Bowled Over

Chapter Seventeen

"Maggie? What happened?" Socks raced to the curb to help her out of the car when he saw the walker come out first, pushed out of the car by Maggie, and helped along with a short, pithy swear word. "I thought you said when you left here that you were going to get one of those walking cast things?"

"So did I," she told him, pulling herself to her feet. "Surprise, surprise. My idea of a walking cast isn't the stupid doctor's idea of a walking cast. I'm allowed to put the foot down, sort of, but still supporting about ninety percent of myself on this damn contraption while I do it. Six more weeks, Socks. I have to have this stupid thing for six more weeks."

"Gee, that's a bummer. Where'd you get the neat bicycle horn? I had one of those things, when I was a kid. Let's hear it, okay?"

Maggie gave the silver horn attached to the walker two quick squeezes on its large red ball end.

Oooga-oooga.

Socks laughed, gave the ball two more squeezes. Oooga-oooga. Oooga-oooga.

"Bernie's idea of a joke. It was in the overnight package you brought up earlier. You'd think she had better things to do, wouldn't you?"

"But you put it on the walker."

"Yeah, I know. I'm as pitiful as she is. A person has to get her jollies somewhere, right? I'm going to go upstairs, now, to shoot myself. Socks, you know anybody who has a gun?"

"Well, didn't J.P. have one?" he suggested, following after her, holding onto her purse.

"Are you kidding? Ask J.P.? She'd probably offer to pull the trigger for me." Maggie almost made it to the door when, in the damp dusk that had fallen over the city, suddenly the sun shone bright.

Except it wasn't the sun. It was television lights, and Holly Spivak was pushing a microphone in her face. Maggie quickly averted her head, shielding her eyes as best she could while trying to maintain her balance.

"And here she is, Fox Live at Four family, our very own Big-Wheels-o'-Bucks jackpot winner, Manhattan's own Maggie Kelly! Maggie, tell my audience, how does it feel to break the bank in Atlantic City?"

"Go ... away," Maggie said, keeping her head turned away from the lights, hoping the cameraman wasn't zeroing in on her backside. Didn't everything look bigger on television?

"Ha-ha," the blond newscaster-cum-predator trilled into the microphone, and then quickly lowered the thing, covered it with her hand. "Work with me, Kelly. We're live here."

"Yeah? How you'd like to be dead here?"

The newscaster laughed nervously. "Always such a card, folks. She's only kidding. Maggie and I go way back, don't we, Maggie. Why, just last month—"

Oooga-oooga-oooga!

Holly put the microphone to her mouth once more even as she raised her right hand to her ear as though listening to someone speak into the earpiece she wore. "What? Oh, right, Miranda. It is time we go to a break. Gotta pay the bills, folks! But we'll be right back with our exclusive interview with the woman who won over three million bucks and had her daddy tossed in the pokey for murder, all in the same day! And you think you have a crazy life? Not compared to Maggie Kelly. Stay tuned, it's a great story. Back to you, Miranda!"

"We're out. Nice juggle. Two minutes, Holly," a disembodied voice called, and Holly grabbed Maggie's upper arm, gave it a squeeze.

"Look," she said, her pleasant on-air voice dropped into its usual flat, Midwestern tones. "You're news, Maggie. You're always news. You and Alex."

Oooga-oooga. Oooga-oooga.

"Sorry, Spivak. Can't hear you."

"Will you knock that off? Where is he, anyway? Alex? My ratings go up when I can put that gorgeous face of his on-air. Now come on, we've got two minutes—less than that."

"My heart breaks for you. Go away."

"I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. All I want are a couple of comments. You know, on winning? And maybe on your dad? Tough break there, huh? But I'm betting you and Alex are going to get him off. Look how you got your editor friend off—the crazy redhead? Great ratings on that one, let me tell you. Work with me, Maggie, you know Alex would. You want some sympathy for your old man? I can do it. Just let me ask a couple of questions, and I'll have everyone feeling sorry for you. Who knows, you could hit Larry King with this one."

"Gee," Maggie said, resting against the side of the building. "Not Bill O'Reilly? I've always wanted to talk to him. Ask him a few questions. You know, like—who the hell ever let you out from under your rock, Bill-o?"

