Jennifer Crusie Bundle (61 page)

Gio exchanged glances with Carlo. “Well, that's good. You let us know if he gets out of line.”

“He won't get out of line,” Mae said glumly. “He's a real gentleman.”

“I'm going to kill him,” Carlo said.

Mae looked up, startled. “Why?”

“It's just a figure of speech,” Gio told her. “Just an expression.” He glared at Carlo.

Mae cast a wary eye at Carlo. “Don't do anything, Carlo. I mean it.”

Carlo frowned at his lasagna.

“Have some more lasagna,” Gio said, heaping more on Mae's already laden plate. “It's good for you.”

“I mean it, Carlo,” Mae said.

“Eat!” Gio told her, and Mae picked up her fork and began to work her way through three pounds of lasagna.

“T
HERE'S TOO MUCH
stuff missing, Newton,” Mitch said over his own lunch that same Sunday.

“Why can't we eat someplace better than this?” Newton surveyed the clean, bright, plastic surroundings with distaste.

“Because this is what I can afford. Eat your Big Mac. You know you like it. You're just being a snob.” Mitch bit into his sandwich, trying to ignore the fact that there wasn't enough room for his legs under the table.

“You've won the bet,” Newton persisted. “You don't have to live like this anymore.”

Mitch swallowed. “I like living like this. Now, concentrate. What would Armand have done with the stuff? Or with the money from the stuff.”

Newton's eyes glazed over as he thought, and as he did, he absentmindedly bit into his sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “The missing items are paintings, antiques and collectibles, correct?”

“Correct.”

“If he sold them, there will be a record of the sales. Try antique dealers, art galleries, known collectors. If you can't find any record of sales, look for well-guarded storage facilities and bank deposit boxes.”

“And if I find out he's sold the stuff?”

“You know where to look. Swiss bank accounts, real estate purchases, bonds.” Newton shook his head. “This doesn't make sense, Mitch. He wasn't planning on absconding. He was married. His position in the community meant a lot to him. If he were the type to swindle people and then go to Rio, I'd say that was what he was up to, but not Armand Lewis. He'd stay where being a Lewis meant something. It makes no sense that he'd be liquidating his estate.”

“What if he was being blackmailed?” Mitch suggested. “What if he was paying somebody to keep his mouth shut?”

Newton shook his head. “Not Armand Lewis. He was used to risk. Not unless whoever it was had something that would really ruin him. Something that would put him in jail, for instance.”

Mitch nodded. “Like the diary. The only problem is, he seems to have had the diary the night he died, and he'd been liquidating the estate for a couple of months. And if he was being blackmailed, it would make no sense to kill him. He'd be the goose that laid the golden eggs.”

“Do you really think someone murdered him?” Newton sounded incredulous. “I thought that was Mabel's fantasy.”

“Mabel is not a stupid woman.” Mitch's voice was defensive. “Although I'm not even sure she really believes that he was murdered. She has ways that are murky. But there is something wrong here. Really wrong. And she's stuck in the middle of it.” He looked at his sandwich, his appetite gone. “I think she's in trouble, Newton. I'm pretty sure that son of a bitch stole her trust fund. Unless I find out what he did with the cash he had, she's broke.”

“Maybe she found out about the trust fund and killed him.” Newton bit into his sandwich and missed the glare Mitch shot at him.

“Mabel did not kill her uncle. Gio might have if he'd had the chance. That quarter of a million must still rankle. Carlo would have killed him in a minute for turning him in to the police. Even Claud might have killed him to keep the family name from the gutter. But Mabel? Not a chance. She's a good woman, Newton.”

Newton blinked at him. “I thought she was Brigid.”

Mitch gazed at him in disgust. “Mabel is not Brigid. Stormy might be, though.”

“Stormy doesn't have the concentration to be Brigid,” Newton said flatly.

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “You've met Stormy?”

Newton shrugged. “Briefly. She's quite…”

“Harebrained?”

“Brains aren't everything.”

Mitch shook his head in disbelief. “She got to you, too. I thought you'd be immune.”

“Nonsense,” Newton said.

And then he grinned.

M
ITCH CALLED
M
AE
that night, but June told him she was sleeping. “I'm worried, Mitch,” she said. “She's never like this. She's just worn-out with worry. You'll take care of it, won't you?”

“Yes,” Mitch said, knowing that Mae would go ballistic at the thought of anyone taking care of her.

Well, what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

O
N
M
ONDAY
, Mitch picked up his car and began to track down Armand in earnest, checking in at every art gallery and antique store he could find. As the day grew late, his list grew longer. Armand had been to most of the places, and most had bought from him or knew someone who had.

Somewhere, Armand had stashed a hell of a lot of money.

