Kasey Michaels: Bowled Over

He then stood up, slapped Alex on the shoulder. "Good seeing you again. And don't forget to come watch a while when you're done eating. Lane twenty-seven. We'll be here until ten or so. Oh, and be careful to be good to Evan's daughter. I hear he's a real killer. Just kidding!" he added quickly, laughing as he headed out of the snack bar.

Maggie and Alex watched him go, watched as another man came up to him and the two stopped to talk.

"You know who that is, Alex? Another trip down Memory Lane, that's who that is, well, minus that beer belly he's carrying around with him now, and the hair he's missing on the top of his head. That's Frankie Kelso. He graduated two or three years ahead of the rest of us—Lisa, Brenda, Joyce, and me. I remember Brenda walking the halls our senior year, though, with his class ring hanging around her neck on a chain—you know, like your quizzing glass? I was so jealous."

"If you wish to have my quizzing glass to hang about your neck, sweetings, you have only to ask. You were enamored of Mr. Kelso?"

"No. I was enamored of the way Brenda wore his ring around her neck. She looked so ... so self-satisfied, I guess. Now Brenda is a housewife—not that there's anything wrong with that—and her Frankie has just become a Majestic. Which means he'll be bowling three, maybe four nights a week until he's too old to lift the ball. Just like my Mom and Dad. History repeating itself."

"I promise never to take up bowling, sweetings," Alex told her as he helped her to her feet, positioned the walker for her.

"No, you wouldn't. Your hobby is sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. Not that I'm sorry, because you've been great so far. But this Samaritan thing, Alex? You still want to do that?"

"There are many things I want to do, Maggie," Alex told her as they made their way to the last row of seats directly behind lane twenty-seven. "First and foremost, I want to get this over with and return to the city. I begin to believe I was not fashioned for the hinterlands. Joe Panelli inquired as to whether or not I'd be interested in purchasing two tickets to the pork-and-sauerkraut dinner on New Year's Day at the local firehouse auxiliary building. And I found myself very nearly saying yes. Adding to that, I have no idea what a firehouse might be, let alone its auxiliary. Firehouse, bowling lane—I now have to assume both are buildings, don't I? And just when I had become used to partaking of breakfast in a house of pancakes. Sometimes I can say I truly feel Sterling's pain."

Maggie laughed out loud, causing Barry Butts to look their way as he took his ball from the return rack. "As you've probably already guessed, Alex, a firehouse is where they keep the fire trucks, and the auxiliary is the wives of the men who are the volunteer firemen—or, saying it another way, the women who run the socials and pork-and-sauerkraut dinners. And, speaking of sauerkraut, if I remember my history at all correctly, the First George ate sauerkraut or cabbage all the time. Couldn't speak a word of English, he made the Royal residences all stink like boiled cabbage all the time."

"Before my time, I fear," Alex told her quietly.

"Yeah, I know. Your George is still regent, isn't even the fourth George yet, not in our books. But I did a lot of research before deciding which era I wanted to write in, you know? I'm still looking for a way to slip it in that the household of the first George had only a little less than one hundred people living together—and employed only one laundress. I have a friend who sets her books in those times, and she once told me she makes sure her heroine and hero end up going swimming in a clear stream or get caught in the rain at least once a book, because those guys weren't exactly known for their personal hygiene habits."

"And you're digressing for what reason?"

Maggie slumped down on the uncomfortable plastic seat. "I don't know. I guess it's because Dad is going to show up soon, and then you're going to do your thing, and it's probably going to get messy."

"Hi, folks!"

"And speaking of things getting messy ..." Maggie said, slumping even lower in her chair. "Hi, Henry. What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, I guess," he said as he carefully juggled a plate of nachos and a vanilla milk shake. "Hey, move down two, will you? One seat doesn't do it for me. Wanna nacho?"

"Thanks, but no. Henry, I thought we discussed this. Your mother isn't overfeeding you now— you're overfeeding you."

"Maggie ..."

"Sorry, Henry," she said, noticing how his smile had slipped away. "So, what have you been doing today, since I saw you, that is?"

"Nothing much. I drove home to see the body shop guy about my go-cart. Gonna cost me a penny or two I don't have. But Gabe, he's my friend, and a real genius, he told me the guy who hit me drives a black car. He could see the transfer—that's what he called it. He said I should have called the police, and I guess I should have, huh? But that's my information for tonight. The guy who hit me drives a black car. How much is that worth to you?"

Maggie sighed. "Considering the fact that every other car out there that isn't silver is black? But I think different car companies use different black paints, so maybe we should look at your paint as extra evidence the cops can use once we turn the killer over to them."

Henry looked at Alex. "The killer? You got him figured out? Naw, no way. Not this fast."

"We have made a few assumptions, Henry," Alex told the man. "We believe it was a crime of jealousy, even of passion."

"But premeditated," Maggie put in quickly. "Because the killer was trying to kill two birds with one bowling ball."

"You're weird," Henry said, popping another nacho into his mouth. "So is he here? The killer, I mean?"

Maggie leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Yeah, he's right up there, sitting on the front bench in that ugly yellow shirt."

"There's three guys sitting there in ugly shirts, Maggie. Which one is he?"

Maggie was about to point to the guy in the middle, Barry Butts, when she felt hands on her shoulders and turned her head to see her father standing behind her. "Hi, Dad. Where's Sterling? You didn't come alone, did you?"

"Sterling's at the snack bar," Evan Kelly told them, his wistful gaze on the Majesties. "And there they are. My team. My friends." He shook his head. "Never take anything for granted, Maggie. It can all be gone in an instant. Poof."

Maggie felt Alex put his hand over hers and she closed her eyes, all the old nervousness back. Alex was here now, but for how long? "I'll ... I'll try to remember that, Daddy. Oh, look, Mr. Panelli has seen you and he's waving to you. No, wait, don't go, Dad, here he comes."

"Evan, good to see you, buddy," the captain of the Majesties said, extending his hand.

Evan Kelly pulled himself up to his full height, looked straight into Joe Panelli's eyes, then raked his gaze down the man's figure and back up again, blinked, and said, "Excuse me? For a moment, I mistook you for—"

"I've got a big mouth, Evan, and I went off the handle like a jerk. I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry. We want you back, Evan. The Majesties need you."

"—Someone I once admir— what?"

"I said, I'm sorry, Evan. And we want you back."

Alex squeezed Maggie's hand again as she blinked back sudden tears. Bowling with the Majesties might not be her idea of nirvana, but for her dad, being on the team meant everything to him. "Oh, Daddy, isn't that wonderful?"

"Well, yes ... I suppose it is," Evan said, looking confused. "So who's off, Joe? Barry, right? Frankie was number one on the list, Barry number two. So Barry goes?"

"Easy, Dad ..." Maggie warned quietly.

"Yes, Evan, now's not the time to worry about such things," Alex said, getting to his feet and reaching out his hand to Maggie's father. "Allow me to congratulate you, sir."