Jennifer Crusie Bundle (60 page)

“She married a chiropractor six months later. It's got to be here, or at the town house, or at Stormy's condo, or with Barbara. Armand didn't go anyplace else. Except Barbados.” Mitch frowned. “Are you sure he had the diary when he came back from Barbados?”

“He seemed to think so on the phone that night. So who came after Susan?”

Mitch scowled at her. “Rachel. Can we talk about something else?”

“No. Was Rachel another librarian?”

“No, she had a cable TV show.”

“Ah, a break in the pattern. What kind of show?”

“It was called
Book Chat,
” Mitch said with an attempt at dignity that turned into a grin when Mae laughed out loud. “So I like literate women. Big deal.”

“And what happened to Rachel?”

“She wanted to get married,” Mitch said. “Could we get back to the diary now?”

“Exactly how many librarians did you love and lose when they wanted to get married?”

“I have no idea. About the diary—”

“Count.” Mae's voice was an order, so Mitch sighed and began ticking them off on his fingers, silently.

“Nine,” he said finally.

“How many actually were librarians?”

“Seven.”

Mae shook her head. “I can't believe it. You're a human Bob.”

Mitch scowled at her. “I beg your pardon.”

“When Bob was a puppy, June was cutting a steak on the counter, and it slipped and fell on the floor, and Bob grabbed it and ran into the library and swallowed it whole. It was the high point of his life. He threw it up on the library carpet about five minutes later, but it was still the high point.”

“If you're comparing my relationship with Connie to swallowing a steak whole, I'm going to be annoyed.”

“Since then,” Mae went on as if she hadn't heard him, “Bob has sat by that counter waiting for another steak, even though June doesn't cut them there anymore. He's been sitting there for seven years, bashing his head against the cabinet, waiting for a steak that isn't there anymore.” She shrugged. “You're a human Bob.”

“If you're through amusing yourself with faulty analogies,” Mitch said distantly, “I think we ought to look for the diary.”

Harold appeared in the doorway. “That stiff Dalton is here.”

“Show him in,” Mae said. “Let's get this over with.”

“A human Bob,” Mitch said. “Thank you
very
much.”

F
OR ONCE
, Mitch agreed with Harold completely: Dalton was a stiff. He came in looking immaculate and not quite real. Mitch watched Mae to see how she reacted, jealously documenting the way she stood to greet him, the way she gave him her hand, the way she didn't smile at him. She was doing pretty well, considering the guy was rich and good-looking and obviously wanted her.

Mitch sat down, depressed by his own inadequacies. Okay, so he wasn't exactly broke—once the bet was over, he could go back to living like a stockbroker—but he wasn't in Dalton's financial league and never would be. And he was also never going to look magazine-smooth like Dalton, which normally didn't bother him at all but was now bothering him significantly. Look at the guys Mae hung out with: Carlo, Nick, Dalton—hunks every one.

“No, Mitch stays,” he heard Mae say to Dalton, and he jerked his attention back to the situation at hand.

“What I have to say is personal.” Dalton looked deep into her eyes.

“Why don't you sit down?” Mitch growled at him. “She's tired. Cut her a break.”

Dalton turned to him. “I need to see Mae alone. I'm sure you understand.”

“No, I don't.” Mitch crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. “I'm staying.”

“Dalton.” Mae's voice cut across their antagonism. “Just tell me what you have to tell me and go. I'm really tired.”

Dalton hesitated and then surrendered. He took her hand and said, “I think we should try it again, Mae.”

Mitch swallowed hard.

Mae blinked at Dalton. “Try what? Marriage?”

“Of course, marriage.” Dalton smiled down at her. “You silly. Of course, marriage.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Mae said flatly. “If that was what you wanted to see me about, you can go now.”

“Mae, I know we made mistakes—”

“We didn't. You did.” Mae glared at him. “You took half a million to dump me, and as I understand it, you did quite well with it. Well, now you can cuddle up to your cash because you're not getting me back.”

“Mae, I was a fool—”

“You sure as hell were,” Mitch growled. “Now get out.”

Dalton turned to glare at Mitch, but Mae forestalled him. “He's right. If that was your message, you can leave.”

“That wasn't all of it.” Dalton's glare went out like a light, and the look he turned on Mae was sincerely sympathetic. “I'm sorry about this, Mae. I really am. I just heard today that all Armand left you was the house and its contents.”

“I'll get by,” Mae said stiffly.

“No, you won't,” Dalton said without a hint of gloating in his voice. “Armand sold me the house and its contents last week. The money's been transferred. I don't know what he did with the money, but the house is gone. It's mine. He didn't leave you anything.”

Mae took a deep breath, as if she'd had the air knocked out of her. “He sold you the house last week,” she repeated.

“I'm sorry, Mae.” Dalton's face was miserable. “But he got the money. The money must be somewhere.”

Mitch watched her, wanting to go to her, knowing she'd want to handle things herself. He could have killed Dalton for doing this to her, but in all fairness, it wasn't Dalton's fault. It was Armand's. Before, he'd disliked Armand because of his general rotten behavior; now he loathed him for a good and present reason—he was torturing Mae from the grave.

If he'd been alive, Mitch would have killed him.

“Thank you for telling me, Dalton,” Mae said faintly.

“Mae, my offer still stands.” Dalton put his hand on her shoulder. “I'll take care of you and June and Harold. I promise. I've learned a lot since we broke up. I'm not the same guy I was. Give me a chance.”

Mae blinked up at him, and Mitch closed his eyes. It was a decent offer. Dalton was trying to do the decent thing. It would get Mae out of all of her troubles and save June and Harold. All he was asking for was a chance.

