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  “I’m open-minded on that.” Mitch picked up the diary. “I’m only on the third one of these, but there are a hell of a lot of people who are not going to be weeping at the memorial service on Friday.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, June the cookie-maker, for one. She had a fifteen-year-old son named Ronnie who got into drugs back in 1967. Summer-of-love stuff. She asked Armand for help sending him to a detox place, and Armand said no. Four months later, Ronnie OD’d.”

  Newton frowned. “It was ungenerous of him, but hardly a motive for murder.”

  “The kid was Armand’s son.”

  Newton blinked.

  “June gave her notice as soon as Ronnie was buried.” Mitch handed Newton the diary marked 1967. “It’s all in there. He just says that he’s glad Ronnie’s off his back, but he’s worried because the only reason June stayed was so that the boy would be with his father. Then she gives notice, and he says flat out that the reason he wants his orphaned niece to come live with him is because he thinks it will keep June.”

  “Orphaned niece?”

  “Our client.” Mitch smiled and then realized he was smiling and stopped. “Mae Belle Sullivan. She was six in 1967 when June’s son died. Armand took Mae to give June another kid to raise so she wouldn’t leave.”

  “Do you think June killed him?”

  Mitch shrugged. “Could be. But we also have Harold Tennyson, the butler. He came at the same time Mae did to keep an eye on her, and immediately fell hard for June who is still quite a looker. Back then, she must have been a knockout.” He stopped, distracted. “Mabel is not a knockout. She is merely very attractive, which is why she has little or no effect on me.”

  Newton blinked at him. “What?”

  “Nothing. Anyway, Harold’s smitten-ness amused Armand, so he tried to get June back again to spite Harold, even though they hadn’t been any more than employer and employee since he’d found out she was pregnant years before. Only June wasn’t playing.” Mitch grinned. “Armand sounds truly annoyed in the diary. It’s toward the back. You should read it. I enjoyed it immensely. Anyway, Armand pushed his luck one night, and Harold roughed him up a little. Armand fired him, but June threatened to quit, and little Mae cried, and the guy who sent Harold in the first place leaned on Armand, so Armand had to take him back. And they’ve hated each other ever since. There are a couple of places in the diary where Armand says he thinks Harold is trying to kill him. Accidentally backing the car over him, stuff like that.”

  Newton frowned. “Is Harold homicidal?”

  “Harold is a longtime employee of Gio Donatello.”

  Newton blinked. “Dear Lord.”

  “Gio is another of Mabel’s uncles. He also doesn’t like Armand, partly because of Mae, but also because—” Mitch picked up the 1978 diary and handed it to Newton “—Armand bilked him out of a quarter of a million in 1978.”

  Newton’s face took on the stern disapproval of his Puritan ancestors. “That was stupid.”

  “That was Armand.” Mitch shook his head. “He’s also cheating on his girlfriend with a society woman, both of whom may be feeling less than warm toward him. And then there are any of his business partners who he may have screwed, including his brother Claud. I haven’t read the most recent journal yet. I can only imagine the carnage this jerk may have caused lately.”

  Newton raised his eyebrows. “His brother is Claud Lewis?”

  “Yep.”

  “I think I might be more afraid of Claud Lewis than I would be of Gio Donatello.” Newton chose his words carefully, as always. “Gio can only kill you, and there’s no real evidence that he’s ever murdered anyone. But Claud can ruin you financially, and there’s ample evidence that he’s done that whenever the spirit moved him.”

  Mitch thought for a moment. “Can you look into Armand’s financial dealings? Especially his dealings with Claud?”

  “I can ask around.” Newton looked uncomfortable. “It’s really none of my business.”

  Mitch rolled his eyes. “Newton, you’re the one who’s always saying you want to be a detective, too. If you’re a private detective, it’s your business to look into things that are none of your business.”

  “Oh.”

  “You said you wanted to help with the agency. This is the first time I’ve had something that involved skills beyond peeping and waiting. This is the good stuff, Newton.”

  “All right.” Newton seemed to gather himself up. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  “It’s for a good cause,” Mitch comforted him. “I think Armand Lewis died a natural death, but if he didn’t, he didn’t deserve to be murdered.” He cast a doubtful glance at the last diary. “Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  Mitch frowned. “What we have here is a man who has annoyed or hurt everyone he’s ever known, and he’s known a lot of powerful people. And the beauty of it is, he’s written it all down in his diaries. Of course, he thinks it’s a scream that he swindled Gio and perfectly understandable that he deserted his own son, but even so—” Mitch picked up the most recent diary “—he wrote it all down in these. Just like Nixon and his tapes. Ego makes people stupid, Newton.”

  “In that case, the last diary should tell you who killed him,” Newton said. “If anybody did.”

  “That’s what’s interesting. The last diary is missing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” Mitch propped the 1993 diary on his knees. “If it wasn’t for that, I’d say Mabel had lost her grip. But the thing about Mabel is, she may be unreasonably stubborn, but she’s not stupid. And she’s up to something.” Mitch met Newton’s eyes. “She’s lying to me, Newton. Can you believe it?”

  “Just like Brigid,” Newton said.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mitch said.

  WHEN MITCH WENT DOWN to the street to get his car the next morning, all four tires were flat, every one slashed through the rubber. He called the service station, his insurance agent and the police, and then he called Mae. Even over the phone, her voice went right to his spine. Forget it, he told his spine. Then she said, “Hello?” again, and he said, “Someone appears to have stabbed my tires.”

  “Mr. Peatwick?”

  “Call me Mitch, Mabel. It’s friendlier. You’re going to have to come pick me up.”

  “All four tires?”

  “Yes. I have a sixth sense about these things, and I’m willing to bet you any amount of money that your psycho cousin Carlo killed my tires. I don’t think he was listening when you told him to leave me alone.”

  He heard a sigh on the other end of the line and told his spine to ignore that, too. “I’ll pay for the tires,” she said.

  “Thank you, that won’t be necessary. Vandalism is covered by insurance. Now come and get me.” He gave her directions and then waited while she wrote them down.

  “Uh, Mr. Peatwick?”

  “Mitch.”

  “This is in Overlook.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Oh. Dangerous neighborhood.”

  “Actually, it was a nice little place until your cousin dropped by. He lowered the tone considerably.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Thank you,” Mitch said, but she’d already hung up, and he felt curiously bereft for a moment. This is just a case, he told himself. She is just a client. Yeah, right, his spine said.

  HE WAS OUT in front of his tenement sweating in the morning sun when Mae pulled up in her brown Mercedes. He seemed bigger and bulkier than she’d remembered. The same stubborn lock of blond hair fell in his eyes, and he leaned against the grimy building in the nastiest part of town with no indication that he recognized the tawdriness around him. He got in the front seat, held his hand gratefully in front of the air-conditioning vent, and said, “Great car.” Mae said, “I hate it,” and he said, “Why?” and she pulled away from the curb.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see him looking her over from the passenger seat before he closed