Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (28 page)

“Put the gun down and no one will get hurt.” I recognized Villari’s voice as he yelled through the broken windows. “Police officers have surrounded the house. There’s no way out.”

Cassie reached down and clamped her hand around the top of my arm, her fingernails digging deep into my flesh. “Move your ass now, or I’ll blow your brains out all over Grandmother’s pristine floors.”

I did as she said. Uncurling my body, I pushed myself up until I was standing awkwardly on two wobbly legs. She grabbed me around my waist with her right arm and yanked me against her body, pressing the barrel of the pistol firmly against my temple.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Detective. I’ve got your little girlfriend,” she taunted, her voice coming over my right shoulder. “One wrong move and sweet Maggie here will be splattered all over the wall. And then where would you sleep?”

Several seconds ticked by slowly. “Let her go,” he said tightly. “Don’t hurt her.”

“How very touching, Maggie. The man obviously cares for you. Too bad he has such lousy timing, bursting in when we were having such a nice little chat.” She took two steps back, dragging me along with her. “Tell your men to drop their guns, Detective—that is, if there really are any other cops around. I’m not completely convinced you aren’t the last of the shining knights, riding over here on your big white horse all by yourself. But either way, if you do exactly what I say, your girlfriend may live to see another day.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked tersely.

“Stand up and let me see you. I don’t enjoy talking to a voice.”

Villari stepped in front of the gaping hole where the windows had been, shards of glass hanging like icicles from splintered frames. His mouth was drawn into a taut line and a muscle flicked angrily in his jaw. His eyes bored into mine. “Are you all right?”

I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat.

“She’s fine,” Cassie assured him, jerking me even closer, her chin now resting on the top of my shoulder, her cheek grazing mine. I tried to pull back. I couldn’t stand the feel of her skin against mine, but she tightened her grip and laughed. “Aren’t you, Maggie dear? Or maybe you’re a little uncomfortable? Don’t worry, it won’t be long before you and the detective will be wrapped in each other’s arms forever.”

Then I snapped.

Without thinking, I snapped my arm upward and smashed the back of my clenched fist into that haughty little nose, feeling bones crunch under my knuckles. At the sound of her scream, I rapidly brought my hand forward and thrust my elbow hard into her stomach while simultaneously lifting my foot and slamming it heavily on top of her expensively clad toes. I jerked away as she released her hold and fell to the floor. I leaned down and picked up the gun she had dropped sometime during our fight.  I slid my palm around the handle and pointed the barrel down at Cassie.

“A little uncomfortable, Cassie?”

Blood gushed from her nose and mouth as she rolled from side to side, fighting the pain and trying to breathe.  Her screaming had subsided to odd choking noises as she tried to catch her breath.  Glass shattered behind me as Villari cleared an area of broken panes and climbed through to stand beside me. He quietly covered my hand with his. “Pretty impressive, Maggie,” he said, gently prying the gun from my hand.

“Martial Arts 101...in college... with Lisa. Can’t believe I remembered a thing.”

“I’m glad you did. We were in a world of hurt.”

“Why aren’t the boys in blue racing into the room right now, Villari?”

“The patrolman mentioned he saw you heading over here.” He shrugged, relief filling his eyes. “Besides, why do I need backup when I’ve got Jackie Chan in the room?”

“
Ms
. Chan to you.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Matthew, honey, would you like a little more spaghetti?”

I glanced over at the towheaded five-year-old wearing more tomato sauce around his mouth than he had swallowed. But he was up on his knees, a large dish towel tied around his neck like a bib, his eyes as round as saucers, and his mouth turned up in a wide silly grin. His mother tried mopping up the mess, but it was useless. The only thing that would clean up that kid was a thorough dunking in a bathtub or running him through a complete cycle in the washing machine.

“The boy’s hungry. Let him eat.” Villari’s father leaned over and patted Matthew on the back. “Isn’t that right, Matt? You’ve got a lot of eating to do if you’re going to grow as tall as your mama.” Lindsay smiled, shook her head at the sight of her son, and resumed eating.  Matthew giggled and dug into the second mound of spaghetti that the “Dragon Lady” had piled on his plate. It was hard to believe this was the same family that had arrived on the Villari porch over a week ago. Clutching his mother’s hand and hiding behind her skirt, Matthew had been so shy and quiet that I wondered if anyone would ever be able to reach him. But things were changing by the moment. Even the baby seemed to sense the difference, no longer clinging to her mother and staring out with dull listless eyes. She was sitting up in the high chair, banging her plastic cup, intermittently cooing and gnawing on the pieces of pasta Lindsay placed on her tray.

And then there was Lindsay. I thought I could see the tension in her face easing a bit at a time. Her eyes were softer, less furtive and worried, the furrows in her forehead smoothed out a little, her mouth not quite as taut. But she still held herself tightly, just as she had that afternoon at the park, as though still protecting herself from uncontrollable rage and unpredictable fists. I didn’t know how long it would take for her to unwrap herself, to feel free and unafraid.  Maybe it would never happen. I wasn’t sure how long a person could live with a nightmare before the nightmare simply became a part of herself.

