not now, my dear. Miss Hatchard has promised us all a most wonderful repast at the restaurant of your choosing. I've taken the liberty of narrowing those choices down to one owned by Bobby Flay, who I enjoy watching on the Food Network, and—"
"I want to go to the buffet. I want coconut macaroons. I'll go nowhere that doesn't included coconut macaroons. I have earned some coconut macaroons."
"I don't think it would be comfortable for you in such a public area, Ms. Kelly," Miss Hatchard supplied helpfully. "But I'm certain I can get you a nice bag of macaroons to take with you. If you're positive that you won't accept the Borgata's hospitality and a complimentary suite for the night?"
Maggie looked at Saint Just, who merely shrugged his shoulders. "No steps, Alex," she pointed out. "Everything free. I'm tempted. But no. We have to go back to Dad's, right? He's probably wondering where we are, and my cell phone doesn't work in here, which means nothing, because I forget his number at the apartment anyway. What time is it? I'm sure my pill's through my system now—I hurt bad enough again to know it's gone—so I'm safe to drive. We'd better go, right?"
Minutes later, they were back in the Taurus, Sterling reading all the signs, Saint Just studying Maggie's face in the darkness inside the car.
"You're feeling guilty, aren't you, my dear? Happy as you are, and I'm sure you're over the moon, as are we all, you're feeling guilty."
She shot him a quick look, eased across the wide intersection and onto Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard. "Don't be ridiculous. Guilty? Why should I—oh, all right, yes. I feel guilty. I'm Irish, I'm Catholic—I'm good at guilt. I have, over the years, elevated guilt to an art form, I know that. But, Alex, he called it his machine. He probably played it every time he came to the casino, just waiting for it to pay off—and I come hopping in and win the whole jackpot. On Christmas Eve, no less. That poor man."
"That poor man, Maggie, called you an unpleasant name and not once but twice attempted to run you down with his motorized cart. Not to mention his clear intent to behead you with that oversize check."
"Well, yeah, there is that," she said, turning onto Atlantic Avenue, so that Saint Just felt fairly certain they'd make it back to Ocean City without a detour into Pennsylvania, or some such thing. "You said his name, didn't you? What is it?"
"Henry Novack, a fairly innocuous name. Why?"
"I don't know. I thought maybe I could send him some money. What do you think?"
"I think the day has been too much for you, my dear. That would be tantamount to admitting that he deserves the money, and not you. You did nothing wrong. The machine was there for the taking, and you took it."
"And we're splitting the winnings three ways, I know. I can't believe this has happened to me, to us. I've never even won a door prize or a free ham, for crying out loud. If only I could have remained the anonymous winner. It's like I told them all, who cares if some famous author—yes, I said that, much as I hate saying stuff like that—wins a jackpot? I know I wasn't all that choked up when J-Lo's mom won a big jackpot here in Atlantic City. Them what has, gets, that's probably what I said—and she only won two-point-four million."
"Only, Maggie?"
"Yeah, well, you know what I mean. It's only a good story if some retired kindergarten teacher wins big and says she's going to pay off the mortgage on her house and set up trusts for her six grandchildren before joining the Peace Corps, you know? People will hate me for winning."
"Fame and fortune. Such terrible curses. Such a burden you carry, Maggie," Saint Just said, motioning for her to pay attention, as they were nearing the turnoff leading up to the bridge into Ocean City.
"Go ahead, mock me. And remember that this money isn't coming to us in one huge lump. And I already know what I'm doing with mine. I'm giving it to someone who deserves it. Someone who, through no fault of his own, has no income at the moment. I'm giving my yearly share to Sterling."
"I beg your pardon?" Sterling said, leaning front as far as his seat belt would allow. "Me?"
"A splendid idea for both of us, Maggie," Saint Just agreed, delighted for his friend. "Sterling deserves to live in the style to which he was accustomed in our books. A yearly allowance is just the thing."
"My books. Not our books, my books. You get all the fun, I get all the heavy lifting. Remember that. Now, tell me what I'm going to say to my mother when she asks me if I'm happy with the way I've once again disgraced the family. And come up with the right words before the eleven o'clock local news, just in case she missed the early broadcast."
