“I had a dog when I was a kid, too.” Mae’s smile faded as she straightened. “I found him on my way home from school. He was all skinny and hungry, and I brought him home, and June fed him, and we gave him a bath. He was beautiful, and we named him George.”
“What kind was he?”
“All kinds. My kind. But George wasn’t a pure breed, so when Armand got home, he took him to the pound.”
“What?” Mitch tightened his hold on her. “That son of a bitch.”
“I was hysterical,” Mae went on, still playing with Bob’s ears as she leaned against Mitch. “And Armand refused to go back and get George. So June called Uncle Gio because I wouldn’t stop crying, and Uncle Gio said, ‘Tell her I will fix it,’ and June did, and I still cried myself to sleep. And the next day, June took me to Uncle Gio’s, and George was there, and Uncle Gio promised me he’d always be there, and after that, I went to dinner every Sunday and played with George.” Mae looked up at him, her eyes bright. “And that is why I do not believe that my Uncle Gio has ever hurt anybody, and why I still go to dinner every Sunday even though George died twelve years ago, and why I hated my Uncle Armand, and why I’m not sorry that he’s dead.”
Mitch pulled her out of her chair and into his lap, holding her close, his cheek against her hair, while she buried her face in his shoulder. “It’s going to be all right,” he said.
“I know,” Mae said on a muffled sob. “I know. I’m just so tired.”
“And maybe I was wrong about Gio,” Mitch went on, closing his eyes again as he held her. “But your cousin Carlo is still for the birds.”
She laughed into his shoulder then, and he relaxed into relief, but she was still tense when he finally left her.
He really hated leaving her.
Six
“This is so nice,” Stormy told Mae the next day. She gazed in delight around the sedate lunchtime crush at the Levee. “I always feel so rich here.” She was wearing a navy blue dress that was shirred across the shoulders and that made her look demure and sexy and refined and breathtakingly beautiful. Mae was wearing another of her flowered sundresses, this one pink, knowing it didn’t really matter what she wore, anyway; she was invisible as long as she was sitting next to Stormy. “Don’t you feel rich here?” Stormy asked her.
“No. This place always reminds me of how poor I am.” Mae scanned the menu tiredly. “I’ll have a small salad,” she told the hovering waiter.
“Lobster.” Stormy beamed at him. “I love lobster.”
The waiter beamed back and left them, and Mae did some quick calculations to see how badly lunch was going to maim her financially.
“Armand didn’t bring me here much.” Stormy’s smile faded, and her eyes brightened with incipient tears. “He liked it to be just us at home.”
He liked it cheap, Mae amended silently, but all she said was, “That must have been nice.”
“I like this better.” Stormy looked around and began smiling again. “Dalton brought me here three times this week.”
“So you’re seeing Dalton,” Mae said, trying to goose the conversation away from Armand and tears. “How nice.”
Stormy leaned forward a little. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind what? That you’re seeing Dalton?” Mae laughed. “Good heavens, no. Feel free.”
“Well, he is your ex-husband,” Stormy offered. “I thought maybe…”
“Take him with my blessings,” Mae said firmly. “Dalton is definitely out of my life.”
Stormy put her chin in her hand and surveyed Mae. “What about Mitch?”
“What about Mitch?” Mae echoed, suddenly not finding the conversation as amusing.
“Are you dating him?”
“No.” Mae picked up a breadstick and crunched into it. “I’m employing him,” she said when she’d swallowed. “That’s it.”
“Because I think he’s really sexy.” Stormy let her eyes roam the room again. “I don’t know why. He’s not very handsome. Dalton is handsome.”
“Date them both and split the difference.” Mae tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. It was a good thing that Stormy was interested in Mitch since it was inevitable that Mitch in turn would be interested in Stormy. It meant that she wouldn’t have to worry about all of the problems that might develop if she gave in to her baser instincts and made a pass at him. He didn’t seem too thrilled with her yesterday, a little voice inside her offered, but she squelched it. If Stormy turned those big blue eyes on him, Mitch would fall. Any man would. Especially a man who needed to lay pipeline and open the West. “He’s all yours,” she told Stormy and crunched into her breadstick again.