Holly looked toward her cameraman. "Time? Okay, we've still got some time. It's longer, on the half-hour break. Maggie, not now, don't fight me now. Be a bleeding-heart liberal on your time, not mine, please. I'm trying to help you here. Look over there—see that woman over there?"

She pointed toward the curb and, against her better judgment, Maggie looked. The trim, fairly pretty blond woman of about fifty, balancing precariously on the curb at the moment, smiled at her, waved. "Who's that?"

"Her name's Carol something-or-other. Name!"

"Carol Heinie. Honest to God!" some guy yelled back at her.

"Heinie? Man, I'da changed that in a heartbeat, wouldn't you?" Holly said, turning back to Maggie. "Carol Heinie, Maggie. She works in a jewelry store in Ocean City."

Oooga-ooo —"What? Who?"

Maggie did what she knew had to be a classic double take, goggling at the woman now walking toward them, being gently pushed from behind by a short, fat guy wearing a headset.

"Sixty seconds, Holly."

"How on earth did you—" Maggie asked, getting her first real look at her dad's ... her dad's what? Paramour? Lover? Little chippie? Oh. God.

"She came to me," Holly said, preening. "Totally unsolicited, although I'm going to say I found her, of course. They all come to me, sooner or later. Don't you know that, Maggie? Now come on. A piece of fluff on the jackpot, and then we'll let Carol tell her story. Sound good?"

"How the hell should I know? What's she going to say? What did she tell you?"

"That your dad—Everett, right?"

"Evan," Maggie said, her heart pounding.

"That's good, too. Evan. That he couldn't have murdered this guy in Ocean City, because he was with her, in her apartment with her, at the time of the killing. Good, huh?"

"I think that depends on whether you're Dad's defense lawyer, or his wife," Maggie said, caught between elation and forming a mental picture of her mother's meltdown when she heard the news. No wonder her dad hadn't wanted to tell anyone where he was Christmas Eve. He was protecting Carol. Or himself. Again, depending on who found out—the cops, or Alicia Evans.

"Five minutes, Maggie, Fox Live at Four, on-air in the tristate area, and your dad's off the hook. Ironclad alibi, and she's here to tell everyone her story. It's a gift, Maggie, a gift I'm giving you here."

"Thirty seconds! Talk faster, Holly!"

"Well, okay, I guess it's—wait a minute! You said she came to you. Why to you? Are you paying this woman?"

"Fox doesn't have to pay for news," Holly said, her tone one of righteous indignation. "Perhaps a small appearance fee, her transportation, a night in a hotel here in Manhattan, a little wardrobe help. That's all."

"Crap! Crap and double crap! Spivak, you know what you just did? You just tainted that woman's testimony. Now get out of here before I thrill your viewers by giving you a hefty belt in the chops. I did it before, you know. You've probably already run the tape a million times. Out of my way. Move!"

"And five ... four ... three ... two—throw it back to the studio! Throw it back!"

"You got that? Tell me you got that," Holly Spivak said, picking herself up from the pavement, as Maggie had been a little violent when she'd shoved her walker forward, and the tangle of cords caught on one leg of the thing, she pulled, and the reporter (holding tight to the microphone) had gone down.

"Close the door," Maggie told Socks, hopping into the foyer because that was still faster than trying to roll lightly on her left foot. "And lock it!"

"You want to let your dad's alibi in?"

"What's the point?" Maggie asked, carefully walking toward the elevator. "They'd put her on the stand, let her tell her story, and then ask her if she'd been paid for her story. End of credibility. Is Sterling upstairs?"

"Yeah," Socks said, looking out at the commotion on the sidewalk. "Wow, Spivak's really mad, Maggie. And she's got the other blonde standing with her now, and she's asking her questions. I think maybe you should have—"

"I know, I know," Maggie said, holding open the door to the elevator. "First I did, then I thought. But it's too late now. I could kill Alex for being friends with that bloodsucking blonde. Is he okay?"

Socks was mugging for the camera, which was now focused on the locked door. "Hmm? Oh. Sterling? I don't know. I asked him why he didn't go with you to the doctor and he said he didn't think you really needed him. And then he bailed on going to lunch with me. When does the Sterlman not eat lunch?"

