Jennifer Crusie Bundle Read online

  “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, his brother who inherits the other half of his stock, his mistress who inherits nothing and a local mob boss and his homicidal son, but in your opinion, none of them did it.”

  “That’s it.” She nodded. “I know these people. I’ve asked them if they know anything about Uncle Armand’s death, and they’ve said no. They wouldn’t lie to me.”

  Mitch shook his head at her naiveté. “Sure they would. The first rule in life is ‘everybody lies.’ Remember that and you’ll get a lot further.”

  She blinked at him, her thick lashes making the movement much more of a production than it usually was on regular people. “That’s awfully cynical, Mr. Peatwick.”

  “That’s me. And cynical doesn’t mean I’m not right. For example, I’ll bet you fifty bucks you’ve lied to me already today.”

  Her eyes met his without blinking this time. “Of course I haven’t.” She widened her gaze, looking stricken. “How could you think that?”

  Mitch grinned. “You’re good, sweetheart. You’re very, very good. But you blew it there at the end. Don’t widen your eyes like that. Gives you away every time.”

  Her eyes narrowed. It was amazing. Even narrowed they looked good. Sort of bitchy and mean, but good. “Mr. Peatwick,” she said. “Do you want this job?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say no, thank you, I don’t like your relatives, and besides, you lied to me, and you’re up to no good, and the diary bit is too farfetched, and what the hell are you trying to do, anyway? and then he realized that the only way he’d ever find out what she was trying to do was if he took the case.

  And it was a real Sam Spade kind of case.

  And he needed the money to win the bet.

  Mitch sighed. “What did your uncle say about the diary on the phone that makes you think somebody killed him?”

  “He said, ‘Don’t worry. No one can get me without the diary.”’

  Mitch felt depression settle over him. For the first time that afternoon, she was making sense. “Are you sure it wasn’t gone before he died?”

  “I don’t think so.” She gazed at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and he knew she was up to something. “He said that on the phone Monday evening, and he died later that night. He wrote in the diary every night, so he’d seen it the previous evening at the latest.”

  Mitch threw his pencil on the desk. “Okay. Five hundred per day plus expenses.”

  Her eyebrows snapped together. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Mitch shrugged. “That’s my price.”

  She scowled at him for a moment, and he smiled back, impervious. “All right.” She opened her purse and took out a checkbook. He watched her scrawl the amount and her name across the check, her handwriting the first uncontrolled thing he’d seen about her.

  Then she tore the check out and tossed it across the desk to him. Thirty-five hundred dollars. He took a deep breath and tried to look unimpressed. “This is for a week. What if I solve this in an afternoon?”

  “You can give me a refund.”

  She didn’t seem unduly interested in the possibility. The woman had no faith in him. Just as well. There was no way in hell he was giving her a refund.

  He’d just won his bet.

  Mitch walked around the desk and pulled his jacket from the coatrack. “Come on then, let’s go see Uncle Gio.”

  She took a deep breath, and he watched in appreciation. “Mr. Peatwick, I just paid you to find the diary—”

  “And I will do that, Miss Sullivan. I will do whatever you want. But first we will go see Gio Donatello.”

  “Why Uncle Gio? I told you—”

  “I have to talk to all of these people,” Mitch said patiently. “And if I manage to live through an afternoon of accusing a mob boss of murder, the rest of this case has got to be all downhill.”

  “Uncle Gio’s not with the mob.”

  “Your cousin Carlo cut off somebody’s finger. Who cares if they’re with the mob? They’re psychopaths.”

  She shifted in her chair. “They’re just volatile.”

  “Volatile.” Mitch snorted. “That’s cute. Come on, let’s go, but I’m warning you—you protect me from your homicidal relatives or my rate doubles.”

  She picked up her purse, contempt clear in her eyes. “Fine.”

  He watched her stand, pushing her weight up with her calves, which flexed roundly as she moved, and then he watched as she swiveled toward the door.

  If she’d just keep her mouth shut…

  She turned back to him, impatience making her face stern. “I don’t have all day, Mr. Peatwick, and you’re already wasting my time with this trip. Are you coming or not?”

  His fantasy evaporated, and reality returned, still sucking. Mitch sighed and followed her out the door.

  Two

  His car looked like a two-toned aircraft carrier. Mae had known he wouldn’t be the Volvo type, but she’d expected something from the current decade. “This is your transportation?”

  “This is a classic.” He patted a massive metal side panel. “There aren’t many ’69 Catalinas on the road anymore.”

  “Yes, and there’s a reason for that.” Mae touched the paint. “What exactly do you call this color?”

  “Oxidized red. You getting in or not?”

  “Certainly.” Mae looked pointedly at the passenger door.

  He grinned at her. “It’s okay, it’s not locked. Go ahead and get in.”

  Mae shook her head in disbelief. “A collector’s dream like this one, and you don’t lock it. What are you thinking of?”

  “I have faith in my fellow man.” He ambled around to the driver’s side, so relaxed that Mae wasn’t sure how he stayed upright.

  “Then you’re going to love my cousin Carlo.” She tried to open the door but it stuck. “I think this is locked.”

  “Nah, just yank on it.” He opened his door and slumped into his seat while Mae tugged on the door with increasing force. Finally, he reached over and popped it open from the inside.

  “Thank you.” Mae slid into her seat. “I’ve seen living rooms smaller than this.”

  He surveyed his domain with obnoxious pride. “Makes you wonder why they invented bucket seats, doesn’t it?”

  Mae bounced a little on the rock-hard seat. “No.”

  He turned the key in the ignition. “You snotty rich people are all alike. Can’t appreciate the simple things in life.”

  “I am not rich.” Mae gazed at the vast interior of the car. “And I wouldn’t call this simple.”

  “You’re not rich?”

  “No.” Mae tugged at the seat belt, trying to get it across her lap. “I had a trust fund once, but it died. When the inheritance clears, I will be rich, but until then, I just cleaned out my checking account for you.” She gave up tugging and turned to him in exasperation. “Mr. Peatwick, I don’t think this seat belt works.”

  He leaned across her to yank on the belt himself, and she breathed in the scent of soap from his hair. He yanked on the belt again, rocking slightly against her, and she stopped breathing for a moment in the sudden flush of heat she felt.

  This was not good.

  He yanked again, and the belt unspooled, and he leaned back into his seat and clicked it in place for her. “There. Just like one of those fancy new cars, only better.”

  Mae brought her mind back to where it belonged: away from Mitchell Peatwick.

  He pulled out into the street, and the rear of the car bounced as the wheels hit the pavement. “Where exactly does Gio live?”

  Mae told him and then watched him drive, absent-mindedly answering his questions a