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What the Lady Wants
Jennifer Crusie


Mitch Peabody was learning pretty fast that the life of a private detective was nothing like the movies. He'd envisioned a world of tough-talking detectives and smart-mouthed, stunning dames. Instead he saw case after case of cheating husbands, suspicious wives and unsuspecting mistresses…until she walked through the door.Right down to her stilettos, Mae Sullivan was a knockout with a lethal body–and a lethal family to go with it. There was something not quite on the up-and-up about her, but she came with a case he couldn't afford to refuse…and left him with a case of lust he hadn't had since high school. It didn't take long for him to fall for her, hook, line and sinker. But was Mae interested only in catching the double-crossing crooks who murdered her uncle…or did the lady want to catch him?









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“Crusie has a gift for concocting nutty scenarios and witty one-liners…. Genuine laughs.”

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—Boston Globe on Bet Me

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“A beach book for your brain…a sexy intellectual read.”

—Redbook on Faking It

“A nontraditional couple (he’s 30, she’s 40) and a dog with a true personality make this one of the funniest, sexiest romances of the year.”

—Library Journal on Anyone But You

“Ms. Crusie has written a funny, sexy tale about two strong, loving, but completely opposite characters…not to be missed.”

—Paperback Forum on Strange Bedpersons

“Crusie displays a real knack with witty dialogue and develops a fun relationship with engaging sexual tension.”

—RT Book Reviews on Manhunting




What the Lady Wants

Jennifer Crusie







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is for my parents,

Jack and JoAnn Smith of Wapakoneta, Ohio,

because they gave me values, books and love



What the Lady Wants




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN




CHAPTER ONE


MAE SULLIVAN frowned up at the grimy old office building and shifted from one aching spike-heeled foot to the other, trying to keep the weight off her blisters. From the looks of the neighborhood, her chances of getting mugged were only slightly greater than the chances of the building falling on her. Only a loser would work in a place like this.

Good.

It hadn’t been easy finding an incompetent private eye on such short notice in a midwestern city like Riverbend. But now there was Mitchell Peatwick. She could picture him, leaning back in his office chair, balding and overweight, slack-jawed and beady-eyed, no brains to speak of.

He’d patronize her because she was female.

She’d play him like a piano.

All she had to do was convince him that he was investigating a real murder case, and he’d swing his paunchy weight around, creating noise and confusion until whoever had taken her uncle’s diary would be forced to either give it up or bury it forever if he didn’t want to be accused of murder. Yep, that was all she had to do. So go do it. She took a deep breath and winced as the waistband of her borrowed pink skirt cut into her flesh. Then she pulled the veil on her hat over her eyes and walked toward the cracked glass doors of the old building, watching her reflection as she climbed the steps.

Even through the dumb pink veil, she really did look sexy. It was amazing what clothes could do.

Now, if she could just get this damn interview over with before the waistband of June’s skirt cut her in two and June’s heels made her lame for life, she’d be on her way to solving all of their problems.

Please let Mitchell Peatwick be dumb as a rock with a weakness for women in tight skirts, she prayed as she rang for the elevator. Please let him be everything I need him to be.



THE WINDOW behind him was cranked wide-open, and the ceiling fan above him stirred the air, and Mitch was sure if he got any hotter, he’d die. As it was, he was pretty sure that the only thing that kept him alive was the fact that he wasn’t moving. If he moved, his body temperature would rise, and he’d melt right there in his office chair.

He didn’t want to move, anyway. He was too depressed to move. He leaned back in his cracked leather desk chair—sleeves rolled up, hands laced behind his head, heels crossed on his battered metal desk—and thought about the way he’d planned things and the way they’d turned out. Big difference there. Anticipation was a lousy preparation for reality. That’s why he was giving it up for fantasy. Fantasy was not particularly productive, nor was it lucrative, but it beat reality hands down.

Reality sucked.

Fantasy was leaving a prosperous career to become a private detective. Reality was regretting it. He closed his eyes and tried to recapture the dream, the part where he’d be the Sam Spade of the nineties. Then the elevator cables rumbled across the hall and Mitch knew another divorce job was coming his way. He hadn’t had many illusions about relationships before, he thought sadly, but he had absolutely none now. Even the people who weren’t married had him investigate to see if the people they weren’t married to were telling the truth. And of course, they weren’t. That was the one irrevocable truth Mitch had learned in a year, the only thing, he realized now, that he’d taken away with him.

Everybody lied.

Sam Spade would have understood that part, but he would have spit on the divorce work. Mitch had the uncomfortable feeling that he should be spitting on it, too, instead of making a precarious living at it. Too precarious. He had one week left in the year, one week to earn the last of the twenty thousand dollars and win his stupid bet and go back to his regularly scheduled life, but to do that he needed a client who would shell out $2,694 before Friday.

It wasn’t going to happen. Prying money out of clients was the second least favorite thing he’d learned about this job.

So when he heard the elevator cables rumble in the hall opposite his office door, he didn’t leap to his feet with enthusiasm. It wasn’t just because the heat would kill him if he moved. It was also because it had been a long time since he’d done anything with enthusiasm, and he’d forgotten how it worked.

If I was Sam Spade, this would be Brigid O’Shaughnessy. The ancient ceiling fan creaked above him, and buttery sunlight spattered over him, and in spite of himself, he began to feel optimistic again. Maybe hope wasn’t dead yet. Maybe this was a Brigid heading his way, a woman uninterested in marriage and commitment, willing to seduce him to get what she wanted.

He was sure as hell willing to be seduced.

She would come into the office, cool, slender, lovely and lethal, in one of those white suits with the wide lapels and a tight skirt that was slit to the hip. She’d have incredible legs. And maybe she’d be wearing a hat over her glossy red curls, a dark veil that dusted over blue, blue eyes and a straight little nose above moist, pouty lips. And in between the lips and the legs would be the best part. Her jacket would be tight under her breasts. Round breasts. Full, round breasts. High, full, round breasts.

With an effort, Mitch pried his mind off the breasts.

And she’d come in and say, “I need you to find the Maltese Falcon,” and her voice would be throaty and soft. And somewhere along the way, she’d take off her hat, and they’d have passionate, steamy, slippery, sweaty sex…

Mitch lingered for a moment on the sex.

…and then he’d find out that she’d been the guilty one all along. “I won’t play the sap for you, baby,” he’d say, and they’d take her away for murdering his partner. Okay, he didn’t have a partner unless he counted Newton, and nobody ever counted Newton, but still…. No wonder that book was a classic. Sam Spade got to nail her without a commitment and still feel good about himself when he dumped her. First, great sex, and then he walked out on her, free as a bird, a hero instead of a schmuck.

Now there was a fantasy.

Then the door opened, and he looked up, and she came in.

Her hair was dark brown, and so were her eyes behind the veil, and her suit was pink instead of white, but everything else was pretty much his fantasy. The nose, the lips, the…

“I’ll be damned.” With enormous effort, Mitch raised his eyes from her breasts to her face.

“Probably.” Her low voice reverberated straight into his spine. “Are you Mitchell Peatwick?”

“Uh, yeah.” Mitch swung his feet to the floor and stood up, wiping his sweaty palm on his shirt before offering her his hand. “Mitch Peatwick, private investigator. Listen, did you ever read The Maltese Falcon?”

“Yes.” She ignored his hand as she surveyed the dingy office, her pout deepening as she took in the cracks in the upholstery and the dust. “Is this really your office?”

That was the way the world worked. Anticipation tripped him up every time. If she’d just kept her mouth shut, she would have been perfect, but no…

Reality. Nature’s downer.

Mitch sighed and pulled his hand back. “Think of it as atmosphere. I do.” He sank into his chair and put his feet back up on the desk. “Now, how can I help you? Lose your poodle?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Would you be able to find it if I had?”

“Just what I needed—a snotty client.” Mitch tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but it was hard. There was something about being snubbed in the middle of a heat wave by a beautiful woman with fantasy breasts that brought out the worst in him. And anyway, she wasn’t that beautiful. Her nose was actually pretty standard, and her lips didn’t really pout on their own, and her breasts…Don’t think about the breasts, Mitch told himself. It’ll only depress you.

“From the looks of things, you could use any kind of client.” She surveyed the bottoms of his feet, propped up on the desk in front of her. “I’ve never actually seen paper-thin soles before. It’s amazing. I can tell the color of your socks from here. They have holes in them, too.”

“Big deal.” Mitch smiled, world-weary and invulnerable. “Now tell me something really tough, like the color of my underwear.”

“You’re not wearing any underwear,” she said, and Mitch put his feet down.

“What do you want?” He glared at her through the dusty sunlight. “If you just stopped by to screw up my day, you’re done.”

She looked around the office again and walked over to the coatrack with a hip-rolling step that strained the fabric of her tight skirt and lessened Mitch’s annoyance considerably. Then she picked up his linen jacket, walked back to the chair he kept for clients and dusted off the seat with it. Mitch would have been annoyed again, but she bent over to dust the seat, and while the lapels on her jacket were crossed too high to make the view really breathtaking, everything sort of moved forward against the loose, soft fabric, and he remembered that he really didn’t like linen that much, anyway. Then she walked back to hang up his jacket, and he watched her from the rear and thought again what amazing creatures women were and how glad he was that he was male.