But Saint Just wasn't really attending to Maggie's words, as she'd just turned the corner and he could see flashing red and blue lights up ahead. "There may have been an accident," he said as Maggie slowed down, obviously also seeing the lights, the shiny white police cars blocking most of the street.
"That's Dad's place," she said, easing the car to a stop a good thirty yards away from the apartment building. "And the front door is open, and there's cops all over the place. Oh, cripes. Do you think Mom showed up and someone called the cops for a domestic dispute? I may be saved yet, if Mom did something dumber than I did."
She pulled the car ahead, stopping inches from one of the patrol cars, and yelled for Sterling to get her walker out of the backseat.
"Stay with her, Sterling. I'll go inquire as to what is going on."
Saint Just had only walked halfway to the door when he stopped to see Evan Kelly being led out onto the porch, then down the stairs. There was a policeman on either side of him, and his hands were cuffed behind his back.
Obviously Maggie saw her father as well. "Daddy!"
Saint Just grabbed at Maggie, keeping her upright as she attempted to move the walker fast enough to keep up with her frantic hops. "Panic aids nothing, sweetheart. Stay here with Sterling, and I'll go see what's happening. Whatever it is, I'm sure it's a mistake."
Evan Kelly was already ensconced in the rear seat of one of the patrol cars, and a policeman was walking toward Saint Just, ordering him to move the Taurus.
"In a moment, officer," he told him. "Mr. Kelly's daughter wishes to know the nature of the charge against her father."
The officer looked past Saint Just, to see Maggie balancing behind the walker, her beautiful face stark white in terror. "We don't give out that sort of information. His kid, you said? And who are you?"
"A close friend of the family. It's Christmas Eve, officer. Surely there are exceptions to the rule, on Christmas Eve."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay, don't get me all misty. The way I hear it, Kelly's a slam dunk for murder one, okay? That's all I got for you. Now move that damn car or I'll have it impounded." The officer then tipped his hat slightly and smiled. "And, oh, yeah—Merry Christmas."
Chapter Seven
"Margaret. You are here then? And you've heard about your father? Well, of course, I should have known. Like I've always said, your middle name should have been Trouble ..."
Maggie suppressed a flinch, and kept her back to the door of the police station. She'd been hoping there could be a way to make whatever was happening all go away before her mother found out about it. So much for luck—except bad luck. "Hi, Mom. Fancy meeting you here."
"Actually, I'm the one who figured you'd probably be here somewhere, Maggie."
Maggie's upper lip curled only slightly. She swiveled on the uncomfortable wooden bench that reminded her of a church pew, and looked toward her brother, who appeared to be his usual buttoned-down arrogant self. "Tate. Figured that out all by yourself, huh?"
"How did you break you
r foot?"
"I stepped on a doorstop," Maggie told him grudgingly.
"Get out. Nobody does that."
She felt her temperature rising. "Okay, okay, if you think it's important at a time like this. I was crossing Broadway and didn't look where I was going and my foot got run over by the lead car of the president's motorcade."
"No! My God, did they stop? Did you get his autograph?"
Maggie rolled her eyes. "And Mom says you're the smart one ..."
There was a sort of flutter in the doorway, followed by an anguished female cry. "Maggie! Oh, God—Daddy! This is terrible!"
Maggie smiled slightly at her sister, the baby of the family, who had taken refuge behind a fist-size wad of already soggy tissues. Maureen was really good at playing the baby of the family, too. All the Kelly children, Maggie had decided long ago, had been typecast by their mother at birth. Erin, the oldest, therefore infallible. Tate, the only boy, the heir, the one carrying on the family name. And Maggie, the middle child—she'd been preprogrammed to be the odd one out.
"Hi, Maureen."
Her sister looked her up and down. "Mom said you broke your foot. 'To annoy her,' she said. How did you do it?"
Sometimes it took Maggie a minute or two to learn. But then she learned fast. "Rappelling down the Matterhorn."
"Wow."
"Yeah. Wow. Guess the gang's all here, huh, except for Erin. She parking the car?"
