Читать книгу What the Lady Wants - Jennifer Crusie - Страница 8

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.”