Then she sat down, and he tried to pay attention.

She blinked at him, her eyes huge. “This has to be confidential.”

Mitch snorted. “Of course it does. Nobody ever walks in here and says, ‘Listen, I want everybody to know this.’” He pulled a yellow legal pad toward him and picked up a pen. “Let’s start with your name.”

“Mae Sullivan,” she said, and he wrote it down.

“And what seems to be your problem?”

She glared at him. “Someone seems to have murdered my uncle.”

Her voice was snottier than he’d imagined a really sexy voice should be. It wasn’t easy being aroused and annoyed at the same time. It took a lot of energy, and he needed that energy to not think about the heat, which was another reason to dislike her. “Murder. Well, you know, the police are excellent at that sort of thing. Have you reported the body yet?”

“The memorial service is day after tomorrow.”

“So this isn’t exactly news to the police.”

“The police aren’t interested.” Her brown eyes met his blue ones evenly. “Are you?”

Mitch looked into those eyes and thought about murder instead of divorce work and sighed. “Yes. I’m going to be sorry, but yes, of course I’m interested.”

She shifted in her seat, all her moving parts meshing in elegant, erotic motion, and Mitch thought, Thank God I don’t have a partner or she’d off him for sure.



LYING WASN’T Mae’s strong suit, but she was considerably cheered by what she saw. Blinking up at her, groggy with the heat that blanketed his office, Mitchell Peatwick didn’t look as if he’d catch on if she told him she was one of the Pointer Sisters. He just lounged behind his Goodwill desk, his shaggy blond hair falling in his eyes, and smarted off to her while she snubbed him. When he wasn’t talking, he was sort of endearing in a dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks kind of way, but he had an office right out of a dime-store novel, and his mind was obviously still in one. The Maltese Falcon? What a dreamer.

But that was good. It was going to take a dreamer to buy her story. And he wasn’t completely impossible. He wore beat-up clothes of no particular style, and his hair could have used a trim, and his face had more jaw than it really needed, but he was solidly male, with that broad-shouldered, non-gold-chain-wearing, let-me-lift-that-car-for-you-lady kind of doofus sexiness that made women think that maybe they’d been too hasty with the liberation movement.

And then, of course, he opened his mouth, and all those women went looking for the nearest lamppost to hang him from. If he’d just kept his mouth shut…

“Tell me about your uncle,” he said, and his voice was patient, and she thought she saw sympathy in his eyes, which made her feel guilty for using him. Of course, maybe it only looked like sympathy. Maybe it was really a hangover.

“He was murdered.” Mae leaned forward a little, just enough so that her breasts moved under her jacket. It had worked on him before, although she had to be careful not to overdo it. Sometimes men became jaded after too many minutes of shifting silk crepe. Or they got that glazed look. She peered into his eyes. Still fairly alert. Full speed ahead. “But nobody believes me when I tell them that.”

“Including the police?”

Mae tried to look defeated and vulnerable. He looked like the type who would go for defeated and vulnerable. Brigid O’Shaughnessy had done well with defeated and vulnerable. “I haven’t gone to the police. They wouldn’t have believed me. His doctor signed the death certificate. There’s nothing the police can do.”

He picked up his pen again. “What was his name?”

“Armand Lewis.” Mae watched as his hand moved across the yellow pad, making slashing strokes with the pen. He had strong, broad hands, and his movements were sure, and she was well down the road to her own fantasy when she realized what was happening and put a stop to it. There was too much at stake to blow on a nice pair of hands, particularly a pair hooked to a brain lame enough to buy her story.

He looked up at her. “What did the doctor put on the death certificate?”

“Heart attack.”

He wrote that down and then said, “Did your uncle have heart problems?”

“Yes.”

“How old was he?”

“Seventy-six.”

When he spoke again, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Obviously, it has occurred to you that it is not unlikely that your uncle would die of a heart attack at seventy-six.”

“Obviously.” Mae smiled at him, Brigid to the teeth.

“Do you have a reason for thinking he was murdered?”

“No.” Mae leaned forward a little and moistened her lips. “I just know he was. I have a sixth sense about things sometimes.”

He smiled at her, the kind of smile people give to unreasonable small children and the deranged. “And this is one of those times.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He went back to the pad, and Mae relaxed an iota. “Did he leave a lot of property?”

“Yes. His estate should be in the neighborhood of twenty million.”

“Nice neighborhood. Who inherits?”

“I will, once the will is probated.”

His head jerked up. “All of it?”

Mae nodded. “Half of his stock and all of everything else.”

“Who gets the other half of his stock?”

“His brother, Claud Lewis.”

“Does Claud need the stock?”

“No.”

Mitch frowned. “And there are no bequests to servants, nothing to charity, no locked boxes to distant relatives?”

Mae shot him another Brigid smile to get him back on track. “Really, this isn’t necessary. There are small bequests to the butler and the housekeeper, but they wouldn’t have hurt my uncle.”

“How small?”

“Fifty thousand each.”

He met her eyes. “In my neighborhood, fifty thousand isn’t small.”

Patience wasn’t supposed to be a bombshell’s strong suit, but Mae didn’t have much choice. Mitchell Peatwick was turning out to be a lot more focused than she’d thought. This was not good. “It’s not enough for them to retire on. If Uncle Armand were still alive, they’d be making almost that much in salary every year, plus free room and board. They’re in their sixties, and they’re not going to find places like the ones they had with my uncle. His death was a disaster for them. Now, about my uncle—”

“I don’t suppose there are a lot of calls for butlers these days,” Mitch agreed. “Still, give me their names.”

Mae took a deep breath. Why was it that men always said they wanted to help her and then refused to listen to her? Was it her, or was it some awful by-product of testosterone? “They didn’t kill him.”

“Give me the names.”

She smiled again, a little tighter this time. “Harold Tennyson and June Peace.”

“Where are they living?”

“In the house.” Mae tried to unclench her teeth. The heat was making her irritable, her tight shoes were making her irritable, but mostly Mitchell Peatwick was making her irritable. “My uncle’s house.”

“So you’re keeping them on.”

“Well, of course.” Mae’s patience finally broke. “I can’t throw them out into the snow.”

He smiled at her.” It’s July. You’d be throwing them out into the grass. And since you’re not throwing them out, they didn’t lose anything when he died.”

Mae swallowed her irritation. “They didn’t know that I wouldn’t throw them out.”

“They’re not acquainted with you?”

“Of course they’re acquainted with me. But I never promised I’d keep them on if anything happened to Uncle Armand. We never talked about it.”

“How long have they known you?”

“What difference does it make?”

“If they have known you for any length of time, they would have known what you were likely to do. How long have they known you?”

“Twenty-eight years.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Since you were born?”

“No, since I was six and went to live with my uncle.”

“You’re thirty-four?”

“I’m thirty-four.”

“You don’t look thirty-four.”

“That’s because I’m not married.” Mae’s smile felt as if it were set in concrete. “Marriage tends to age a woman.”

“Doesn’t do much for a man, either.”

“Actually, it does. Married men live longer than single men.”

“It just seems longer.” He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her. “So, Harold and June dandled you on their knees and fed you cookies, but you think they didn’t know that you’d take care of them for life if they offed your Uncle Armand.”

Mae closed her eyes briefly. “They did not off my Uncle Armand.”

“We’ll get back to them later. Okay, besides you and Harold and June and Uncle Claud., there’s nobody else in the will?”

“No.”

“Did your uncle own a business?” He tapped his pen on the pad. “Was he involved in anything that somebody might have wanted to take over?”

“He was a partner with my Uncle Claud.”

“Were there any other partners?”

“No. Just my Uncle Claud.”

He opened his mouth again, and Mae moved to block him before he took off in another wrong direction. “He also did not kill my Uncle Armand.”

“Did they get along?”

“No. My Uncle Claud disliked my Uncle Armand because he thought that he was profligate and libidinous and a disgrace to the good name of Lewis.”

“Sounds like a direct quote.”

“It is.”

“Was it true?”

“Yes.”

Mitch raised his eyebrows. “Libidinous at seventy-six?”

Mae sighed. Mitchell Peatwick might be a fool, but he was a persistent fool. “He kept a mistress. In fact, they made love the night he died. She tells everyone that whether you ask or not. Then she weeps.”

He sat back in his chair. “Could we digress for a moment?”

Mae looked at him with exasperation. “Do I have a choice?”

“No. He was seventy-six years old with a heart condition and he made love with his mistress who was…what? Fifty?”

“Twenty-five. Her name is Stormy Klosterman. This is not relevant—”

“Klosterman?”

Mae gave up. “Her stage name is Stormy Weather. Of course, she was temporarily retired while she was with my uncle.”

“Of course.” He blinked. “That would have been how long?”