"I think he's catching a cold," Maggie lied quickly, and let go of the door, not frowning until it was closed and she was on her way up to her floor.

It was only when she was standing in front of her door that she realized that Socks still had her purse. With her keys in it.

"Damn! Can my life get any more screwed up?"

The ding of the elevator at the end of the hall pulled her attention, and she looked hopefully down the hall for Socks.

But it was Lieutenant Steve Wendell who emerged, carrying her purse by the strap, as if it was a poisonous snake. "Hi, Maggie. Saw Holly Spivak doing one of her on-the-spot deals downstairs and figured you had to be home. The amount of stories she's been doing on you, she must think you're her ticket to the big time. Socks handed me this. How's it hoppin'?"

"Funny," she said, grabbing the purse from him. "Aren't you going to ask me?"

"Ask you what?" Steve leaned against the wall, watching as she struggled to extract her keys from the purse.

Saint Just had carried her. Steve watched while she struggled.

And was there anyone in the civilized world who might wonder why, when caught up in associations with both men, she'd opted for her imaginary hero with the lovely Regency Era manners and the belief that women were to be treated with every courtesy?

"Thanks for the help," Maggie said, sort of glaring at him when Steve finally leaned over and pushed open the now unlocked door. "Oh, cripes!"

Steve caught her before she could tumble over the huge box just inside the door.

"Steady," Steve warned, and then slid through the doorway to lift the box out of the way. "Wow, this is heavy." He leaned his face down toward the top of the box. "But it smells good."

"Sterling!" Maggie called out loudly, and a moment later Sterling poked his head out of the doorway across the hall. "The box?"

"Oh, oh yes," he said, hurrying across the hall. "Mr. Campiano sent it for you. It arrived a little while ago, a belated Christmas present. We've got one as well. I've opened ours. Meatballs—Saint Just's favorites. Isn't that a lovely, thoughtful present?"

"Hey, at least it's not a horse's head in your bed," Steve said, depositing the box on the dining table. "And it's not everyone who gets a box of meatballs from New York's premier mobster. Caroline's right, Maggie—you live a strange life."

"And you're happier being out of it, right?" Maggie said, finally managing to make it to the couch, where she sat down heavily. "How is your girlfriend, anyway? You two had fun on the slopes?"

Steve blushed to the roots of his shaggy light brown hair. "We ... uh ... we never really made ... made it to the slopes."

"You couldn't locate them?" Sterling asked as Maggie gave it up and began to laugh. What was the matter with her, poking at Steve that way?

Although she'd liked the guy, sure, she'd chosen Alex. But Steve, unbeknownst to her, had been choosing Caroline-the-orthodontic-assistant or whatever she was at the same time Maggie had been realizing that, although Steve was nice, and normal, what she really wanted was Alex. Maybe that's what bugged her. Which was stupid, and entirely too female a reaction to make her feel good about herself.

"You said I was going to ask you something, Maggie?" Steve reminded her as she sat there, thinking her stupid thoughts.

"Hmm? Oh, right. Aren't you going to ask me how I broke my foot? Because I've got some real zingers lined up."

Steve grinned, making his handsome, boyish face adorably appealing. She really did like him. He just had come into her life at the wrong time—which was at the same time Alex had poofed into it. "I already know how you broke it. Sterling told me when I called one day last week or so. But hit me with a couple anyway. I know you're dying to."

"No, that's all right," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "Well, okay. Just one. I tripped trying to get out of Donald Trump's way when he spied a dime lying on the sidewalk."

Steve nodded. "Okay. Not great, but okay. You have more?"

"You didn't like that one? I thought that one was pretty good. Okay, one more. I tripped trying to get out of the way when Donald Trump ran away when he saw Rosie O'Donnell coming down the sidewalk?"

"Don't give up your day job, Maggie. Stand-up comedy doesn't need you."

"Yeah, well, I'm working under a handicap," she said, shrugging.

"Your foot?"

"My dad's arrest," Maggie said, forgetting her foot, and the stupid nonwalking walking cast that was going to be her constant unwelcome companion for the next six weeks.

"Right, your dad." Steve was looking nervous again.