His last call was at Stormy's condo, and she was delighted to see him.

“I can only stay a minute,” he began, but she pulled him down beside her onto a huge overstuffed sofa and leaned into him, and for one confused moment, Mitch wasn't sure which was sofa and which was Stormy, there was so much softness pressing against him.

“I'm so glad you're here,” Stormy breathed into his neck, and Mitch winced and pulled away a little. Her perfume was exotic, and a week ago he'd have been breathing deeply, but lately, he'd developed a preference for women who smelled like soap.

“I just have a couple of questions about Armand,” he told her, and she leaned closer again. He felt her softness give against him and wondered once more why Armand had ever left her for Barbara. Then he wondered why he was wondering that instead of enjoying the experience of having Stormy climbing up his arm.

Stormy was evidently wondering the same thing; she pulled away from him, confusion evident in her eyes.

“Did Armand leave anything here?” he asked her. “A box, maybe, or an envelope?”

“No.”

Stormy flounced a little on the sofa and everything shifted under her sweater, and Mitch noted it with appreciation and moved on. She was fun to look at, but she wasn't Mabel. “Did he leave—”

“He was never here,” Stormy said impatiently. “All his stuff is at the town house. Harold packed up Armand's clothes in boxes, and put his stuff that wasn't clothes in another box, and threw out all his underwear and socks, and took the things in the box home with him, and that's all there was. Armand was never here. I like you a lot.”

“Good,” Mitch said absentmindedly. “I like you, too. Did he—”

Stormy's lips closed on his as she slithered into his lap, and his arms went around her automatically as all her pneumatic roundness pressed against him. “Mae said it was okay,” she breathed into his ear.

“She said what?” Mitch said, outraged, and then Stormy kissed him again, and he concentrated on getting out of her octopus embrace so he could go yell at Mae for setting him up. He pulled his lips away from hers with an audible pop. “No. I'm really flattered, Stormy, but Mae lied. It's not okay.”

Stormy slipped off his lap and onto the couch beside him. “Are you sure? She seemed sure.”

Mitch stood up before she could leap on him again. “I'm sure. Listen, if you remember anything that Armand left behind, call me—uh, Mae. Call Mae, please. It's important.”

Stormy frowned up at him. “Usually, men really like kissing me.”

“And I did, too,” Mitch assured her. “Absolutely. Well, I gotta go now.” He beat a hasty retreat to the door, wondering in the back of his mind why he was fool enough to leave this beautiful woman, and knowing in the back of the back of his mind exactly why he was leaving her.

He was seeing too much of Mabel. She was clouding his thought processes, and he didn't have many to begin with. That was going to have to stop.

He got into his car and checked his watch. He was meeting Mae at eight, and he was definitely going to have to shave and shower before then so she couldn't smell Stormy's perfume on him. Not that she'd care. She'd told Stormy that it would be okay to rape him on a couch. Well, the hell with her. He wasn't even going to dress up to see her. He didn't care, either. Jeans and an old T-shirt, that would show her.

He sighed as he drove toward his apartment. Somehow, lately, all his thoughts of Mabel were depressing. He was definitely going to have to solve this case and stop seeing her.

But first, he had to see her.

M
ae met him at the door, telling herself she was being polite, not overeager. She'd deliberately dressed in an old white T-shirt and jeans, just to show herself that she didn't care what he thought. He was dressed in an old white T-shirt and jeans, too. She wasn't sure what that meant, but she was so glad to see him that she didn't care.

“Hello, Mabel. Nice T-shirt,” he said and she stood back to let him in, enjoying the fact that he was there and kicking herself for enjoying it.

“What did you find out?” she asked, trailing him into the library.

Mitch sat down and looked at her with sympathy, and she knew it was going to be bad. “He sold it all. I can't tell you if I tracked down everything until I get a look at your list, but I found where he offloaded most of the stuff you'd mentioned, like the Lempicka and the chess set.”

Mae sank into a chair across from him. “So where's the money?”

Mitch sighed. “I looked. As far as I can tell, he doesn't have a stash. I even went to Stormy's new place—”

“Did you?” Mae said coolly.

“And she didn't know anything either. Which shouldn't have come as a surprise, somehow. Is she naturally dopey or does she have chemical assistance?”

“So how is Stormy?” Mae asked, steel in her voice.

“She's fine.” Mitch seemed suddenly wary.

“Really.” Mae tightened her lips. “How fine is she?”

Mitch blinked at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Don't play dumb.” Mae scowled at him. “I've seen your real dumb, and this is not it. How was she in bed?”

“What?”

Mae began to tap her foot. “I said, how was she in bed?”

Mitch tried to look injured and innocent. “I wouldn't know.”