“Seven years,” Mae said flatly. “He caught her umbrella when it rolled off the runway one night. It was magic.”

He grinned at her. “Not a fan of Stormy’s, I see.”

Mae shrugged. “She’s all right. At least, I don’t think she killed my uncle. She didn’t get a dime.”

“Did she know that before he died?”

“Yes. He was very clear about that with all his women.”

“There were more?”

“Well, there were before Stormy. I had a lot of aunts when I was growing up.”

“You grew up with Uncle Armand?”

Mae thought briefly about reaching across the desk, grabbing him by the collar and screaming, “Could we get to the diary, please?” but that would have been counterproductive. Humor him. “My parents were killed in a car accident when I was six. In their wills, they had appointed my three great-uncles as executors and guardians. Uncle Armand, Uncle Claud and Uncle Gio. All three uncles wanted me, so they drew straws.”

“Uncle Gio?” His voice sounded strangled.

“We were all in the lawyer’s office, and they drew straws, and Uncle Armand won. Now can we get back to my Uncle Armand’s death?”

“And Uncle Gio’s last name would be…?”

“Donatello.”

“Terrific.” He dropped his pen and stared at her with distaste.

Mae tried to get the conversation back on track. “I see you’ve heard the rumors about my Uncle Gio. Don’t worry. They’re not true. Now, about—”

“I’ve heard of the whole family. How’s your cousin Carlo?”

“He’s out already,” Mae said. “It was a bum rap.”

He sat quietly for a moment, and Mae felt his eyes size her up, and she realized for the first time that she might have made a mistake in coming to see Mitchell Peatwick. He looked as if he had the IQ of a linebacker, but there was something going on in that devious male mind. God knew what, but Mae was sure it wasn’t good.

He leaned forward. “Okay, let’s forget Uncle Gio for the moment. Aside from your sixth sense, which I’m sure is extremely accurate, you must have had another reason for coming here since, according to you, no one who knew him killed him. So tell me the truth. Why do you think he was murdered?”

This was it. Mae moistened her lips again. “You mustn’t tell anyone this.” She leaned forward a little to meet him halfway. “His diary has disappeared. I heard him talking on the phone about it the day he died, and now it’s gone. The diary isn’t important, but whoever has it murdered him. I’m sure of it.”



SHE WAS LYING, of course. Mitch’s take on humanity had deteriorated to the point where he assumed someone was lying if her lips were moving, but she was definitely lying about the diary. Either there wasn’t a diary, or there was and it was important. Either possibility was irrelevant; what was important was to find out why she was lying.

And with this woman, it could be because of her sixth sense. Or her twenty million.

Twenty million.

Hell, with twenty million, she could lie to him forever as long as she paid him $2,694.

If only she hadn’t mentioned her Uncle Gio.

He really had been interested in taking the case. And not just because of the money or because she had a terrific body. Well, okay, partly because of that. But mostly because it would have been great to take as his last case one that didn’t involve drinking lukewarm coffee in parked cars outside cheap motels. He’d come to terms with the fact that his bet had been the result of a midlife crisis, and that it would have been a hell of a lot easier to just buy a Porsche and date a twenty-year-old, but somehow he’d wanted to have at least one real fight-against-injustice case before he quit and went back to being Mitchell Kincaid, yuppie stockbroker.

But now there was Gio Donatello. He raised his eyes to hers to tell her that he didn’t think he’d be interested, and she looked back at him, trusting and vulnerable. He couldn’t tell whether it was real-vulnerable or fake-vulnerable, although his money was on fake-vulnerable, but as vulnerable went, it was very attractive.

“So.” Mitch shifted in his chair, squirming as his shirt stuck to the sweat on his back. “Let’s sum up here. You have a seventy-six-year-old man with a heart condition who makes love to his twenty-five-year-old mistress and dies. The doctor says it’s a heart attack. You, the woman who inherits half of his stock and everything else he owns, say it’s murder. The suspects are the housekeeper and the butler, his brother who inherits the other half of his stock, his mistress who inherits nothing and a local mob boss and his homicidal son, but in your opinion, none of them did it.”

“That’s it.” She nodded. “I know these people. I’ve asked them if they know anything about Uncle Armand’s death, and they’ve said no. They wouldn’t lie to me.”

Mitch shook his head at her naiveté. “Sure they would. The first rule in life is ‘everybody lies.’ Remember that and you’ll get a lot further.”

She blinked at him, her thick lashes making the movement much more of a production than it usually was on regular people. “That’s awfully cynical, Mr. Peatwick.”

“That’s me. And cynical doesn’t mean I’m not right. For example, I’ll bet you fifty bucks you’ve lied to me already today.”

Her eyes met his without blinking this time. “Of course I haven’t.” She widened her gaze, looking stricken. “How could you think that?”

Mitch grinned. “You’re good, sweetheart. You’re very, very good. But you blew it there at the end. Don’t widen your eyes like that. Gives you away every time.”

Her eyes narrowed. It was amazing. Even narrowed they looked good. Sort of bitchy and mean, but good. “Mr. Peatwick,” she said. “Do you want this job?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say no, thank you, I don’t like your relatives, and besides, you lied to me, and you’re up to no good, and the diary bit is too farfetched, and what the hell are you trying to do, anyway? and then he realized that the only way he’d ever find out what she was trying to do was if he took the case.

And it was a real Sam Spade kind of case.

And he needed the money to win the bet.

Mitch sighed. “What did your uncle say about the diary on the phone that makes you think somebody killed him?”

“He said, ‘Don’t worry. No one can get me without the diary.’”

Mitch felt depression settle over him. For the first time that afternoon, she was making sense. “Are you sure it wasn’t gone before he died?”

“I don’t think so.” She gazed at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and he knew she was up to something. “He said that on the phone Monday evening, and he died later that night. He wrote in the diary every night, so he’d seen it the previous evening at the latest.”

Mitch threw his pencil on the desk. “Okay. Five hundred per day plus expenses.”

Her eyebrows snapped together. “That’s ridiculous.”

Mitch shrugged. “That’s my price.”

She scowled at him for a moment, and he smiled back, impervious. “All right.” She opened her purse and took out a checkbook. He watched her scrawl the amount and her name across the check, her handwriting the first uncontrolled thing he’d seen about her.

Then she tore the check out and tossed it across the desk to him. Thirty-five hundred dollars. He took a deep breath and tried to look unimpressed. “This is for a week. What if I solve this in an afternoon?”

“You can give me a refund.”

She didn’t seem unduly interested in the possibility. The woman had no faith in him. Just as well. There was no way in hell he was giving her a refund.

He’d just won his bet.

Mitch walked around the desk and pulled his jacket from the coatrack. “Come on then, let’s go see Uncle Gio.”

She took a deep breath, and he watched in appreciation. “Mr. Peatwick, I just paid you to find the diary—”

“And I will do that, Miss Sullivan. I will do whatever you want. But first we will go see Gio Donatello.”

“Why Uncle Gio? I told you—”

“I have to talk to all of these people,” Mitch said patiently. “And if I manage to live through an afternoon of accusing a mob boss of murder, the rest of this case has got to be all downhill.”

“Uncle Gio’s not with the mob.”

“Your cousin Carlo cut off somebody’s finger. Who cares if they’re with the mob? They’re psychopaths.”

She shifted in her chair. “They’re just volatile.”

“Volatile.” Mitch snorted. “That’s cute. Come on, let’s go, but I’m warning you—you protect me from your homicidal relatives or my rate doubles.”

She picked up her purse, contempt clear in her eyes. “Fine.”

He watched her stand, pushing her weight up with her calves, which flexed roundly as she moved, and then he watched as she swiveled toward the door.

If she’d just keep her mouth shut…

She turned back to him, impatience making her face stern. “I don’t have all day, Mr. Peatwick, and you’re already wasting my time with this trip. Are you coming or not?”

His fantasy evaporated, and reality returned, still sucking. Mitch sighed and followed her out the door.




CHAPTER TWO


HIS CAR LOOKED LIKE a two-toned aircraft carrier. Mae had known he wouldn’t be the Volvo type, but she’d expected something from the current decade. “This is your transportation?”

“This is a classic.” He patted a massive metal side panel. “There aren’t many ’69 Catalinas on the road anymore.”

“Yes, and there’s a reason for that.” Mae touched the paint. “What exactly do you call this color?”

“Oxidized red. You getting in or not?”

“Certainly.” Mae looked pointedly at the passenger door.

He grinned at her. “It’s okay, it’s not locked. Go ahead and get in.”

Mae shook her head in disbelief. “A collector’s dream like this one, and you don’t lock it. What are you thinking of?”

“I have faith in my fellow man.” He ambled around to the driver’s side, so relaxed that Mae wasn’t sure how he stayed upright.

“Then you’re going to love my cousin Carlo.” She tried to open the door but it stuck. “I think this is locked.”

“Nah, just yank on it.” He opened his door and slumped into his seat while Mae tugged on the door with increasing force. Finally, he reached over and popped it open from the inside.