“Maggie, eat. You’re still a bag of bones and that’s an insult to my cooking.”  The Dragon Lady smiled down at me from the head of the table. I needed a new nickname for Villari’s mother. Although she could instill fear in any of her grown children with one look of displeasure, her generosity was boundless.  She had freely opened her house and home to Lindsay and her kids for as long as they needed, no questions asked.

Villari had gone to Lindsay’s house the day after Cassie had attempted to kill me, the day after I knocked her flat with my incredible fighting skills although Villari insisted that it was the element of surprise that had actually saved me.  Personally, I believe it was sheer fright that gave me the edge. I was seconds away from death and a woman can do a whole lot of damage if she thinks her life is ending before the next commercial. But whatever it was, Cassie was going to rot in jail for a long time, maybe in that nasty cell Villari had threatened me with. The roaches were gonna love her.

Preston was shell-shocked after hearing the whole story, although I suspect a good amount of his pain will ease once he realizes that he has a strong chance of going to court and claiming his sister’s portion of the inheritance for himself. Large sums of money can soothe a lot of aches and pains.

Anyway, even though Cassie had confessed to her crime during our little hair-raising discussion, and the case, was for all intents and purposes closed, Villari couldn’t stand the idea that Lindsay was still stuck in that house with her abusive husband. Especially since Elizabeth had fully intended to help the woman. So deciding to bypass the red tape, he took a trip to Lindsay’s house that evening, right around the time Vacuum Nose would be sitting down to dinner. 

A couple of hours later, Villari was driving down my driveway with a woman, two kids, and a few ratty old suitcases. He picked me up without saying a word and we headed out to his mother’s.  I don’t know what happened at Lindsay’s house. Villari never said and Lindsay refused to speak a word about it. But I have a feeling that Villari didn’t follow the rules that day.

When dinner was over and we had said our goodbyes to the family, Villari drove me home. We didn’t talk much, but it was a comfortable silence, and I leaned my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes until we pulled into my driveway. Villari and I walked hand-in-hand to the porch, softly lit by a single yellow bulb. I unlocked the door and pushed it open, the shadows embracing the two of us like quiet lovers.

Villari shut the door and gathered me into his arms, just holding me. I laid my forehead against his chest, breathing in the fresh cotton smell of his T-shirt that always reminded me of clothes hanging out to dry on a hot summer’s day. I lifted my head and searched his coal-black eyes, so dark I couldn’t see the pupils. A moment passed as we simply gazed at each other. Then, lifting one  hand, he  held my  face gently. He leaned down and brushed his lips against mine, a mere whisper of a kiss. It wasn’t enough. I stood on tiptoe and curled my arm around his neck, pulling him closer and demanding more. I felt him smile against my lips. And I smiled back.

“Come here,” I whispered. “There’s something I want to show you.” I took his hand and laced my fingers through his. We walked down the hallway and I could see the surprise in his face when I pulled him past the bedroom. I stepped into my studio with him by my side.

“There,” I said, indicating the bust in the middle of the room.

I knew the moment he recognized her. His eyes widened slightly and he tightened his hold on my hand.

It was Elizabeth. In all her glory, with all her patrician haughtiness and all her kindness that overflowed like a waterfall.  I had tried to capture it in my sculpture.  I think she would have been proud.

Except f or one thing.  Her voice was as clear as a bell in my head, demanding that I quit wasting time staring at her and take that gorgeous man to bed.

So I did.

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Keep reading for an excerpt from
Artistic License
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Chapter One

I was a basket case. Not your everyday “Gee, I’m a little uptight, maybe I should have a glass of wine to calm down” basket case. Nope. Not me. I’m talking real-life crazy. I’m talking nutcase—chicken with its head cut off, wacko, psycho, neurotic—in bilingual terms, loco.

My first show was opening in seven hours, and I was a little nervous. That’s putting it mildly. Truth be told, I was a nervous wreck. My skin was blotchy, pimples were sprouting, and I was retaining water. Limp, unenthusiastic curls hung from my head, an unusual feat for someone who was normally a dead ringer for Little Orphan Annie. Minus the little and minus the red. My hair was more of a soft, sable color if you were lucky enough to catch it in a dim, candlelit room. Otherwise it was brown... the definition of brown. Not the rich color of bare mountain peaks in autumn, and not the color of warm buttered toast or cafe´ mocha. Just plain mousy brown. The color of swamp muck.

But I digress. My first venture into the sculpting world was just around the corner and I was too nervous to stand still. I was driving Mark, the manager and overseer of The Outlook, the very upscale gallery where my work was being displayed, unequivocally nuts. And that’s not easy to do. This man never got ruffled. He reminded me of the soldiers who stand guard outside Buckingham Palace. The ones who never move a muscle no matter how many times you wave a hand in front of their face or whisper dirty words in their ear or describe an itch that must drive them crazy. No matter what—rain, sleet, or snow—these guys remain starch stiff, staring stoically ahead, which seems, in my opinion, to be an awful waste of healthy male bodies. I mean, let’s be honest. The queen is moving up in years, and certainly no one would ever accuse her of being “a looker.” So, what exactly are they guarding?