“She didn't make a pass at you?”

“Of course not.” Mitch swallowed.

“You're lying.”

“Everybody lies. Except me. Can we talk about something else?”

“No. I'm paying for this information.” Mae took a deep breath. “Did you sleep with her?”

“No.” Mitch scowled at her. “Not that it's any of your business, boss, but no, I didn't.”

Mae blinked at him. “You know, I believe you.”

“Thank you.”

She sat back in her chair, irrationally relieved. “So what was the problem? Was it a lousy pass?”

“No.” Mitch surrendered. “It was a great pass. She's a very warm woman.”

“Hot,” Mae corrected.

“Throbbing,” Mitch agreed.

“So what went wrong? Was it because she wasn't a librarian?”

Mitch shrugged. “I wasn't.”

“Wasn't what? A librarian?”

“Throbbing.” Mitch sank down a little into his seat. “Could we talk about something else?”

“No. Why weren't you throbbing?”

“Well, I'm not sure.” Mitch's exasperation was apparent. “I think you've made me impotent.”

“Oh.” Mae smiled complacently. “That's nice.”

Mitch shot her a nasty look. “My day rate just doubled.”

Mae ignored him. “So she couldn't make you throb, huh?”

“I was concentrating on my work. Nobody makes me throb when I'm working. I'm a pro.” Mae smiled at him, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Forget it, cookie. You're not my type. Now can we get back to Armand?”

“Sure.” Mae felt cheerful for the first time in days. “What do you want?”

“I want to see that box of Armand's things that Harold brought back from the town house.”

Mae shook her head. “Mitch, there's nothing in there. I looked, Harold looked—”

“And now I want to look. Do you want to sit here and explain to me why I don't need to look at the box before we go get it, or do you want to just cut to the chase and go get it?”

Mae sighed. “I'll go get it.”

“Good for you, Mabel.” Mitch nodded at her approvingly. “You're learning. Slowly, but you're learning.”

“T
HERE'S NOTHING
in here,” Mitch said fifteen minutes later when they were both sitting on the floor peering into the big cardboard box.

Mae bit her lip to keep from saying I told you so.

“A thousand condoms, a hundred Chap Sticks, a bottle of heart pills, a bottle of aspirin, a roll of antacids, three pens and a calculator.” Mitch stirred the mess with his finger.

“You're exaggerating on the condoms and Chap Sticks.” Mae watched his hands move the contents of the box. “But there are a lot of them. Why would Armand want so many?”

“Maybe he was an optimist. Maybe his lips were really dry.” He picked up the pill bottle and read the label. “Digoxin.” He handed the bottle to Mae. “Do these look right to you?”

Mae took the bottle and popped the lid off, dumping a few of the white pills onto her palm. “I guess so. I never really paid much attention to them. The color's right.”

Mitch pawed through the box again as she put the lid back on the bottle and tossed it back in. “Ah-ha! What's this?” He held up a small key with a blue plastic head and smiled at it with such delight that Mae was taken aback.

“It's not a safe-deposit key,” Mae said. “Harold checked everywhere. Nobody he asked knew what it was.”

“It's a storage-shed key.” Mitch sat back, smug. “To the best high-security storage facility in Riverbend. It's about two miles from here.”

Mae blinked at him. “And how do you know that?”

“I'm a detective. I detected it.” He stood up. “Come on. This could be it.”

“I don't believe this.” Mae sat stubbornly at his feet. “How did you know that?”

“Fine, sit there.” Mitch stepped over her. “I'm going to go find Armand's money, but you'd rather sit on the floor.”

“All right, all right.” Mae scrambled to her feet. “I'm coming. But I still don't believe this. You're keeping something from me.”

“I should be so lucky,” Mitch said.

Mitch's gas tank was on empty, so they stopped for gas, and when it turned out that Mitch's wallet was on empty, too, Mae forked over her last twenty.

“We'd better find the mother lode in this storage shed,” she told him. “That's my lunch money for a week.”

“We'll stop at an ATM on the way back. Trust me.”

“Right,” Mae said.

The storage facility, when they got there, was on a back street of one of Riverbend's better areas, tucked in among condos and apartment houses and hidden by trees and shrubs as if it were some less fortunate architectural relative. Mae saw dozens of sheds as they pulled up to the gate, all lined up in little streetlike rows labeled with white signposts, the sheds painted a refined stone blue and topped with white-gabled roofs. They looked like condos for elves.

“Hey, Mitch, how's it goin'?” the man at the gate said, and Mitch said, “Fine, Albert. What's happening?”

Albert snorted. “Nothing. That's why you pay us a fortune, so nothing happens to your stuff.”