“Thank you.” Mae slid into her seat. “I’ve seen living rooms smaller than this.”

He surveyed his domain with obnoxious pride. “Makes you wonder why they invented bucket seats, doesn’t it?”

Mae bounced a little on the rock-hard seat. “No.”

He turned the key in the ignition. “You snotty rich people are all alike. Can’t appreciate the simple things in life.”

“I am not rich.” Mae gazed at the vast interior of the car. “And I wouldn’t call this simple.”

“You’re not rich?”

“No.” Mae tugged at the seat belt, trying to get it across her lap. “I had a trust fund once, but it died. When the inheritance clears, I will be rich, but until then, I just cleaned out my checking account for you.” She gave up tugging and turned to him in exasperation. “Mr. Peatwick, I don’t think this seat belt works.”

He leaned across her to yank on the belt himself, and she breathed in the scent of soap from his hair. He yanked on the belt again, rocking slightly against her, and she stopped breathing for a moment in the sudden flush of heat she felt.

This was not good.

He yanked again, and the belt unspooled, and he leaned back into his seat and clicked it in place for her. “There. Just like one of those fancy new cars, only better.”

Mae brought her mind back to where it belonged: away from Mitchell Peatwick.

He pulled out into the street, and the rear of the car bounced as the wheels hit the pavement. “Where exactly does Gio live?”

Mae told him and then watched him drive, absentmindedly answering his questions about Armand and steering him back to the diary whenever he drifted too far afield. His hands were loose on the wheel, large and supple, and his fingers slid over it when he turned a corner. She’d never been a hand freak before, but then, she’d never met Mitch Peatwick before. He’s dumb, she told herself, and he’s macho, and he’s going to be another one of those let-me-take-care-of-everything guys who’s just out for himself. There was a reason she’d given up men, and Mitchell Peatwick was a perfect example of it. She’d paid him to find the diary, but he wanted to see Gio, so of course they were going to see Gio. Whatever you want, Miss Sullivan. Right. As long as she wanted what he wanted.

She glared at him.

He stopped in the middle of one of his questions. “What? What did I say?”

“Nothing,” Mae snapped. “Absolutely nothing.”



MITCH LEARNED only one thing on the drive over to Gio Donatello’s place: Mae Sullivan wanted that diary. He’d tried half a dozen times to bring up unhappy business partners, disgruntled ex-girlfriends, irate husbands, anyone who might possibly have a reason to give an old man a heart attack, but she dismissed his suggestions every time and returned to the diary. Stubborn beyond belief, that was Mae Sullivan. She would be pure screaming hell to live with, no matter how good she smelled or how soft she was when you were trying to put a seat belt around her in a purely professional capacity. Of course, he was stubborn, too, but that was different. You had to be stubborn if you were a private eye. Otherwise, you starved.

He wondered if her Uncle Gio was as stubborn. Probably more so if the rumors were true. Even so, he wanted to see Gio first. More important, he wanted Gio to see his open, honest, Boy Scout face so Gio wouldn’t get annoyed with him and kill him.

His caution grew as they were waved through the heavy gates of the Donatello estate by a large, scowling man with a bulge under his jacket, and then ushered through the massive door of the sandstone mansion by another large, scowling man with a bulge under his jacket and finally led through cream-and-gold hallways to Gio’s office by a small, scowling maid. She had no bulges anywhere, but Mitch was willing to bet she was still lethal.

The first thing he saw as he went through the door was a huge, vivid painting of the biblical Judith, darkly beautiful and triumphant, holding up the severed head of her enemy, Holofernes. He cocked his head at Mae and said, “Relative of yours?” She rolled her eyes at him and took his arm to turn him toward the massive desk in front of the wall of windows to his right.

And then he was face-to-face with Gio Donatello, diminutive and deadly, and his giant grandson, Carlo, the finger chopper.

Gio barely spared Mitch a glance. He shot out from behind the desk and swept his niece into his arms, shouting her name and calling to his grandson to back him up on how beautiful she was, how healthy she looked, how long it had been since she’d seen them—three whole days.

Meanwhile, Carlo Donatello stood like a god in the sunlight and eviscerated Mitch with his eyes.

“Uncle Gio, I want you to meet Mitchell Peatwick,” Mae said, and Gio turned his little obsidian eyes on Mitch. The air in the room grew colder and heavier.

“Who’s he?” Gio’s voice was like a stiletto.

Mae patted her uncle’s arm. “It’s all right. I’m not dating him. He’s a private detective I’ve hired.”

The temperature went up a few degrees, Carlo abandoned Mitch to look at Mae with all the helpless longing of a science major for a cheerleader, and Gio tightened his arm around Mae’s shoulders. “Mae, baby, you don’t need a P.I. when you’ve got us to take care of you. You want something found out? Carlo will find out for you.” He turned back to Mitch. “You’re fired. Leave.”

Carlo moved toward him, and Mitch took a step back.

“No, Carlo.” Mae’s voice stopped her cousin in his tracks. “I hired him. I want him. I have a problem, and I want a professional.”

Carlo didn’t listen any better than his grandpa. “Mae, honey, I can do anything you want. You don’t need this creep.”

Mae smiled at her cousin and said, “No,” and he stopped talking and just stared at her, his mouth slightly open, his eyes glazed with love. Mitch shook his head in sympathy. This guy had it bad, which was always a mistake. Maybe if he read The Maltese Falcon…

“Let us handle this, Mae,” Gio said, and Mae said, “No, I want to do this myself,” and Mitch wondered how many times she was going to have to say it before they gave her what she wanted.

Several times, it turned out. Mitch had stopped listening since hearing Mae repeating no had dulled his nerves, so he started when Gio barked, “Sit.” He looked up to see the old man back behind his massive desk, glaring at him.

Mitch sat.

Mae sank into the chair next to him. “I hired Mr. Peatwick to investigate Uncle Armand’s death.”

“You hired him to check out a heart attack?” Gio’s face was incredulous. “What is he, a doctor?”

“No.” Mae smiled at him, and his face smoothed out, and Mitch reminded himself not to do anything to annoy Mae while he was in reach of her Donatello kin since she was obviously the center of their existence. “He’s just a private detective checking out a few things for me. This is what I want, Uncle Gio. Please.”

Gio nodded. “So be it.” He turned to Mitch. “Ask.”

Mitch double-checked, just to make sure. “This is all right with you?”

Gio shrugged. “Whatever Mae Belle wants, Mae Belle gets.”

“Mabel?” Mitch turned to Mae, incredulous. “Mabel?”

“Mae. Belle.” Mae made the words distinct and separate. “I do not use my middle name.”

“Mabel.” Mitch shook his head and turned back to find Gio glaring at him. “Oh. Great name. Really.” He regrouped. “Now, Mr. Donatello, when was the last time you saw Armand Lewis?”

Gio scowled at him. “June 11, 1978. Any other questions?”

Mitch scowled back. “Yeah. What happened on June 11, 1978, that you remember the date?”

“I graduated from high school,” Mae said. “I told you this was a waste of time. He hasn’t seen—”

“Hey, I’m doing this,” Mitch said shortly, and Carlo stirred ominously in the seat beside him. Mitch sighed. “If that’s all right with you, Miss Sullivan.”

“Of course.” Mae sat back and waved her hand at him. “Go ahead.”

Mitch turned to Gio, who glared at him. He glanced back at Carlo and saw his scowl deepen. Behind him, Judith gloated on the wall, and Holofernes was still dead. Get out of here now, he told himself. It was the only intelligent thing to do.

On the other hand, he had more questions, and he sure as hell didn’t want to come back. He took a breath. “Did you ever have business dealings with Armand Lewis?”

“Once.” Gio’s face was impassive, but remembered rage bubbled beneath the surface. Mitch was willing to bet there was a reason it had only been once.

“Did you know he kept a diary?”

“No.” Gio’s eyes flickered at the question, but that could have been anything. The eyes of most psychos flickered at odd moments.

“Do you know of anyone who had a reason to kill him?”

“No.” The flicker was back again. For some reason, Gio’s temper was rising. And it had been stratospheric when they’d walked in.

The hell with this. Time to go.

He stood up, and Mae and Carlo rose on each side of him.

“I’ll see you out,” Carlo said, and Mitch turned to him.

“That reminds me, where were you Monday night?”

Within seconds, there was a gun in Carlo’s hand, and almost as quickly, Mitch took one step back and one step to the right so that Mae was squarely between him and Carlo.

“Put that thing down,” Gio barked at his grandson, but Carlo had already let his gun hand drop as soon as Mae was in range.

“Oh, this is impressive,” Mae said over her shoulder to Mitch. “Aren’t you supposed to be protecting me?”

“No.” Mitch met Carlo’s appalled eyes with a shrug. “I’m supposed to be investigating your uncle’s death. Somebody pulls a gun, you’re on your own.”

“God, what a loser,” Carlo said to Mae. “Where’d you get him?”

Mitch felt wounded. “Hey, if I wasn’t almost positive that you probably wouldn’t shoot her, I wouldn’t be doing this.” He looked down at Mae apologetically. “A man has needs, you know.”

