closed her eyes briefly. “They did not off my Uncle Armand.”
“We’ll get back to them later. Okay, besides you and Harold and June and Uncle Claud., there’s nobody else in the will?”
“No.”
“Did your uncle own a business?” He tapped his pen on the pad. “Was he involved in anything that somebody might have wanted to take over?”
“He was a partner with my Uncle Claud.”
“Were there any other partners?”
“No. Just my Uncle Claud.”
He opened his mouth again, and Mae moved to block him before he took off in another wrong direction. “He also did not kill my Uncle Armand.”
“Did they get along?”
“No. My Uncle Claud disliked my Uncle Armand because he thought that he was profligate and libidinous and a disgrace to the good name of Lewis.”
“Sounds like a direct quote.”
“It is.”
“Was it true?”
“Yes.”
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “Libidinous at seventy-six?”
Mae sighed. Mitchell Peatwick might be a fool, but he was a persistent fool. “He kept a mistress. In fact, they made love the night he died. She tells everyone that whether you ask or not. Then she weeps.”
He sat back in his chair. “Could we digress for a moment?”
Mae looked at him with exasperation. “Do I have a choice?”
“No. He was seventy-six years old with a heart condition and he made love with his mistress who was…what? Fifty?”
“Twenty-five. Her name is Stormy Klosterman. This is not relevant—”
“Klosterman?”
Mae gave up. “Her stage name is Stormy Weather. Of course, she was temporarily retired while she was with my uncle.”
“Of course.” He blinked. “That would have been how long?”
“Seven years,” Mae said flatly. “He caught her umbrella when it rolled off the runway one night. It was magic.”
He grinned at her. “Not a fan of Stormy’s, I see.”
Mae shrugged. “She’s all right. At least, I don’t think she killed my uncle. She didn’t get a dime.”
“Did she know that before he died?”
“Yes. He was very clear about that with all his women.”
“There were more?”
“Well, there were before Stormy. I had a lot of aunts when I was growing up.”
“You grew up with Uncle Armand?”
Mae thought briefly about reaching across the desk, grabbing him by the collar and screaming, “Could we get to the diary, please?” but that would have been counterproductive. Humor him. “My parents were killed in a car accident when I was six. In their wills, they had appointed my three great-uncles as executors and guardians. Uncle Armand, Uncle Claud and Uncle Gio. All three uncles wanted me, so they drew straws.”
“Uncle Gio?” His voice sounded strangled.
“We were all in the lawyer’s office, and they drew straws, and Uncle Armand won. Now can we get back to my Uncle Armand’s death?”
“And Uncle Gio’s last name would be…?”
“Donatello.”
“Terrific.” He dropped his pen and stared at her with distaste.
Mae tried to get the conversation back on track. “I see you’ve heard the rumors about my Uncle Gio. Don’t worry. They’re not true. Now, about—”
“I’ve heard of the whole family. How’s your cousin Carlo?”
“He’s out already,” Mae said. “It was a bum rap.”
He sat quietly for a moment, and Mae felt his eyes size her up, and she realized for the first time that she might have made a mistake in coming to see Mitchell Peatwick. He looked as if he had the IQ of a linebacker, but there was something going on in that devious male mind. God knew what, but Mae was sure it wasn’t good.
He leaned forward. “Okay, let’s forget Uncle Gio for the moment. Aside from your sixth sense, which I’m sure is extremely accurate, you must have had another reason for coming here since, according to you, no one who knew him killed him. So tell me the truth. Why do you think he was murdered?”
This was it. Mae moistened her lips again. “You mustn’t tell anyone this.” She leaned forward a little to meet him halfway. “His diary has disappeared. I heard him talking on the phone about it the day he died, and now it’s gone. The diary isn’t important, but whoever has it murdered him. I’m sure of it.”
SHE WAS LYING, of course. Mitch’s take on humanity had deteriorated to the point where he assumed someone was lying if her lips were moving, but she was definitely lying about the diary. Either there wasn’t a diary, or there was and it was important. Either possibility was irrelevant; what was important was to find out why she was lying.
And with this woman, it could be because of her sixth sense. Or her twenty million.
Twenty million.
Hell, with twenty million, she could lie to him forever as long as she paid him $2,694.
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,
