What the Lady Wants (19 page)

Nick came out to join him and jerked his head toward the Mercedes. "Get in."

Once inside .with the air conditioner on, he turned to Mitch. "This isn't good. The police got an anonymous tip Saturday afternoon that Armand had been poisoned. Then this morning they got a page from his diary in the mail that implies that somebody was putting the squeeze on him to put money in Mae's trust fund. That somebody is logically Mae."

Mitch relaxed. "That can't be right. She doesn't have any money."

"She didn't have until a couple of weeks ago." Nick looked unhappy. "According to bank statements, during the past fourteen weeks, right up to his death, Armand deposited almost eight million dollars to her trust fund account."

Mitch blinked. "How many?"

Nick smiled grimly. "Eight big ones. One deposit alone was for six million. She's got a motive, Mitch."

Mitch swallowed. "Nick, everybody in Riverbend had a motive to kill Armand. She'd have to get in line."

"She also had means. The police got a warrant and went to the house this morning and found Armand's pill bottle in his room. Mae's prints are all over the bottle."

"Big deal. So are mine. We both handled it last night." Mitch frowned. "How the hell did they get Mae's prints?"

"They took them from her room."

"And while they were doing that, she skipped?"

"No, she skipped while they were arresting Carlo. For vandalizing your car."

Mitch started. "I didn't call in a police report on that yet."

"Newton did it for you last night. He told the police it was probably Carlo. The Riverbend PD is very enthusiastic about Carlo. That bit with the finger really annoyed them, and then they showed up at Mae's with the warrant and got him as a bonus. They're pretty pleased in general."

Mitch put his head on the steering wheel. "So now Carlo thinks I turned him in. Great. The last time he thought somebody ratted on him, Armand died. Thank you, Newton."

"Forget Carlo. Think Mae. As soon as you find her, bring her in."

"I don't know where—"

"Don't mess with me on this, Mitch." Nick looked grim. "As soon as you find her, bring her to me, and I will go with her to the police. This fugitive bit is not good. We've got to get her off the street."

"I don't want her to have an arrest record."

"I may be able to stall them on that." Nick shifted in his seat. "They've got enough to charge her, but I don't think they're happy about it. They're not dumb, these guys. If I can guarantee she'll stay put, they may release her to me. But she's got to come in. If they find her, they'll arrest her, and all I'll be able to do is mop up."

"And get her off," Mitch prompted.

"That, too, but let's hope to hell it never gets to court. Mae's awfully photogenic. She could be the
Hard Copy
flavor-of-the-month."

"Oh, hell."

"Forget that for now. Just find her." Nick started to get out of the car. "Oh, I forgot. What do you want me to do about the eviction?"

"Find out who's evicting me, for starters. But I have a pretty good idea whose behind it."

Nick nodded. "Sure. I'll get somebody on it. Wrongful eviction. Financial harassment. I'll make something up. Anything else while I'm at it? Paternity suit? Breach of promise? Prenuptial?''

"Nah. Mae can have anything I've got."

Nick grinned. "You and Mae, huh?"

"You don't sound very surprised."

"I'm a lawyer. Nothing surprises me."

Mitch shook his head. "Nothing used to surprise me until I met Mae. Now everything does."

Nick's expression sobered. "Find her, Mitch."

Mitch nodded. "That's my plan."

Mae had walked for an hour before she realized where she was going.

She stopped and looked at the tree-lined, brick-paved street. Armand's town house was just around the corner.

Where would the police look for her first? Gio's or Claud's, probably. Work, definitely. Mitch's, maybe.

And sooner or later, Armand's place. But probably later.

She turned the corner and walked to Armand's front door, fumbling in her purse for the key so she could unlock the door and get inside as swiftly as possible. But once inside the cool dimness of the hall, she stood trembling, finally reacting to the shock of the police. "They're here for you," Carlo had said, and she'd accepted it at once. Carlo knew about police. If he said they'd come for her, they had.

And it could only be for one thing. Somebody was finally taking her lie about Armand's death seriously.

She moved slowly through the archway into the living room, listening to see if anyone else was in the house. It seemed filled with the empty silence that only deserted places have, a desolation born of loss. People had been happy here once, and now it was empty. She could feel the unhappiness in her groin, like a cramp, and she ached for Stormy and what she had lost. Even though Armand had been a jerk, Stormy had still loved him, and in his own way, he'd loved her. And love was a terrible thing to lose.

