Kasey Michaels - Bowled Over

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."

"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 your 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."