Mitch wanted to kill Dalton, too.

“No,” he heard Mae say firmly, and his world swung back into place. “I'm sorry, but no. You'd better go now. You're going to be late for your dinner with Stormy.”

Dalton flinched and gave up.

Mae walked Dalton to the door, and Mitch waited for her to come back, trying to figure out what had happened to him in the past half hour. Here he was, sweating out Mae marrying another man. Big deal. He didn't want to marry her. He didn't want to marry anybody.

What would it have been like married to Mae? And what kind of a fool was Dalton to have taken money to leave her? He remembered the pain in Mae's voice when she'd thrown that at Dalton, and he hated the pain because it meant that she still hurt from something Dalton had done to her seven years ago.

He didn't want her to remember anything about Dalton. Or his damn check.

He reached in his jacket and pulled out his wallet, riffling through the papers and bills he'd jammed in there until he found Claud's check. He ripped it in half, and the halves in half, and the quarters in half, continuing until the pieces were tiny. Then he let them fall from his hand into the ashtray on the table beside him. He'd never meant to cash it, anyway, just to use it as a bargaining chip with Claud, but as a bargaining chip it was too expensive if it hurt Mae the way Dalton had hurt her.

She came back into the room then, the skirt of her sundress swinging slowly back and forth over her long, strong legs, and Mitch watched her with hypnotic interest.

He really didn't want to marry her. He just wanted to watch her move for the rest of his life.

“Are you okay?” he asked her when she was standing in front of him.

“This has got to be the bottom.” Mae's voice was dead. “We've lost everything.”

Mitch ached to pull her into his arms. “We can try to find the stuff that disappeared. I checked around today, and the rumors are that he was selling a lot of stuff. Get me a list of the things that are missing, and I'll try to track down the sales for you. And we can look for the money. It must be somewhere. Even if he bought something with it—stamps, gold, real estate, whatever—that's got to be somewhere.”

“I can't think anymore.” Mae smiled weakly down at him. “I'm going to bed, Mitch. I just can't think anymore. Can we talk about this some other time?”

He stood up. “I'll call you tomorrow.” He put his hand on her cheek. “We're going to figure this out. Trust me.”

Mae nodded, her cheek moving softly against his hand. “I know we will. I trust you. Call me in the evening. I go to Uncle Gio's tomorrow for Sunday dinner.” She nodded again, her eyes looking up at him, huge as saucers. “Call me in the evening.”

“In the evening.” Mitch leaned forward and kissed her forehead, feeling awkward and foolish, hating it that he was leaving her, hating it that they were both alone. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll get this right.”

W
HEN
M
AE WENT
back into the library to put back the last of the books, she found a pile of paper scraps in the ashtray. When she had them reassembled into Claud's check, she put her head down on the arm of the chair and cried, for no particular reason that she could think of.

“S
O
,
HOW ARE THINGS
, Mae Belle?” Gio asked the next day over lasagna for forty. There were only three of them, but Mae knew that Gio didn't like the idea of being caught short at Sunday dinner. If she suddenly decided to eat herself into a coma, he'd be ready.

“Fine,” Mae said automatically, knowing that she was supposed to be eating herself into a coma but not finding the energy to do it. Most Sundays she tried, just to please Gio because she loved him, but this Sunday her heart wasn't in it.

“Then why are you picking at your food? She's picking at her food, Carlo. What's wrong, Mae? You can tell us.” Gio peered at her anxiously. “I don't want you worrying, baby. You can tell us.”

“It's that Peatwick jerk,” Carlo rumbled.

“No, it's not the Peatwick jerk,” Mae said irritably. “In fact, he's been wonderful. It's Armand.”

“Armand is dead,” Gio said.

“Yes, but before he died, he sold everything he had including the house, and now the money had disappeared. It's gone.” Mae felt her voice quaver and stuck out her chin. “So Mitch and I are looking for it. And when we find it, everything will be fine.”

“Mae, you want money, I'll give it to you,” Gio said. “How much do you want?”

Mae shook her head. “I don't want you to give me money, although I may have to ask you to take on Harold and June. I can't afford to keep them if I don't find the money.”

Gio scowled. “What happened to your trust fund? You get that pretty soon, don't you?”

“It's gone,” Mae told him. “Uncle Armand told me that most of it had gone in some bad investments years ago.”

Gio's face went hard. “Armand told you that?”

Mae shrugged. “I checked when he told me. He was right. There was only a couple of thousand left.”

Gio sat back. “I wish that bastard wasn't dead so I could kill him myself.”

Mae shook her head. “Just because my trust fund is empty, it doesn't necessarily mean that Armand stole it. And besides, it doesn't matter. It's gone. What matters is finding what happened to the money and the stuff that's disappeared lately. Mitch is looking for it, and if it can be found, he'll find it. He never gives up. Mitch makes pit bulls look flighty.”

Carlo scowled at her from his end of the table.

“He takes good care of me, Carlo,” Mae said soothingly. “And he never makes a pass. Never. He's a good detective.”

“Does Claud know about the trust fund?” Gio's voice was short and cold, not the usual warm honey that flowed over her.

Mae blinked. “I suppose so. I never discussed it with him.”

“Hmmph.” Gio's eyes went to Carlo. “Armand.”

“I know,” Carlo said. “I told you we should have—”

“Never mind,” Gio broke in. He turned back to Mae. “This P.I. He's not giving you any trouble?”

“I told you.” Mae's voice was patient. “He's wonderful. He's funny and kind and smart and hardworking, and he never makes a pass, and he's doing everything he can to help me. He's wonderful.” She stared down sadly at her lasagna.