She knew that because now she had love to lose. She had Mitch.

She sank onto the soft amber couch and tried to think.

She couldn't stay here too long. Sooner or later, they'd come here, if only to look for clues. The temptation to go upstairs and crawl into a bed and never come out again was overwhelming. She could live there forever, going out into the garden at night to see the stars. It would be a sanctuary, and she could stay there alone forever and no one would hurt her.

Except that someone had to take care of June and Harold, and the police would definitely show up sooner or later, and there were no sanctuaries. There were no safe places in life. That's why you had to keep moving.

And besides, she didn't want to be alone. She wanted to be with Mitch.

Think,
she told herself, but she didn't know enough to puzzle out what was happening to her. Something had happened to all that money, but she didn't know what. Someone was shooting at her, but she didn't know who. The police wanted her, but she didn't know why. She thought longingly of Mitch, not as a savior because he wasn't the savior type, but as a partner, somebody to share the puzzle with. She wanted to tell him everything and say, "What do you think?" and argue the possibilities with him, go and find out things with him, and just be with him. Not for comfort, not for support, just for the lightness of being with him.

But he wasn't there, and she was alone, and she had to think of something fast. She let herself fall back against the couch and rest for just a minute. She was so tired from no sleep the night before and the adrenaline rush that morning and the six-mile walk in a daze that thinking became as strenuous as lifting heavy weights. She was so very tired. She closed her eyes, and tried hard to think, and tried very hard not to panic.

Mitch patted her on the back. "Get a grip, kid. Are you okay?"

"No." June sniffed. "I don't know where she is. And Harold's eye is swelled shut."

Mitch blinked at her. "What does Harold's eye have to do with this?"

"Carlo hit him this morning when Harold tried to stop him from going up to Mae's room." June sniffed again, her expression a hybrid of anger and sorrow. "We're trying to decide what to do."

"Let me see this eye." Mitch prodded her toward the back of the house. "And then I'll take care of the rest."

"Oh, good." June's shoulders sagged with relief as she led him toward the kitchen, her usual glide degenerating into more of a totter. "I knew you were going to be good for us when Mae brought you home the first time."

Us?
Up until then, Mitch's plans for commitment had centered on Mae, but June's assumption brought him up to date. Mae meant June and Harold, too. And Bob. He watched June's platinum head bob in front of him as she shoved open the kitchen door, and felt a rush of affection for her. She wasn't particularly deep or intelligent, and God knew, Harold wasn't anybody's grandpa, but they'd loved Mae and brought her up to be the woman he couldn't leave, and he owed them. They were good people.

Harold looked up as they came in, his eye purple and swelled completely shut, and Mitch felt rage tighten his throat.

"Carlo needs smacking," he said to Harold.

"I tried." Harold's face fell into morose pleats. "He's a fast son of a bitch."

"Then I'll have to hit him from behind." Mitch bent to get a better look at Harold's eye. "How's your head feel?"

"I'm okay."

"Stop being a hero." Mitch gently lifted the swollen lid back and checked Harold's pupil. "Headache?"

"Yeah." Harold's good eye shifted to June. "It's not bad."

"Dizziness?"

"No." For the first time since they'd met, Harold looked at Mitch without glaring at him. "It's not a concussion. It's just one hell of a bad black eye."

"Okay." Mitch straightened. "I have to find Mae. Are you two going to be okay on your own for a while?"

June swallowed, but Harold said, "Hell, yes."

"Stay here," Mitch told him. "I have no idea when I'll be back, but if Mae's in a mess and I need to reach you, I want you here."

Harold nodded. "Right."

"Do you know where she might have gone?"

Harold shook his head and winced. "I don't even know how she got out of her room."

Mitch grinned. "She climbed down the trellis. I'm her role model."

"That's probably why she's in this mess now," Harold said, but his voice held no venom. "Go find her."

"Please," June quavered.

Mitch patted her shoulder. "I've got this all under control. Don't worry about a thing. Just keep ice on that eye."

On an impulse, he stopped in the library and picked up the 1952 diary, and then he walked back out into the heat and stood looking at the Mercedes Mae hated and thought,
What the hell do I do now?

It would be nice to have a little place with a bedroom at the top of a flight of curving stairs. A bedroom with a big, warm, soft bed. A big soft bed with Mitch in it and the rest of the world gone away.

