Kasey Michaels - Bowled Over

"Well, girl, would you look at you," J.P. said, her hands on her hips as she eyed Maggie up and down. "What did you do to yourself?"

"I broke my foot," Maggie told her as Alex unfolded the walker yet again and assisted her to her feet. "Tripping over a doorstop."

"Oh, sunshine, you have to do better than that. Make up a lie, make up a whopper. Tripped over a doorstop? That's so ordinary."

"Good thought, J.P., I'll consider it," Maggie said as they all moved to the sidewalk. "When did you get back from your vacation?"

"Last night, and I've been running myself up and down the county ever since, doing that voodoo I do so well, which you'd know if you'd turn on your cell phone, sweetcakes, or talked to your dad once in a while, because I cleared it all with him first—and Sterling, of course. He introduced us. God, I love Sterling, he's such a sweetie. You buy him the beanie hat? With the earflaps? I'll bet you did, that thing has Little Mary Sunshine written all over it. Hated to leave all that warmth for all this damp and cold, but friendship called, and I'm such an old softie," J.P. told them as she wrapped her coat more tightly about herself.

The coat was huge, bright red, cushioned more than just padded, and fell all the way to the tops of the lawyer's bright green high-top sneakers. J.P. was also huge, tall, the sort of overpowering figure that usually had the ability to intimidate the hell out of Maggie. And had, at least at first. Except that, for all her outward aggressiveness, J.P. had the proverbial heart of gold. And the worst clothes sense and choice in lovers of any woman in the history of the world.

"So you've been here, talked to Dad, seen Sterling, and then gone to the cops?"

"Not the cops. Never the cops, not after they've picked their man, put the collar on him. Had to go up the chain of command, all the way to the top. Never start at the bottom, it takes too long. Worked fast, because I like to work fast, and because I'm good, damn good. After all, how can I let my friend's daddy walk around with a murder charge over his head, huh? Which is gone, by the way, as of about fifteen minutes ago. You can thank me now. Even hug me. It might warm me up. Damn it's cold."

Maggie didn't know what to think, what to say. She turned to Alex. "Are we happy about this?"

J.P. dropped her arms, that she had opened so that Maggie could hug her, and looked from Maggie to Alex and back again.

"Okay. Somebody want to tell me what's going on here? I cut my vacation short, rush home to winter, drag myself down here to the hinterlands, tell Ms. Spade-Whitaker to take a hike—never saw a woman so happy to lose a client—take myself up to the D.A.'s office, present myself as the new attorney of record, read the evidence they have to show me, do a little dance, make a little love, get down to—well, they didn't have anything. All circumstantial, except for the bowling ball. That was pretty substantial. And your daddy has an airtight alibi in his mistress, so—"

"Carol's not his mistress, J.P.," Maggie explained nervously. "They're just very good friends."

"Never interrupt me when I'm blowing my own horn, sugar. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. I threatened to paper the D.A.'s office with motions to dismiss, Miranda violations—more paper than the man could handle if he had a staff of twenty in Manhattan rather than sitting here in the boonies of Jersey. And he caved. Such a pretty thing to see, a man caving that way. So the charges have all been dropped, at least until they get more evidence. Which they ain't getting, right, because Sterling told me you and English here are doing your ride-to-the-rescue thing, and finding the real murderer. So, English? Did you find him yet?"

"Possibly, J.P.," Alex told her. "However, if one of our current hypotheses is correct, removing Evan as a suspect may have just put his life in danger."

Maggie sagged against the side of the car. "Go upstairs, please, Alex, and get Dad and Sterling. I'd feel better if we took Dad to Mom's house, had everyone in one spot."

"An excellent suggestion. We might arrive in time to wave fond farewells to Attorney Spade-Whitaker and her Realtor husband."

"And Tate. I'll bet he's going to bail at any moment. We have to finish this, Alex, we have to finish it today."

"Because you need to get back to the city and have me run the title search on that building Sterling told me you bought, and go over the sales contract that you're now going to tell me you didn't sign without letting me look at it, right?"

"Uh, well ... oops?"

"You signed a sales agreement without checking with me, your personal lawyer?"

"You reneged on the free legal service for life, J.P.," Maggie reminded her weakly.

"And a good thing I did, if you didn't have someone vet that sales contract, run a decent title search. You know, Sunshine, between tripping over murders and tripping over yourself the way you do, I could end up a very rich woman."

He-e-e's ba-a-a-ck ...

They let him go?

How could they let him go!

What did I do wrong? I didn't do anything wrong. I did it right.

Didn't I?

Now what?

Now nothing, that's what. I do nothing. I just sit tight.

I've got what I want now. Everything I want.

Unless they try to screw me.

Then they'll be sorry. Boy, will they be sorry.

I took out one for sure. I can take out another one ...

Well, isn't he a real fun guy? But who is he? What's his major problem, other than the fact that he's an eggroll short of a combination plate.

All the clues are there, though. Promised, and delivered.

So who killed Walter Bodkin?

Better yet, if you think you're so smart, and you already know the "who" of it— why did this person kill him?

Bet you don't know that (and, if you do, go write your own book; why are you reading this one?).

Maggie and Saint Just sure don't know why Bodkin is dead. As a matter-of-fact, they aren't even close.

Which, unhappily for our bad guy, never stopped them before when they uncovered a murderer for all the wrong reasons ...

"What's he doing here? I didn't invite him here. Who invited him here? Margaret, is this your doing? Why would I want him here?" Alicia Kelly asked rapid-fire, pointing at her husband as the gang, one by one, emerged at the top of the staircase leading to the main floor of the condo.

"Think I'll go get a bowl of puffed rice," Evan muttered, his chin on his chest as he scuttled past his wife on his way to the kitchen. "Sterling? You want a bowl of puffed rice?"

Saint Just motioned with his head that Sterling should accompany Evan to the kitchen—and out of the line of fire.

"I suppose so," Sterling said, hurrying after Evan. "How many calories do you think are in a bowl of puffed rice, Evan? Do you have any skim milk?"

"Since when does Sterling worry about skim milk?" Maggie asked, but then just shook her head. "Never mind, it's not important. Mom, look, it's like this. We think maybe Dad's in danger."

Alicia sat down all at once. Thankfully she had been standing directly in front of the couch. "Evan? Somebody is after Evan? Is that what you're saying? Why? Because of Walter?"

"Alex?" Maggie said, looking at him for help.

Which he gladly supplied. After all, he might not know exactly what was going on, but he knew his impeccable English accent often concealed that fact from his American listeners.

"Yes, allow me, please. First, Alicia, I'd like to introduce to you J.P. Boxer, Maggie's and my very good friend and your husband's new attorney."

Alicia smiled rather weakly as J.P. bounded across the room and stuck out her hand to the woman.