Mae blinked. “Needs?”

“Yeah. And top on my list is staying alive.” Mitch eyed Carlo over her shoulder. “Could you disarm your cousin so we can go?”

“Put it away,” Gio snapped, and Carlo tucked his gun away under his jacket. “Carlo’s a little jumpy right now,” he explained.

“Listen, if I’d killed Armand for shopping me, he wouldn’t have gone peaceful in his bed,” Carlo told Mitch. “Get real, bozo.”

“Shopping you?” Mae echoed.

Gio watched Mitch warily. “It’s nothing, Mae.”

Oh, terrific. Two psychos, two motives. Mitch had never wanted out of a place more. “Well, that should about do it. Thanks for all your help. We’ve gotta go now.”

“Good.” Mae crossed to her great-uncle and hugged him goodbye, while Mitch followed, keeping an eye on Carlo.

“You take care of yourself,” she scolded the old man. “I’m going to check with Nora about your blood pressure when I come back on Sunday, and it had better be down again. You hear me?”

Gio’s face went to mush. “Now there, don’t you worry about an old man.” He patted her shoulder. “You hear that, Carlo, how she worries?”

“I hear, Grandpa.” Carlo glared at Mitch. “Mae’s a good girl.”

“Well, let’s go.” Mitch edged toward the door. “Great meeting you all.”

“Just a minute, honey.” Gio caught at Mae’s arm and nodded at his grandson, and somehow Mitch found himself alone in the cream-and-gold hall with Carlo, who immediately slammed the door behind them, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him off his heels the inch that brought them nose to nose.



MAE WINCED as the door slammed shut after them. “I have to go, Uncle Gio. Carlo’s going to do something to him.”

Gio’s face leaned closer to hers. “What’s this about, Mae Belle?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Mae patted his hand and then pried it off her arm.

“You know we’ll give you anything,” Gio insisted. “Anything at all. Let’s get rid of the P.I.”

Mae patted his hand again. He was fussy and he never listened to her, but she loved him, so she tried to erase the worried look in his eyes. “I’m fine. All I want is my private detective for a week or so. That’s all.” She stopped, distracted by a thud from the hallway. “Oh, hell, Carlo’s beating him up.” She stooped and kissed Gio’s cheek with an audible, affectionate smack that made him grin, and then she headed for the doorway. “Call Carlo off, will you? I don’t need him screwing things up for me.”

“He’ll just keep an eye out,” Gio answered, but she was already through the door.



“TELL HER you quit,” Carlo had growled in Mitch’s face as the door closed behind them, his godlike handsomeness distorted with hate. “Right now.”

“Your interpersonal skills need work.” Mitch jerked Carlo’s hands off his jacket and smoothed the worn cloth as his heels hit the floor again. “Of course, that was obvious when you cut off that guy’s finger but—”

“She doesn’t need you.” Carlo shoved his face in Mitch’s. “She’s got me.”

Mitch glared back at him. “Lucky her.”

“Tell her you quit now,” Carlo said, practically spitting the words.

“No,” Mitch said, and Carlo punched him.

Mitch slammed into the wall and slid slowly down to the floor, his head ringing, hitting the carpet just as Mae came through the door.

“Carlo!” Mae swung her purse and caught him a good hard clip across the shoulder. “Damn it, he’s my detective. You leave him alone.”

“Aw, Mae.” Carlo rubbed his shoulder, but he seemed a lot more upset by the force of her anger than by the force of her blow. “It was just a tap. It didn’t even hurt, did it, Peatwick?”

He glared down at Mitch, who glared back and wiped the blood from his mouth. “Of course it hurt, you Neanderthal.” He turned his hand over and showed them the blood. “See that? That’s blood. If there’s blood, there’s pain. It’s like smoke and fire. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Carlo reached down and grabbed his shirtfront again and hauled him to his feet. “Don’t be such a wuss.”

“That’s enough, Carlo.” Mae’s voice was sharp with warning. “Let go of him.”

“I’m just helping him up.” Carlo released Mitch’s shirtfront and patted him on the back with enough force to dislocate a lung. “He’s got something to tell you, Mae. Don’t you, Peatwick?”

Mitch scowled up at Carlo’s glare. “Yeah.” He turned to Mae. “Your cousin is a psychopath. Are you ready to go?”

Carlo moved toward him, and Mae pushed herself between them. “Don’t hit him anymore, you hear me? If I want him to quit, I’ll fire him. You stay away from him.”

Carlo’s movie-star face creased with unhappiness. “I was just trying to protect you. This guy—”

Mae put her face very close to his. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Business. Understand?”

Carlo shot Mitch a glance of pure loathing. “Whatever you want, Mae.”

Mae folded her arms and held her ground. “At the moment, I want him. Back off.”

To Mitch’s amazement, Carlo backed up a step.

“I’ll see you Sunday for dinner.” Mae’s voice was soothing, and Carlo relaxed visibly as he gazed at her. “Take care of Uncle Gio.”

“All right.” He scowled at Mitch again. “You have any trouble with this guy, you call me.”

“You’ll be the first to know.” Mae tugged on Mitch’s arm.

“Actually, I’d prefer to be the first to know.” Mitch let himself be towed down the hall, keeping an eye on Carlo over his shoulder. “At least promise me you’ll give me a head start.”

“Come on.” Mae didn’t bother to conceal her exasperation as she pulled him through the front door to his waiting car. “I’ll take you home and get you cleaned up. You’re a mess.”

“Thank you.” Mitch dabbed at his bloody mouth. “What a wonderful client you’ve turned out to be.”

“Don’t whine,” Mae said. “It’s bad for your image.”



MAE’S HOUSE wasn’t as palatial as Gio’s, but it was impressive nonetheless, a wedding cake of a mansion piped with white trellises. Mitch surveyed the facade as he got out of the car and then turned to Mae. “Doesn’t anybody in your family live the simple life?”

“Uncle Claud lives in a very small condominium on River Road,” Mae offered. “He’s very austere.”

“River Road is pretty expensive austere,” Mitch said, remembering his own condo payments there.

Mae climbed the wide, shallow steps to the front door. “You said simple, not cheap.”

“I meant,” Mitch began, and then Mae reached the door, and it opened before she could touch it, and he got his first glimpse of the butler.

As a butler, Harold made a nice bouncer. Still, he was a slight improvement over the bulging scowlers at Gio’s, looking more like a seedy aristocrat on steroids than a garden-variety thug. He nodded formally at Mae and stepped back from the door. “Good afternoon, Miss Mae.”

“Good afternoon, Harold.” Mae nodded to him just as formally, and walked past him into the house, and Mitch trailed after her, wondering who they thought they were kidding.

The place was impressive in its oppressive elegance. Everything was dark, rich and heavy: paneled walls with red brocade inserts, figured carpets in oriental reds and greens, massive walnut posts on the curving staircase. The overall effect was one of great weight. It wasn’t the kind of place that anyone had ever dashed through, laughing gaily.

Mitch resisted the urge to ask for a flashlight and followed Mae farther into the dim hall.

Harold frowned at him as he closed the door after them. “Who’s the stiff?”

Mitch turned back to him. “Excuse me?”

Mae took Harold’s arm and drifted deeper into the hall, leaving Mitch to follow. “This is Mitchell Peatwick. He’s the private investigator I’ve hired to look into Uncle Armand’s death.”

“So this is what you and June cooked up.” Harold sounded displeased.

Mae jerked her head at Mitch. “Not in front of the help. We’ll discuss it later.”

“I am not the help,” Mitch said with dignity. “I’m a professional.”

Both Harold and Mae shot him incredulous glances, and then Harold turned back to Mae. “This is a bad idea.”

“Maybe so, but it’s the only one I’ve got, so we’re going with it.” Mae stopped. “I’m hungry.”

“Tray in the library in ten minutes.” Harold moved toward the back of the hall. “Don’t spill.”

Mae caught his arm to stop him, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek, and Mitch’s opinion of butlerhood as a career improved. “I never spill.”

“Tell that to the library carpet.” Harold moved on again.

“What’s he mean, ‘Who’s the stiff?’” Mitch scowled. “Who’s he calling a stiff?”

“You, evidently.” Mae nodded toward the door through which Harold had just vanished. “Come on out to the kitchen. I’ll get you cleaned up and then we can talk in the library.”

Mitch’s first impression of the kitchen was a lot of gleaming white tile and massive appliances surrounding a Marilyn Monroe look-alike.

“Oh, my.” She smoothed her white dress over her hourglass figure, and Mitch realized belatedly that she was sizing him up. “Is this him?”

“This is Mitchell Peatwick, June.” Mae went past her to the sink and pulled down a paper towel before she turned on the tap. “He’s the private investigator I hired.”

June tilted her head to survey him, her blue eyes caressing every inch of him. “Very nice.”

“Thank you,” Mitch said. “It’s about time I got some appreciation.”

