Kasey Michaels - Bowled Over

The smell of powdered sugar was really getting to Maggie. And she had just saved that huge retainer she was going to pay Cyndy the Shyster. Besides, she really had to stop counting pennies—pinching pennies, as Alex called it. She'd been making strides in believing herself successful. She'd bought the house, she'd ... okay, she'd bought the house. That was it, so far. Now maybe it was time really to let loose in all areas of her life. If nothing else, spending all this money was one sure way to get her back to her computer, and writing another book.

"All right, all right, it's a deal. Henry, have you ever considered a future in used car sales? Or maybe as a cemetery plot salesman? Politics?"

Henry laughed. "I like you, Maggie, I really do. You're so weird. Here you go—one crиme-filled. I've got glazed, too."

"Keep it on the back burner for me," Maggie said around her first bite of donut. "Oh, God, this is good. Donuts, fudge, saltwater taffy, caramel corn—I can't get within a mile of the ocean without craving all of them. So, what did Mae have to say to you?"

"I get paid no matter if the information is good or not?"

"You want a written contract, Henry? I've got a hot-shot mob lawyer here in town on retainer. And she works cheaper than you."

"Naw," he said, Maggie's sarcasm sailing right over his head, "I trust you to pay me. I'm just rattling your cage, making a joke. All fat people are jolly. Everyone knows that. Mob lawyer, you say? Hey, aren't they all? Here, take the glazed. It's still sorta warm."

Maggie looked at the donut, debated for a full two seconds, and then grabbed it. "Got any napkins? How did you approach Mae, anyway?"

"Ah," Novack said, wiping a bit of eclair custard from his chin, "that's the beauty of it. I skunked her. Well, first I stalked her, then I skunked her. Followed her to the supermarket and cornered her in the produce department. Told her I worked as a stringer—that's a publishing term, Maggie, stringer —for the New York Post, and was sent here to do a story on Cleo Dooley's murdering papa. Even took my digital camera along, to take pictures of her, you know? I had her pose with the persimmons. Let me tell you something, Maggie, the woman is no brain trust. She bought everything I said, hook, line, and sinker. I thought I'd never be able to shut her up."

Maggie sighed audibly. "I couldn't have run into a nun on sabbatical in the casino? Oh no, I've got to run into Henry Novack, man of many talents, blackmail not being the least of them. And she knew who Cleo Dooley was—is? That she's me, I mean? Isn't that terrific—not. But go on, what did she tell you?"

"Not much," Novack said, losing his grin. "All she really wanted to talk about were the Majesties. How they're the best bowling team in South Jersey, how the four of them have been together for, like, since forever, how somebody has to die before anyone on the waiting list gets to be on the team. I have to tell you, Cleo—I mean, Maggie—these people are seriously bent. Bowling? Get real. You throw a ball and knock over some pins. You have beer frames, and those might be fun. But— bowling? It's not even a real sport."

"Don't say that around my father, Henry," Maggie warned him before stuffing the last of the glazed donut in her mouth. "So that was it? You couldn't get her to talk about the murder? She didn't tell you if she thinks my dad did it?"

"Oh, she says he's guilty, all right. She saw the two of them fighting one night in the parking lot, a couple of weeks before the murder, you know? Said they were really going at it, except that your dad was kind of hitting the air a lot, and the dead guy was sort of dancing around, and laughing when your dad missed him."

"Did you ask her the question Alex wanted you to ask her? If she got a call on Christmas Eve, inviting her for free bowling? Did she tell you who called her?"

"Oh, right, that. Yeah, she got the call. From Bodkin."

"Damn. That's who Dad says called him. We even have the message on his answering machine. Fat lot of good that does us—the dead guy made the calls. And there's no way of knowing who called him, if anyone did. Which the murderer probably did, to get Dad and him to the lanes. To try get the whole team there, actually, then wait until Dad and Bodkin left, and he followed Dad, got the bowling ball, then somehow got Bodkin to meet him on the beach, in the dark."

Novack was working on his second eclair. "You talking to me, or to yourself?"

"I'm sorry, Henry. You did a fine job, really. But I have to go now, pick up Alex. What are you planning for the rest of the day?"

"I dunno. I thought maybe I'd go see if I can talk to the redheaded guy—Panelli, right? You know, the captain of the big bad bowling team? If Mae Petersen could believe I'm a reporter, I'll bet I can make him believe it, too."

"All right, I guess. Just be careful. We already know somebody thinks you're being too nosy. At least now, pretending you're a reporter, it makes your nosiness explainable."

"No problem-o, Maggie. I just hope we don't crack the case too soon. I want to get my go-cart repainted, and that doesn't come cheap."

"Glad I can help," Maggie said as Novack pushed his way out of her father's sedan. "As long as you're not stalking me anymore, I'm happy."

Saint Just opened the car door and slid onto the front seat, feeling very much the conspirator. "She wants to talk to you," he said without preamble as he reached over to turn up the heat, as he'd been standing at the windy corner for more than ten minutes, and had begun to feel the chill. "Now."

"Who wants to talk to me now? Lisa? Lisa wants to talk to me?" Maggie's eyes were wide. "She hates me. She never talked to me in school. She didn't even know who I was until the day I unstuffed her, for crying out loud. Why on earth would she want to talk to me?"

"She didn't confide that information to me, but I think you should see her, Maggie. She's one of the ghosts from your past, isn't she?"

"Ghosts? Like I'm haunted or something? Don't go all Doctor Bob on me now, Alex."

"Lisa Butts is a very unhappy woman, Maggie. And, I believe, a considerably frightened woman."

"Lisa? She ruled the world, Alex. Well, our world."

"Time moves on, and the world changes. When I first arrived, introduced myself, she seemed wary, unwilling to talk. But I'd had the happy coincidence of arriving in the midst of a small meeting for refreshments—Lisa called it a coffee klatch? At any event, two of the women there were on our list of W.B.B. members, although the third was not. Still, the topic of conversation was, as one would expect, the murder of Walter Bodkin."

"Hold it. Back up a minute, okay? How did you introduce yourself? You never told me how you were going to get through the door."

Saint Just smiled. "Why sweetings, I took a page from our books, you might say. I told them I was an author friend of yours in town with you for the holidays, and planning on writing a recap of the murder for my next true crime anthology."

"You're kidding. You have got to be kidding. You and Henry, both using variations on a theme? And they swallowed that?"

"I have no idea if any of them even know the definition of anthology. I have found, much as you dislike hearing such things, that once I've bowed over a woman's hand and complimented her eyes, there is nothing all that difficult about having myself invited in from the cold for tea and biscuits."

"It's a damn good thing you're no Ted Bundy."

"And now I have no idea what you mean. However, if I might return to what I've learned?"

"My irresistible perfect hero. I should give you a wart on the end of your nose in your next book, and maybe it will show up on your face here and—no, forget that. That would mean I'd have to look at the wart, wouldn't I? I'm not a masochist. Who were the other two women?"