Kasey Michaels - Bowled Over

"Anyone else, Sterling, and I'd say you were angling for a compliment. But you are a hero, my friend, in every way. Ah, and here comes our lady of the moment. Maggie? You were featured on the local television news an hour ago."

Maggie's expression instantly went from happily dazed to completely panicked. "No! Oh, God, I didn't sign any release to have my name and face shown. I know I didn't. They wanted me to, but I'm not a complete idiot. Those photographs were just for the Big-Wheels-o'-Bucks people. They promised to block out my face if they show the pictures. Who needs the world knowing you just won three million dollars? Which I get in yearly increments for twenty years, and that's after the Feds take a big chunk straight off the top. Not that I'm complaining. Did you see the broadcast?"

"There's quite a lot to address in all of that, but let's begin with the most important question. You are yet to be called anything but the lucky winner. That, I would say, would be the good news."

Maggie hopped over to him. "And the bad news?"

"Sales of camera phones have climbed into the stratosphere, I would say. If we were to piece together all of the various photographs I've just recently seen displayed on the television screen, I believe the result would be a movie taking us from your initial confusion, to Mr. Henry Novack's shouted accusations and attempt to run you over with his electric cart, to the moment I, well, the moment I rescued you from the fray. Oh, yes, and one fairly magnificent photograph of you in the act of punching Mr. Novack."

"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.