Jennifer Crusie Bundle

  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 butler-hood 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.”
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  “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 rea
son.”

  “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 grownup 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?”