Mae closed her eyes at the thought, craving sleep because she craved oblivion.

She tried the first door on the right at the top of the stairs.

It was a guest bedroom, but there was something odd about it. Mae stood inside the door and frowned, trying to put her finger on what was wrong. The walls were painted bright yellow and trimmed with a yellow flowered border, and all the furniture was white with yellow flowers and butterflies painted on it, and it was very pretty but not quite like the rest of the house, somehow. And in the middle of the room was a plain single bedstead with nothing pretty or comfortable about it. It looked temporary.

Maybe Stormy had ordered a bed that went better, but it hadn't arrived yet. Mae tried to mentally delete the bed from the room. It definitely didn't belong. What would? Mae tried to picture a white bedstead with the butterflies and flowers, covered with a flowered comforter. Or a quilt. It was the kind of room she would have loved to have as a child.

Mae froze. That was what was wrong with the room. It wasn't an adult room, it was a child's room. She thought of the toy catalog down on the hall table, and suddenly she knew that the missing piece of furniture, the one that would replace the cheap, plain bed, was a crib.

Stormy had planned a nursery.

Mae sank onto the bed, overwhelmed with sympathy for her. Stormy wasn't deep, but she was human and female and she'd loved Armand and wanted his child. And she'd planned her dreams in this room. Mae closed her eyes and pictured Stormy and a little redheaded daughter in this room, and she knew instinctively that Stormy had done the same.

When she couldn't bear it anymore, she went out of the room and closed the door and crossed to the room opposite it.

It was an adult room, decorated in browns and reds and dominated by a heavy mahogany bed. The only incongruous note was a large wastebasket full of socks and underwear beside the bed. Harold had packed clothes for Goodwill but had evidently drawn the line at passing on anything too personal.

Mae sat down on the bed feeling like Goldilocks. The first room had been too young, and this one was too old. She was due to hit the one that was just right next.

The only bed she could think of that would be just right was Mitch's.

She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. She'd been there two hours. It was time to move before someone found her. A cab was out of the question, but a bus was a possibility. She picked up her purse to look for money, only then remembering that she'd handed it all over to Mitch the night before for gas.

She opened the drawer beside the bed and checked for spare change, but Harold had been thorough, as always. The drawer was empty, and she was going to have to walk it.

She looked down at her feet and tried to remember how far it was to Mitch's. She didn't mind the hike, but her leather flats weren't meant to travel that far. She was starting blisters from just the first six miles. Mitch's place had to be another fifteen or twenty miles. Four or five hours. She'd be lame for life.

She threw her purse on the bed and went to check the boxes that Harold had packed for Goodwill. Maybe there would be shoes, even house slippers.

Even five pairs of socks would be better than her leather flats. She pawed through the boxes, finally finding a pair of brand-new men's sneakers. She pulled them out and felt a pang of sorrow. Stormy had probably bought them for Armand, not knowing he'd never wear anything with a purple-and-magenta stripe. After seven years, she should have known, but Mae had a pretty good idea that Stormy had seen the Armand she'd wanted to see, not the real Armand. Stormy's Armand wanted a child and running shoes. The real Armand wanted Barbara Ross and money.

Poor Stormy.

A car door slammed out front and Mae froze, but after a moment she heard the front door of the next town house bang. She breathed out a long sigh of relief and scrambled to her feet. Now all she needed was socks. She went to the wastebasket and began to pull out socks, looking for the thickest pairs she could find. She was going to need about four pairs to get those shoes to fit her feet.

She was pulling out the fourth pair, when her hand struck something hard. She froze and then turned the wastebasket over to dump everything onto the floor.

There in the middle of the tangle of socks and undershorts was a brown leather book.

Mae's hands shook as she picked it up and turned it so she could see the spine—Lewis and the current year. She clutched it to her for a moment, and then the irony of the situation dawned on her. She'd finally found the diary, so the money was protected, but now there wasn't any money. She started to laugh, and then she pulled herself together. At least the diary might tell her where Armand had put the money. In the meantime, she had to get away. Now. She put the diary in her purse, put on the four pairs of socks that made her feet fit Armand's shoes, and five minutes later walked out of the back door of the town house and down the street to Overlook.

It was the first time in her life that she'd ever thought of Overlook as a safe place.