"You're here because you're going to go back to Ocean City with me, right? Talk to the cops there? Cop to cop?"

He shook his head. "I can't, Mags. That's what I came to tell you. I didn't want to do it in a phone call, and I've only got a minute, but I wanted you to know. I was up for the next case, and got hit with a triple homicide this morning. I'm primary, can't get out of it. I'm sorry."

Maggie bit her lips between her teeth, nodded. "It's okay, Steve. We'll ... we'll manage."

"You and Alex? You'll have half the Ocean City police force putting in for early retirement before you're through," he said, and then laughed without much humor. "But I did call down there for you."

"And?"

"And ... not much. They pretty much told me they don't have more than circumstantial evidence against your dad. That's probably why he got bail so easily. They knew they probably didn't have enough to hold him too long, but since he was all they had, they put the collar on him anyway, trying to look good for the morning papers. Amateur hour, you know?"

"Did they tell you what they have?"

"Yeah, they did. Professional to professional. Bloody bowling ball at the scene, his prints on the ball. Hearsay about him getting in some knockdown with the vic a couple of weeks previous to the murder. But then some woman came forward with an alibi for him. So they're probably going to have to drop the charge, refile if they get something else. They're still digging. But he's still their Number One guy—since they don't have anyone else."

"Holly Spivak threw money at the alibi," Maggie told him, and watched as he winced as if in real pain. "Yeah, I know. Not good, right?"

"Not great, no. Is Bernie here? I thought you said something to me on the phone about calling Bernie to come home. She might be able to help."

"She's not coming. Or Tabby, either, who's visiting her in-laws in Nebraska or some other godforsaken place. Not that I could figure out why I'd need my literary agent at a time like this—but you know Tabby. She worries," Maggie told him as Sterling—hopefully back to his helpful, uncomplicated self—handed her a glass of cold water. "Thanks, Sterling. And Bernie's not coming because she met somebody, some international banker who will probably turn out to be an international jewel thief, or an international gold digger."

"A miner?" Sterling sat down on the facing couch. "I would imagine that would be a very interesting occupation."

Maggie smiled at her friend. "I love you, Sterling."

"I love you, too, Maggie," Sterling said. "I said something silly and entirely inappropriate again, didn't I?"

"Uh ..."

"Gotta go, Mags," Steve broke in, slapping his hands against his thighs as if he was about to turn to his trusty horse, mount up, and gallop into the sunset. "You need anything, you let me know."

Maggie waited until Steve had closed the door behind him before speaking to Sterling once more. "You don't say silly or inappropriate things, Sterling. You say very entertaining and sweet things. You're extremely ... literal. That's how I created you to be. You can't help it. You're only being you."

"Yes, I suppose so," he said, getting to his feet. "But I shouldn't be. Not now that I'm ... er, um ... will we be driving back to Ocean City yet tonight, Maggie? I should imagine we should start soon, then, as I was listening to the weather birdie box chirping and there may be snow soon."

"The weather birdie—oh, right. That weather box thingie you bought. Yes, sure, we'll go back tonight. Nothing keeping us here, and maybe Alex found something out today, snooping around."

"Saint Just doesn't snoop, Maggie. He detects."

"By snooping," Maggie said, pushing herself to her feet. "You were going to say something, Sterling, a moment ago? It seemed important."

"Me? No, not me. I rarely ever say anything important," he said, walking over to the large box. "I know what's inside this box, Maggie. A lovely Crock-Pot—that's what Mr. Campiano's man called it—filled to the brim with meatballs from Mr. Campiano's favorite restaurant. Saint Just complimented them when they dined together, remember? They're still hot, and soaking in a lovely fragrant red gravy. Shall we take them with us?"

"Two Crock-Pots full of meatballs? Hey, why not," she said, smiling slowly. "We'll take one to Dad's place ... and I think I have an idea of where to deliver the other one. Give me ten minutes, Sterling, and we'll leave."

"You look like the cat with canary feathers protruding from the corner of her mouth, Maggie. What are you planning?"

"Oh, nothing much. And it will all be entirely innocent. Only I doubt the person on the other end is going to think so. Sterling, you are a sweet, kind, loving person. Believe it. But me? I'm mean. I'm mean to the bone ..."