“Oh, poor baby, what’s wrong?” She pulled out a chair and motioned him to it, every movement sensual and pleasing, and Mitch blinked as the butter of her charm flowed over him. For some reason, she reminded him of Mae, which made no sense because there was nothing butterlike about Mae. “Is that blood on your mouth?” June asked him.

“Yes. I met Mae’s cousin Carlo.” Mitch sat in the chair and then jumped a little as June laid soft, gentle fingers against his face to tip it up to her.

“Poor baby,” June cooed again, and Mitch stared at her, fascinated. Her oval face had the soft blurring that women got as they aged, but she was still stunning.

Harold came in from the pantry and dropped a trayful of plates on the table with a clatter, glaring at Mitch in a definitely unbutlerlike manner. “Mae’s hungry,” he said pointedly to June, and she smiled one last time at Mitch and went to the refrigerator.

Mitch leaned toward her automatically as she went, and then caught himself as a midsize, sloppily spotted dog of no particular breed joined them from the pantry and collapsed by the counter. Harold ignored the dog and stomped away while June began to haul out food: a leftover roast, two fat tomatoes, a slab of cheese, a plastic bag full of greens, a gallon of milk.

Suddenly, Mitch was starving.

Mae caught his attention by bringing the wet towel over from the sink, nudging the dog away with her foot to get to him. “Get away from the counter, Bob.” Bob immediately returned to his place by the cabinet.

Mitch opened his mouth to ask Bob about the diary, but then Mae bent over to see his face, and he looked directly down the front of her jacket to the pink lace bra she was wearing. There was a lot of lace, and a lot more of Mae. “My God.”

Mae put her hand under his chin and yanked it up. “First June and now me. Stop ogling or I’ll tell Carlo.”

“It’ll be worth it. Ouch!”

Mae dabbed at the cut on his lip. “Don’t be such a baby.”

“Be careful, Mae.” June looked up from the cutting board where she was slicing minislabs off the roast and dimpled at Mitch while Mae used a lot more force than he thought was necessary to clean his lip. Then June caught sight of Bob and patted her hip. “Come here, Bob. Get away from the counter.”

Bob blinked at her and yawned.

Mae dabbed at Mitch’s mouth again, gentler this time, and he looked up into her eyes. “Sorry about Carlo,” she said softly, and pressed the towel against his lip for a moment, and Mitch forgot she’d been nasty. In fact, as far as he was concerned, she could hold that towel there forever, her face tipped close to his, her scent drifting to him, her jacket gaping open. It was the best he’d felt in a long time. A few more hours with Mae, and he might even get back his enthusiasm for life.

Then she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork, and the mood was broken. “That’ll do it. You’re fine. He barely tapped you.”

“Thank you for the sympathy.” Mitch scowled at her.

Harold came back from the pantry with a loaf of homemade bread on a breadboard and a huge knife. “Get away from that counter, you dumb dog.”

A bird chirped outside, and Bob swung his head around and smacked it sharply into the cabinet.

“I told you to move,” Mae said to him, but Bob just blinked at her.

“He does this a lot?” Mitch asked.

“Daily,” Mae said. “He’s male. Like you. He never learns.”

“Be nice, Mae,” June said.

“Food in the library in five minutes,” Harold said. “Take Bob before he brains himself again.”



THE LIBRARY was like the rest of the house, full of dark paneling and heavy furniture upholstered in rich, dark colors, this time complemented by shelves of leather-bound books in dark brown, blood red and deep green, some protected by locking glass doors, all looking as if they’d never been read. Mitch had to fight the urge to shove the heavy velvet drapes back from the windows and let in a little light. “Nice place,” he said to Mae as he sat at the massive table in the middle of the room. Bob collapsed next to him, laying his head across Mitch’s shoe.

Mae looked at him as if he were demented. “You think so? It makes me want to scream. I always want to open the drapes. Now, about the diary—”

Mitch leaned back in his chair. “I like libraries. Mostly because I’ve dated a lot of librarians. Some of the best experiences in my life have been in libraries.” He gazed around, noting for the first time that some of the brocade inserts in the paneling had dark squares where the fabric had faded around something that no longer hung there. He opened his mouth to ask Mae about it, but she interrupted him.

“About the diary,” she said pointedly.

Mitch thought about insisting on following his own train of thought and then looked at the stubborn set of her mouth and gave up. “All right,” he said. “Tell me about the diary.”

Mae walked over to one of the glass-fronted bookcases while Mitch watched her in appreciation. If he got nothing else out of this case, at least he got to watch Mae Belle Sullivan move. She turned the key to open the door, and pulled down the last leather-bound volume from several rows of identical volumes.

“These are all Armand’s diaries,” she told him as she turned back to him. “There were fifty-eight of them, one for every year since he turned eighteen. He had these bound specially for him, and he kept them locked in this case. This is last year’s diary.” She handed it to him.

The book was thick and heavy, about five by seven inches, bound in hand-tooled leather and stamped on the spine with “Lewis” and the date. Mitch flipped it open to the middle and began to read Armand’s account of the evening at the opera followed by a night with Stormy. Three pages later, he looked up to see Harold delivering a tray loaded with thick sandwiches, tankards of milk, and chocolate-chip cookies the size of small Frisbees.

Mae surveyed him across the table. “Found a good part, did you?”

“I can’t wait to meet Stormy.” Mitch closed the book and dropped it on the table, startling Bob, who raised his head and smacked it on the underside of the tabletop. Mitch winced, and then turned his attention to the butler. “Harold, how long have you worked here?”

Harold straightened. “Twenty-eight years. If you need anything else, ring.” He nodded toward the small brass bell on the table, but his tone implied that Mitch could ring until the millennium and still not get service.

When Harold was gone, Mitch picked up a sandwich and said to Mae, “He came when you did?”

“Yes. Uncle Gio sent him. Now, about the diary…”

Mitch listened to Mae with one ear as he bit into the sandwich. It was full of slabs of roast beef, tomato and cheese, and he felt even more kindly toward June than he had before. She was pretty, she was warm, and she could make sandwiches. Men had gotten married for less. Not him, of course, but some men. He chewed and swallowed, then broke into Mae’s explanation of how Armand had written daily in his diaries to ask her, “Why did Uncle Gio send Harold?”

“He didn’t trust Uncle Armand.” Mae peeled the bread off the top of a sandwich and picked up a piece of cheese. “Can we talk about the diary?”

“Look, Mabel. You can argue with me and waste time, or you can answer my questions. Why didn’t Gio trust Armand?”

Mae put down her cheese, exasperated. “This is ridiculous. Uncle Gio did not kill Uncle Armand.”

“I didn’t say he did. Why didn’t he trust Armand?”

Mae glared at him. “All right. Fine. This is just a guess, but I don’t think Uncle Gio thought that Uncle Armand wanted me because he wanted a child of his own.”

“Why?”

“Because he was never much interested in me once I got here.” Mae calmed down. “I think one reason he fought for me was because he liked taking me away from Uncle Claud and Uncle Gio.”

“And what else?”

Mae shrugged. “Nothing else.”

“There’s got to be something else. You said one reason. That implies another reason.”

“Well. I have a theory, but…” Mae picked up a slice of roast beef and began to nibble on it. “I read the diary from 1967 last night. That’s the year I came. I was trying to figure out how I felt about him.” She frowned at Mitch. “He wasn’t an easy man to like, but I did live with him for twenty-eight years at his request. But he never liked me much.” She looked more puzzled than hurt. “So I read the diary to see if my suspicions were right. And I think they were. I think it was because if I left, June would have left him.”

“That would upset me,” Mitch said, thinking of the food. “Why didn’t he just offer her more money?”

“It wasn’t the money. She was unhappy. Her son, Ronnie, had just died, and she was going to leave, and then Uncle Armand brought me home, and I think she knew I’d never get any love if she left, so she stayed.” Mae picked up another slice of roast beef. “So he got to beat Uncle Claud and Uncle Gio and keep June. Putting up with me must have seemed minor in comparison.”

Mitch scowled at her. Armand Lewis must have been a world-class jerk. Just looking at Mae, Mitch could tell she’d been a great kid, and now twenty-eight years later, all she could say was, “He didn’t like me much.” Hell of a way to treat a kid. He felt himself growing angry, and put a lid on it. She was a grown-up now and obviously capable of looking after herself, and he had a strict rule about getting emotionally involved with his clients. Of course, with his other clients, that hadn’t been a problem. His other clients hadn’t been Mae Belle Sullivan.

Mitch jerked his mind away from the thought. “That doesn’t explain why Harold came to stay.”

Mae peeled another layer off her sandwich. “Uncle Gio sent Harold because he knew Uncle Armand didn’t like kids. And Uncle Gio loves kids. He was worried about me. He still worries about me. So he sent Harold.”

Good for Gio, Mitch thought and then stopped himself. He did not approve of Gio Donatello. Period. Back to Harold. “And Armand let Harold stay?”

Mae nodded. “I think he liked having him here for free, since Gio was paying at first. And then Harold and June fell in love, which was great because I ended up with two parents just like normal kids. So he’s still here. Could we talk about the diary now?”