“Right,” Mitch said, and Albert passed him through like a long-lost brother.

Mae fumed. So Mitch was paying a fortune for an upscale storage shed, was he? All right. That was it. Whatever Mitchell Peatwick was, he wasn't a dead broke, deadbeat private eye. He'd lied to her. Well, that's the way it was with men. They always had something they kept from you. Just let them handle it. You didn't need to know.

Everybody lied.

She made her voice steely. “He knows you by name?”

Mitch ignored her and turned down the lane labeled
C
.

“The key said
K
10,” Mae pointed out, momentarily distracted.

“I know.”

“So why—”

“Because this is where Albert expects me to turn. We are breaking and entering, and I'd like Albert not to get wind of that, okay?”

Mae leaned against the car door so she could watch him better while he lied to her. “So you turn down
C
lane because that's where your shed is.”

“Right.” Mitch made a right turn at the end of the lane. “Watch for
K
.”

“It'll be right after
J
.” Mae folded her arms. “If you're so broke, why do you have an extremely expensive storage shed?”

“Mabel, we're not close enough for you to know all my secrets. Will you look for
K
, please?”

“Mitch, they're alphabetical.
K
is not going to be a surprise. And I don't know any of your secrets—”

“Good.” Mitch swung right on the
K
lane.

“So this is as good a place to start learning them as any.”

“This is it.” Mitch cut the engine and got out, and Mae had no choice but to follow him.

A storm was blowing up, and the wind was actually cool. Mitch reached in through the car window and pulled out a blue windbreaker. “Do you want this?”

Mae shook her head and watched him as he put on the jacket, and then she followed him to the door of the shed.

He bent over the lock, trying to see the keyhole in the dim light.

She came up behind him and tried again. “Why do you—”

“Shh.” Mitch turned the key and shoved the door open, fumbling for the light switch inside. When he flipped it, the shed leaped into fluorescent brightness.

It was absolutely empty.

“No.” Mae's heart sank into her shoes. There was nothing there. No paintings, no furniture, no cash, not even the damn diary. “I don't believe it.” She walked to the middle of the shed and turned around slowly. It was good-size, ten by twelve at least, and lined with shelves, and every inch of it was barren.

Mitch came in and closed the door behind him. “Don't give up yet,” he said, and she ignored him. It was obviously past time for giving up. Still, when he insisted, she helped him search, looking for a slip of paper, any tiny clue that might have been left behind.

There wasn't anything.

“This makes no sense.” Mae sat down where she stood at the back of the shed, her legs crossed in front of her on the concrete floor, and buried her face in her hands. “Where did it all go?”

“You mean the diary?” Mitch sat down across the shed from her, his back against the door. “That's what this is all about, right?”

Mae raised her head from her hands at the gently patronizing tone in his voice. “You haven't believed in that diary from the beginning. You're like all the rest. You say, ‘Whatever you want, Mae Belle' and then you go off and do what you want. Men.”

“Hey, wait a minute. I—”

“You what?” She glared at him. “You want to tell me how you're different? Well, you're not. You take checks from my Uncle Claud, and you get all macho with my Uncle Gio, and you go to mush around June and you gape at Stormy, and you lie to me and—”

“I have never lied to you.” Mitch's voice was firm with conviction, but Mae had been there before.

“Oh, right. You're just a broken-down private eye, but Nick Jamieson knows you like a brother, and you rent a very expensive storage shed, and you—”

“I never said I was a broken-down private eye,” Mitch observed mildly. “You just—”

“Well, what are you then?” Mae dropped her eyes from his face, knowing he was going to lie to her and hating it. Not that she expected anything else. Mitch was funny and sexy and smart and made her crazy, but he was still a—

“I'm a stockbroker,” Mitch said.

Mae blinked at him across the expanse of empty shed. “You're a what?”

“My name isn't Mitchell Peatwick. It's Mitchell Kincaid, and I'm a stockbroker.” Mitch sighed. “I wouldn't tell you this, but you're going to nag me until you get it out of me, anyway.”

“This is true.” Mae frowned, trying to stomp down the little spark of hope the word
stockbroker
had irrationally aroused in her. Stockbrokers could easily be scum, it wasn't as if he'd said he was a social worker, but she listened to him, anyway. “How did you get from stockbroker to private detective?”

“Well, I had this fantasy.” Mitch made himself comfortable on the floor. “I was a good stockbroker, but after a while, it was just the same old routine. I had a couple of clients like Nick who'd give me money to risk on way-out stuff, but mostly I just made sure rich people stayed rich.” He met Mae's eyes. “Rich people pay well for that sort of thing.”

“I imagine so.” Mae had no idea where he was going, but she didn't want to discourage him by asking.