Alicia Kelly collapsed onto the bench beside Maggie. "Don't be facetious. And Tate drove us in my car, as he'd already sent away the limousine he'd hired. Erin had to cancel yesterday morning, poor thing, although we can only be glad she isn't here, as she's too sensitive for something like this. Gavin has the flu, or something. She's devastated not to be here, but her husband's health comes first."
"Sure, it does. Yesterday morning, Mom, you said? Leaving you time to call me, tell me that we could stay at the house, right? I mean, you did call me yesterday afternoon. Of course, that was only to remind me to keep Dad away from the house tomorrow, so he couldn't ruin Christmas dinner."
If Maggie had expected her mother to blush, or look sheepish, then she really was asking for a miracle for Christmas. "Always finding fault, aren't you, Margaret?"
"Yeah, that's me. I'm sorry, it wasn't important. Well, it was, I guess," she waffled. "But not really, huh? Not right now, anyway. Who's that over there with Tate?"
Mrs. Kelly was sitting ramrod straight, repeatedly snapping and unsnapping the clasp on her huge black purse. "His friends, of course. And how embarrassing for Tate, to have to come down here to bail out your father."
Maggie felt strange. Almost as if her backbone was getting stronger. Now why was that?
"Yeah, poor Tate. Hard to impress his important pals, what with his daddy in the slammer and all that. My friends, on the other hand, don't count," Maggie said, rolling her eyes at Alex, who had just stepped back into the nondescript lobby that, Maggie had noticed earlier, smelled like a branch office of Dunkin Donuts. "Alex? Did you get hold of her?"
"I did," he told her, inclining his head to Alicia. "Mrs. Kelly, how pleasant to see you again, no matter the circumstances."
"I'm always happy to see you, Alex," Mrs. Kelly answered. Very nearly purred. It wasn't easy, putting a purr for Alex and a shot at Maggie in the same sentence, but the woman was a master.
"Right," Maggie said tightly, still amazed that even her mother was not immune to Alex's perfect-hero charm—although having bought the woman a diamond bracelet after his initial win at the baccarat table over the Thanksgiving holiday couldn't have hurt. "Is she coming here? Does she have a license to practice in Jersey? What did she say?"
"She—meaning, Mrs. Kelly, our good friend and exemplary criminal attorney, J.P. Boxer—informs me that the weather in Aruba is wonderfully balmy, although a tad windy at times, which made her full-body massage on the beach a fairly risqué affair at one point. There are times, I'll admit, when I wish I didn't inspire such confidences from the fairer sex."
Maggie's stomach did a small, sick flip. "Oh, God. She's in Aruba? She can't be in Aruba. What the hell is J.P. doing in Aruba?"
Alex smiled. "She told me you'd say that, almost word-for-word, actually. She also told me to tell you that she's in Aruba because that's—pardon me, Mrs. Kelly—that's damn well where she wants to be right now, considering the fact that snow and slush are unheard of in that particular climate."
"But she promised me free legal advice for life. Did you remind her of that, Alex?"
"Unnecessary, my dear. J.P. is well aware of her promise. She also instructed me to tell you that she lied."
Maggie sagged in her seat. "Of course, she did. Never put your trust in lawyers, unless they're already on a hefty retainer. Didn't Shakespeare say something like that?"
"Shakespeare said many things, Maggie," Alex told her. "I fear I have not committed them all to memory."
"No, just most of them." Maggie was very aware of her mother, sitting beside her. For some reason, one she'd have to figure out later, she had this insane impulse to shield the woman, take the burden all on her own shoulders. Okay, and on Alex's shoulders. "So now what? We're in this alone, right? Give me some ideas. How do we get Dad out of here?"
"A stout rope tied to the prison bars, a stouter bumper on your car, and I suppose we could manage it. Unless you're aware of a source for a few sticks of dynamite, hmm?"
"If that was meant to amuse me, you missed the mark, bucko. I'm serious. Daddy can't stay here all night. It's Christmas Eve."