“That doesn’t explain why Armand didn’t want you to move out once you were grown,” Mitch pointed out. “Maybe he really did care about you and just—” He stopped because Mae was shaking her head.

“The minute I moved out, June and Harold would have been gone.” She picked up another slice of cheese. “He just didn’t want to lose good help. And I couldn’t afford to support June and Harold. They would have had to find a place that needed both a butler and a cook and that would give them the freedom they’re used to, and it wasn’t going to happen. Even at Uncle Gio’s, they would just have been part of the staff. They needed a home.”

“And you’re responsible for giving them one?”

“Of course.” Mae blinked at him, surprise apparent on her face. “They raised me. They count on me. They need me. I owe them.”

“Oh.” Mitch picked up his second sandwich. “This still doesn’t make sense. Why couldn’t they just stay and work for Armand?”

“Because they both hated him.” Mae narrowed her eyes at him. “Do not get distracted by that. They didn’t hate him enough to kill him. If they’d wanted to kill him, they’d have done it years ago.” She drank a slug of milk and licked her milk mustache off, distracting Mitch from his questions. She reached for a cookie. “Now, about the diary—”

“You can’t have a cookie until you’ve finished your sandwich, Mabel.” Mitch moved the cookie plate out of her reach.

“I can have anything I want.” Mae pulled the plate back toward her, but Mitch held on, and she yanked on it, knocking the rest of her sandwich onto the floor where Bob swallowed it whole and then choked for thirty seconds. Mae patted the dog on the back until he stopped hacking, and he collapsed in gratitude at her feet.

Mitch shook his head in contempt. “Is he okay?”

“Yes.” Mae smiled affectionately at the dog. “He’s dumb, but he’s okay.” She turned back to Mitch. “Go ahead, inhale your next sandwich. I can do the Heimlich.”

Mitch picked up his sandwich. “So why do you want the diary?”

“Because whoever has the diary killed my Uncle Armand,” Mae said piously as she reached for a cookie. “I think justice should be served.”

“Because you loved him so much.”

“Actually, I didn’t even like him much, but that’s beside the point. The point is—”

“That you want the diary. I know, I know.” Mitch put the rest of his sandwich back on his plate. “The memorial service is the day after tomorrow?”

Mae nodded as she chewed her cookie.

“And Gio and Carlo and Claud will be there.”

Mae nodded again.

“Who else? Stormy?”

Mae nodded and swallowed the last of her cookie. “And also most of the business community, like Dalton Briggs. He’s been hanging around a lot lately, and he was engaged in some sort of business deal with Uncle Armand. And I suppose some of Uncle Armand’s ex-girlfriends might…oh, God.” She froze with her hand over the cookie plate. “Barbara.”

“Barbara?”

“Barbara Ross. She’s been dating Uncle Armand. Very high-society stuff.” Mae looked ill. “She’s going to meet Stormy. Oh, poor Stormy, first Armand dies and now this. This is going to be awful. I’m going to have to think of something.”

Mitch frowned at her distress and then at himself for caring. He pointed at the most recent journal. “It says here that Armand set Stormy up in a town house.”

“He kept a place a few miles from here. She used to live there, but I’m pretty sure she moved out.”

“Do you have a key?”

“To the town house?” Mae nodded. “Harold has one. He went over and brought a box of Uncle Armand’s personal stuff home. The rest of his clothes are in boxes for Goodwill. They’re still there, so we still have the key.”

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at nine tomorrow morning. I want to see the place. I also want to look around this house and talk to Barbara Ross and Stormy, but I want to see the town house first.”

Mae looked exasperated. “The diary’s not there. Harold looked.”

“Forget the diary for a minute. There are other things of interest in that apartment.” Mitch stood up. “In the meantime, can I take a couple of the old diaries with me?”

Mae scowled up at him. “But what I want is—”

“I know. The one that’s missing,” Mitch finished. “Let me do this my way.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

Mitch went to the bookshelves, and Mae rang the bell. Harold appeared.

“What?” he said. “The game’s on. I’m missing it.”

“Wrap up the rest of this stuff for Mr. Peatwick, please.” Mae waved her hand at the food on the tray. “He has a lot of heavy reading to do tonight, and he’ll need food.”

Mitch turned back from the bookcase with three volumes in his hands. “You’re a good woman, Mabel. Spoiled rotten, but basically good.”

Harold snorted and stalked out with the tray, closely followed by Bob, and Mae rose to look at the diaries he’d taken.

“Okay, 1967 I get. That’s the year I came. Why 1977 and 1978?”

“I want to know what Armand did that made Gio so mad he never talked to him again.” Mitch picked up the 1993 volume from the table and added it to the stack in his arms. “I may be back for more.”

“Why?” Mae didn’t even bother to hide her annoyance. “That’s all in the past. I want—”

Mitch put his free hand over her mouth and was momentarily distracted by the softness of her lips against his palm. He was getting distracted a lot today. Must be age. “Look, you want to find your uncle’s killer. And the only way to do that is to find out what made your uncle killable. You do want to find his killer, right?”

Mae’s eyes met his, huge and wary, and she nodded as he took his hand away. “Right.”

You’re lying to me again, Mabel, Mitch thought, but all he said was, “Well, then, that’s what we’ll do. As soon as I’ve read these diaries, we’ll go find who killed him.”




CHAPTER THREE


WHEN MITCH WAS GONE with the diaries and the food, Mae leaned back in her chair and considered her situation. Mitch was definitely going to annoy everybody in Riverbend; he’d probably been doing it for years. If she could just keep him focused on the diaries, he could easily drive whoever had the missing volume to give it up and probably to take to drink, too. And keeping him focused might be easier now that he actually had some of the diaries in his hands….

That made her think about his hands. Of all the times for her hormones to kick in, this was the worst, but there it was. Ever since she’d met him, she’d had that bubbly feeling under her skin that she hadn’t felt for a good long time. It was a nice feeling to have, but not in conjunction with Mitchell Peatwick. He was arrogant and stubborn and his face looked like a catcher’s mitt with a jaw. And she absolutely was not going to get herself mixed up with a man who didn’t listen to her; she had enough men not listening to her in her life already.

Once again in control of the situation, Mae wandered back to the kitchen and sat down to pry the heels she’d borrowed from June off her feet.

“Thank you,” she said, handing them back. “They were agony.”

“Poor baby.” June put the shoes on the counter. “Do you want a basin of Epsom salts?”

“No.” Mae rubbed one of her reddened feet. “I want the money so we can move to a better place than this mausoleum and live like normal human beings and you won’t ever have to worry about the future again. This is driving me crazy.”

“I cleaned Armand’s room today,” June said. “The painting of that nude woman is gone.”

Mae stopped rubbing. “The Lempicka? How long has it been gone?”

“I don’t know.” June sank into the chair at the end of the table. “I think it was there last Wednesday when I did the room, but I’m not sure. I hate that damn room.”

“I know. Don’t worry about it. Pretty soon we’ll get the inheritance and move and you won’t ever have to see this place again.” Mae took June’s hand and held it tightly until the older woman smiled and relaxed again. Then Mae went back to the current problem. “He might have sold the painting.”

“I don’t like it.” June’s pleasantly vacuous face turned grim. “He never let go of anything, and then suddenly everything starts disappearing. There’s something really wrong here.”

Mae nodded. “Whatever it is, it’ll be in the diary. He said, ‘They can’t get the money without the diary’ that day on the phone. We need that diary.”

“Well, maybe your detective will find it for us. He seems quite nice.” June’s voice softened. “If it wasn’t for Harold, I’d be quite interested.”

Mae grinned at her lovingly. “I think he feels the same. He was looking at you with a lot of appreciation.”

June flapped her hand. “Oh, he was just detecting.” She leaned back in her chair. “What did you think of him?”

“Well, I thought he was dumb as a rock.” Mae tried to sound disinterested. “But I’m not so sure. I think he’s just different.”

“Different how?” June prompted.

Mae shrugged. “Oh, he doesn’t act macho or protective or charming or any of the usual garbage. He just asks me questions and looks down my jacket and treats me like…anybody.” She rubbed her foot again. “He’s really up-front about being a loser.”

June studied Mae under her eyelashes. “I don’t think he’s a loser. And I don’t think he thinks you’re just anybody. He seemed quite interested in you.”

“He just likes women.” Mae sat back. “And the more I think about it, the more I don’t think he’s as dumb as I thought he was.”

“I don’t think he’s dumb at all.” June smiled. “I think he’s going to be good. Maybe we should tell him the truth and let him take care of everything.”

“No.” Mae’s voice was firm. “Letting men take care of everything means you end up with nothing. Besides, you should have seen him at Uncle Gio’s. Carlo pulled a gun, and he stepped behind me.”

“Smart man.” June nodded approvingly. “And so attractive.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m serious.” June leaned forward. “Your problem is that you’ve always been with those pretty boys. Carlo and that worthless Dalton. Now, Mitchell Peatwick isn’t pretty, but he’s…” She stopped, obviously searching for the right word.

