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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.