"J.P. did give me a few names, other attorneys we might be able to contact. Although it is as you said, Christmas Eve, Maggie, so I don't know that we'll be able to spring your father from the hoosegow much before Boxing Day."
"Hoosegow?"
"Something Sterling said to me. It would appear he's quite taken with the term. I rather favor it myself, it's amusing. And rather rolls off the tongue, don't you think? Hoosegow."
"Not now, Alex, please. I don't need amusing right now." Maggie looked over to the desk where the booking officer or whoever he was sat, talking to Sterling. "What's he doing over there anyway?"
"Sterling? Why, being his usual amiable self, I imagine. Leave him be, Maggie. If anyone can arrange for a way for us to speak with your father yet this evening, it will be Sterling."
"Not really, Alex," Mrs. Kelly said, getting to her feet. "Tate's friend's wife is arranging bail now. Or releasing Evan on his own recognizance, as I believe she called it. After all, it's not as if he could have done anything too terrible. Not Evan. He isn't capable."
Maggie goggled up at her mother. "Cripes, Mom. Nobody told you why Daddy's here?"
Alex put his hand warningly on her shoulder, speaking quietly.
"Tread carefully, Maggie. We're muddling along with precious few histrionics, save your dear sister, that is. We're not flying up into the treetops. Yet. Let's attempt to remain this way as long as possible."
Maggie considered Alex's warning, and then nodded her head in agreement. They'd start slow, that's what they'd do. Daddy had been arrested. Her mother was coping with that fairly well. Why rush into telling her why he'd been arrested? What was that old joke? Something about the cat was on the roof ... ?
She looked toward Tate, now standing with the man who'd come in with him. But the woman was gone. "She's a lawyer, Mom? The guy's wife?"
"Much more than just a lawyer, Margaret. She's the senior partner in a very prestigious firm in Basking Ridge."
"And she does criminal law?"
Mrs. Kelly didn't answer, but just waved Tate and his companion over to them. "Sean? This is my daughter, Margaret. Margaret—Sean Whitaker." She shot a look at Maggie. "Sean's a Realtor."
Maggie waited a beat, for her mother to say, "And Maggie's a famous writer."
When the silence stretched out for a good five seconds, with no word coming from Alicia Kelly, Maggie put out her hand and had it thoroughly wrung by the handsome blond-headed man who looked like
he'd just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad.
"A pleasure, Sean. And your wife is an attorney?"
"She is, Margaret, yes. Cynthia Spade-Whitaker. You may have heard of her? She just successfully defended several charges against—well, names don't really matter, do they?"
"In Jersey? Not unless the name is Soprano, right? Bada-bing," Maggie said, knowing she was being snarky.
Then again, it had been a long day, and it wasn't over yet.
And she may have inadvertently hit the target, as handsome Sean seemed to turn a little green around the gills. "Everyone deserves a good defense. I'm really very proud of her. So," he added, much too brightly, "how did you break your leg?"
"My foot, actually. I broke it chasing down a purse snatcher who'd grabbed some old lady's bag as she came out of Barney's. Got him, too. The mayor's giving me a commendation next week. I do try, but it's hard to be humble."
Alex coughed into his fist.
"Really? That's ... that's very heroic of you. Ah, and here comes my wife now."
Everyone turned to watch as the blond-haired sylph with eyes as green as grass glided into the room, a self-satisfied smirk on her artfully made-up face. "All done, kiddies," she said—crowed. "I found us a judge who ... well, let's say he owes our firm a favor. Mr. Kelly will be released in a few hours. Just as soon as our judge comes here and arraigns him in a special private session and someone posts bond, of course. Tate, I'm sure you can manage that. The bail bondsman will want ten percent—fifty-thousand dollars."
Sometimes being the outsider had its benefits. Maggie could stand back, unnoticed and forgotten, and observe her fellow humans, as writers tend to do. Like now, when Maggie could watch Tate's nostrils flare, watch his Adam's apple climb his neck as he swallowed rather convulsively.
She couldn't resist: "Oh, that's great, Tate. To the rescue, as usual. Mom, isn't Tate great? What a guy."
Bowled Over mkm-6 Page 7