“Earthy?” Mae suggested.

“All man,” June said, and Mae groaned. “Listen to me, sweetie, I know men. And I will bet you that Mitchell Peatwick could give you a very good time in bed.”

Mae closed her eyes to shut out the thought, but her mind flashed to Mitch’s hands moving across the notepad, to his body solid on hers as he’d yanked on the seat belt, to his grin kicking up her pulse as he’d quizzed her in the library. Then she thought about him in bed and immediately squelched the feeling the thought stirred. “He’d probably forget I was there.” Mae shoved back her chair and stood up, unbuttoning the waistband of June’s pink skirt. “Oh, God,” she sighed as the zipper unzipped itself down her hip. “That feels so good.”

June smiled up at her. “So would Mitchell Peatwick.”

“Not in a million years,” Mae said.

“We’ll see,” June said.



THE MIDSUMMER HEAT filled Mitch’s dingy apartment like fog. He stretched out on his battered iron bed in his white boxer shorts, trying not to dissolve in his own sweat while he read Armand’s 1978 journal. Armand’s style wasn’t exciting, but his plot line was riveting. Having already finished the 1967 and 1977 diaries, Mitch knew that finding somebody with a motive for killing Armand was not going to be a problem. Finding eight pallbearers would be a stretch, but locating people with a yen to kill Armand Lewis would be a piece of cake.

Somebody knocked on his door. Since his entire apartment was one room and a bath, Mitch didn’t have to move. “Come in,” he called and looked up to see his best friend and sometime partner close the apartment door behind him.

Neatly pressed and stern with disapproval, Newton was the epitome of a stockbroker who had just caught his best client buying lottery tickets. His pale blond eyebrows rose up his well-bred forehead, a forehead already so high it seemed limitless, and his pale blue eyes glared behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “You know, it is not a good idea to live in this neighborhood with your door unlocked. Extremely impractical. Foolhardy. There’s no reason for this. The bet didn’t say you had to live in penury.”

“I’m supporting myself with the profits of the agency, Newton. That was the deal.” Mitch glanced around the room before he grinned at his friend. “It’s not so bad. I actually like it better than my old River Road place. It’s got more character.” He stopped for a moment, thoughtful. “You know, I’m glad I sold that condo. At least that’s one part of my old life I won’t have to go back to.”

Newton’s nostrils flared as he took in the stained wallpaper and cracked floor tile. “This is abysmal.” He turned his survey on Mitch. “I see you finally did your laundry.”

“I had to.” Mitch went back to the diary. “Somebody noticed I was going without underwear. There’s food on the table.”

“You bought authentic food?” His friend’s voice was incredulous, and Mitch looked up, annoyed. Newton was staring in amazement at the remains of June’s care package on Mitch’s rickety table. “Truly astounding.” He bent his attenuated frame closer to the table, his beautifully cut suit refusing to crease even as he moved. “These are cookies.”

“Yes.”

Newton’s patrician nose quivered like an upper-class rabbit’s. “Homemade?”

“Yes. There’s milk in the fridge. Oh, and there’s this.” Mitch dropped the diary on the bed and rolled over to pick up his pants from the floor and pull his wallet from the back pocket.

Newton took a plastic bottle of milk from the refrigerator. “You didn’t buy milk in this. Who’s giving you food?”

“The same woman who gave me this.” Mitch handed over Mae’s check.

“My God.” Newton sank into the kitchen chair, milk in one hand, check in the other. “You did it. You won the bet.” He smiled. “Our friend Montgomery is not going to be pleased.”

“Then he shouldn’t have made the bet.” Mitch smiled back as vast satisfaction spread through him. “You know what part I like best? I did it all by starting completely over as Mitch Peatwick. I made it without using Mitchell Kincaid’s credit or connections. Montgomery is going to hate that part. That’s the part of the bet he thought was going to sink me.”

Newton’s smile widened. “I’ll mention it when I call him tonight.”

“Why the rush? You didn’t by any chance make a side bet?”

“A substantial one.” Newton’s smile widened. “He implied that I never took risks, and I let him manipulate the stakes.”

“I’m touched.” Mitch’s voice was light, but he really was moved. “How much did you risk on me?”

“Twenty thousand.”

Mitch’s smile vanished. “Forget touched. I’m stunned. How the hell did you ever bring yourself to risk that much?”

Newton blinked at him. “It wasn’t a risk. I was betting on you.”

Mitch closed his eyes. “Never bet that much on me again. What if I’d just given up?”

Newton shook his head as he put the milk bottle down and pocketed the check. “I’ll deposit this in the account. And as for giving up, that would never happen.” He stood and crossed to the cupboard and took out a Flintstones glass, looking at it dubiously before he rinsed it out in the sink and went back to the table to pour the milk.

“Well, at least tell me next time.” Mitch leaned his head against the iron bedstead. “That way I’ll know what’s riding on my impulses.”

For a moment, Newton seemed to lose himself in judicious reverie. “No,” he decided. “I don’t want to affect your thought processes.”

“Newton, most of the time I don’t have thought processes.”

“I know.” Newton gazed at him with respect. “I admire that.”

Mitch gave up. “At any rate, the game’s over. I made the detective agency solvent in a year and supported myself with the profits, you’ve got your money back, and I’ve soaked Montgomery for ten thousand. Now we can all go back to real life.” Mitch’s glance fell on the diary. “As soon as I’ve figured out this last case.”

Newton stopped, his cookie halfway to his mouth. “You’re quitting the agency?”

Mitch nodded, understanding. “I know. I’m not all that excited about turning back into a yuppie stockbroker myself, but I’ve got to tell you, Newton, being a private detective sucks. You’d hate the people.”

Newton’s face fell. “No Brigid O’Shaughnessy?”

“Well, almost.” Mitch called back the image of Mae walking into his office. “You should meet Mabel.”

“Mabel?” Newton bit into his cookie. “Sounds like a barmaid.” Then the taste of the cookie registered on him. “These are excellent. Really epicurean.” He chewed methodically and endlessly, evidently savoring the bouquet of the cookie as if it were a fine wine.

“June made them. She’s Mabel’s housekeeper and cook.”

“Tell me all.” Newton took another bite.

“A very attractive woman with fantasy breasts came into the office today and hired me to find her seventy-six-year-old uncle’s killer. After that, things went downhill.”

Newton chewed his bite of cookie for the thirtieth time and swallowed. “Murder? That seems farfetched. Who’s the uncle?”

“Armand Lewis. It seemed farfetched to me, too, at first, but now I don’t know. He kept diaries, Newton, and there’s some very interesting stuff in them.”

“Armand Lewis.” Newton frowned. “He has a very shaky reputation.”

“Had. He’s dead. What do you mean, shaky?”

“People had a tendency to lose money in his vicinity. Do you really think he was murdered?”

“I’m open-minded on that.” Mitch picked up the diary. “I’m only on the third one of these, but there are a hell of a lot of people who are not going to be weeping at the memorial service on Friday.”

“Such as?”

“Well, June the cookie-maker, for one. She had a fifteen-year-old son named Ronnie who got into drugs back in 1967. Summer-of-love stuff. She asked Armand for help sending him to a detox place, and Armand said no. Four months later, Ronnie OD’d.”

Newton frowned. “It was ungenerous of him, but hardly a motive for murder.”

“The kid was Armand’s son.”

Newton blinked.

“June gave her notice as soon as Ronnie was buried.” Mitch handed Newton the diary marked 1967. “It’s all in there. He just says that he’s glad Ronnie’s off his back, but he’s worried because the only reason June stayed was so that the boy would be with his father. Then she gives notice, and he says flat out that the reason he wants his orphaned niece to come live with him is because he thinks it will keep June.”

“Orphaned niece?”

“Our client.” Mitch smiled and then realized he was smiling and stopped. “Mae Belle Sullivan. She was six in 1967 when June’s son died. Armand took Mae to give June another kid to raise so she wouldn’t leave.”

“Do you think June killed him?”

Mitch shrugged. “Could be. But we also have Harold Tennyson, the butler. He came at the same time Mae did to keep an eye on her, and immediately fell hard for June who is still quite a looker. Back then, she must have been a knockout.” He stopped, distracted. “Mabel is not a knockout. She is merely very attractive, which is why she has little or no effect on me.”

Newton blinked at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Anyway, Harold’s smitten-ness amused Armand, so he tried to get June back again to spite Harold, even though they hadn’t been any more than employer and employee since he’d found out she was pregnant years before. Only June wasn’t playing.” Mitch grinned. “Armand sounds truly annoyed in the diary. It’s toward the back. You should read it. I enjoyed it immensely. Anyway, Armand pushed his luck one night, and Harold roughed him up a little. Armand fired him, but June threatened to quit, and little Mae cried, and the guy who sent Harold in the first place leaned on Armand, so Armand had to take him back. And they’ve hated each other ever since. There are a couple of places in the diary where Armand says he thinks Harold is trying to kill him. Accidentally backing the car over him, stuff like that.”




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