Mitch turned back from the bookcase with three volumes in his hands. “You’re a good woman, Mabel. Spoiled rotten, but basically good.”
Harold snorted and stalked out with the tray, closely followed by Bob, and Mae rose to look at the diaries he’d taken.
“Okay, 1967 I get. That’s the year I came. Why 1977 and 1978?”
“I want to know what Armand did that made Gio so mad he never talked to him again.” Mitch picked up the 1993 volume from the table and added it to the stack in his arms. “I may be back for more.”
“Why?” Mae didn’t even bother to hide her annoyance. “That’s all in the past. I want—”
Mitch put his free hand over her mouth and was momentarily distracted by the softness of her lips against his palm. He was getting distracted a lot today. Must be age. “Look, you want to find your uncle’s killer. And the only way to do that is to find out what made your uncle killable. You do want to find his killer, right?”
Mae’s eyes met his, huge and wary, and she nodded as he took his hand away. “Right.”
You’re lying to me again, Mabel, Mitch thought, but all he said was, “Well, then, that’s what we’ll do. As soon as I’ve read these diaries, we’ll go find who killed him.”
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN MITCH WAS GONE with the diaries and the food, Mae leaned back in her chair and considered her situation. Mitch was definitely going to annoy everybody in Riverbend; he’d probably been doing it for years. If she could just keep him focused on the diaries, he could easily drive whoever had the missing volume to give it up and probably to take to drink, too. And keeping him focused might be easier now that he actually had some of the diaries in his hands….
That made her think about his hands. Of all the times for her hormones to kick in, this was the worst, but there it was. Ever since she’d met him, she’d had that bubbly feeling under her skin that she hadn’t felt for a good long time. It was a nice feeling to have, but not in conjunction with Mitchell Peatwick. He was arrogant and stubborn and his face looked like a catcher’s mitt with a jaw. And she absolutely was not going to get herself mixed up with a man who didn’t listen to her; she had enough men not listening to her in her life already.
Once again in control of the situation, Mae wandered back to the kitchen and sat down to pry the heels she’d borrowed from June off her feet.
“Thank you,” she said, handing them back. “They were agony.”
“Poor baby.” June put the shoes on the counter. “Do you want a basin of Epsom salts?”
“No.” Mae rubbed one of her reddened feet. “I want the money so we can move to a better place than this mausoleum and live like normal human beings and you won’t ever have to worry about the future again. This is driving me crazy.”
“I cleaned Armand’s room today,” June said. “The painting of that nude woman is gone.”
Mae stopped rubbing. “The Lempicka? How long has it been gone?”
“I don’t know.” June sank into the chair at the end of the table. “I think it was there last Wednesday when I did the room, but I’m not sure. I hate that damn room.”
“I know. Don’t worry about it. Pretty soon we’ll get the inheritance and move and you won’t ever have to see this place again.” Mae took June’s hand and held it tightly until the older woman smiled and relaxed again. Then Mae went back to the current problem. “He might have sold the painting.”
“I don’t like it.” June’s pleasantly vacuous face turned grim. “He never let go of anything, and then suddenly everything starts disappearing. There’s something really wrong here.”
Mae nodded. “Whatever it is, it’ll be in the diary. He said, ‘They can’t get the money without the diary’ that day on the phone. We need that diary.”
“Well, maybe your detective will find it for us. He seems quite nice.” June’s voice softened. “If it wasn’t for Harold, I’d be quite interested.”
Mae grinned at her lovingly. “I think he feels the same. He was looking at you with a lot of appreciation.”
June flapped her hand. “Oh, he was just detecting.” She leaned back in her chair. “What did you think of him?”
“Well, I thought he was dumb as a rock.” Mae tried to sound disinterested. “But I’m not so sure. I think he’s just different.”
“Different how?” June prompted.
Mae shrugged. “Oh, he doesn’t act macho or protective or charming or any of the usual garbage. He just asks me questions and looks down my jacket and treats me like…anybody.” She rubbed her foot again. “He’s really up-front about being a loser.”
June studied Mae under her eyelashes. “I don’t think he’s a loser. And I don’t think he thinks you’re just anybody. He seemed quite interested in you.”
“He just likes women.” Mae sat back. “And the more I think about it, the more I don’t think he’s as dumb as I thought he was.”
“I don’t think he’s dumb at all.” June smiled. “I think he’s going to be good. Maybe we should tell him the truth and let him take care of everything.”
“No.” Mae’s voice was firm. “Letting men take care of everything means you end up with nothing. Besides, you should have seen him at Uncle Gio’s. Carlo pulled a gun, and he stepped behind me.”
“Smart man.” June nodded approvingly. “And so attractive.”
“Oh, please.”
“I’m serious.” June leaned forward. “Your problem is that you’ve always been with those pretty boys. Carlo and that worthless Dalton. Now, Mitchell Peatwick isn’t pretty, but he’s…” She stopped, obviously searching for the right word.
“Earthy?” Mae suggested.
“All man,” June said, and Mae groaned. “Listen to me, sweetie, I know men. And I will bet you that Mitchell Peatwick could give you a very good time in bed.”
Mae closed her eyes to shut out the thought, but her mind flashed to Mitch’s hands moving across the notepad, to his body solid on hers as he’d yanked on the seat belt, to his grin kicking up her pulse as he’d quizzed her in the library. Then she thought about him in bed and immediately squelched the feeling the thought stirred. “He’d probably forget I was there.” Mae shoved back her chair and stood up, unbuttoning the waistband of June’s pink skirt. “Oh, God,” she sighed as the zipper unzipped itself down her hip. “That feels so good.”
June smiled up at her. “So would Mitchell Peatwick.”
“Not in a million years,” Mae said.
“We’ll see,” June said.
THE MIDSUMMER HEAT filled Mitch’s dingy apartment like fog. He stretched out on