“Well, I don’t know. I’m seeing a couple of other guys, too. I just met one yesterday—” Stormy stopped as the waiter served their salads. “Thank you.”
The waiter stopped, stunned by her smile.
Mitch wasn’t going to have a chance. Mae sighed and stabbed her salad.
“None of them are like Armand, though,” Stormy said when the waiter was gone, and Mae resisted the urge to point out that this was a definite plus. “They keep asking me what I want to do. Armand just told me. That was nice. Sort of.”
Mae chewed faster to keep from blurting out her opinion.
“I mean, that’s how I knew he loved me.” Stormy poked at her salad listlessly. “He took care of me. You know? Isn’t that what every woman wants?”
“No.” Mae put down her fork. “Didn’t you ever want to make the decisions?”
“No.” Stormy blinked at her. “Not very much. It was like Armand said, his way, everything was a surprise. It was like Christmas, only everyday.”
“But what if you didn’t want to do what Armand wanted to?” Mae persisted. “What if you wanted to do something else?”
Stormy’s eyes shifted away from hers. “Why would I want to do something else? Like Armand said, that’s what love is, having somebody take care of you. Armand knew what was best.” She put down her fork and fumbled inside her purse to pull out a small jeweled box. “I liked it that way,” she said defiantly. She popped a tiny white pill in her mouth. “It was best.”
“Not for me.” Mae thought of her car and a thousand other things Armand had overruled her on for her own good. “For me, love is a partnership. Making decisions together.”
“That’s dumb.” Stormy dropped the box back into her purse and went back to her salad. “If a guy will take care of you, let him.”
“And then what happens when he’s gone?” Mae stopped with her fork in midair. “What happens when he leaves you high and dry?”
“Armand didn’t leave me.” There was an edge to Stormy’s voice. “Armand died.”
“Armand married Barbara Ross.”
Stormy flushed and looked more beautiful than ever. “He wasn’t leaving me. He bought me my own place and gave me money so I’d feel secure, but he wasn’t leaving me. He loved me.”
Mae bit back the impulse to say, “He married another woman, how is that love?” and said instead, “So what are you going to do now?”
Stormy cocked her head, looking about as thoughtful as she ever got. “Well, there’s Dalton. He’s fun and rich, and he wants to take me on vacation, but he’s no Armand. And then I met this new guy yesterday, and he’s sweet and rich. And then there’s Mitch.”
“Mitch is broke,” Mae put in and then kicked herself.
“I know, but he’s…” Stormy furrowed her brow. “He’s safe. You know? He makes me feel good.”
“Then go for it.” Mae stabbed her salad again. “Money isn’t everything.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t give up the money. I’d have to see Dalton or somebody else, too.”
Mae put down her fork. “You’d two-time Mitch?”
Stormy blinked at her. “Do you think he’d care?”
Mae thought of Mitch and his “everybody lies” outlook on life. “No. I think he’d expect it.” She felt sorry for him suddenly, spending the rest of his life with
a woman who would only reinforce his lousy philosophy. Well, she wasn’t any better than Stormy. She’d lied through her teeth to him about Armand being murdered.
“Why did he say that Armand was murdered?” Stormy asked and Mae jumped at the unexpected echo of her thoughts.
“What?”
“Why did Mitch say Armand was murdered? He wasn’t. I was there.” Stormy set her mouth into a stubborn line. “He wasn’t murdered.”
A tactful woman would have said “of course not,” but Mae wasn’t a tactful woman. “His diary is missing. It’s important, and it’s gone, and we figured that whoever has it murdered him to get it. Of course, if the diary turns up, that blows that theory out of the water, but it hasn’t turned up. So we’re looking for the diary.” Mae watched her to see if there was any flash of recognition or guilt in her eyes, but there wasn’t anything in Stormy’s eyes except endless blue depths.
“That’s dumb,” Stormy said, and since basically she was right, Mae went back to pick at her salad. “Maybe Dalton will bring me here for dinner tonight,” Stormy went on. “I’d like that.”
“Suggest it,” Mae said, exasperated.
Stormy blinked at her, not comprehending.
“Never mind.” Mae thought gloomily of Mitch. He’d better develop ESP fast if he was going to keep Stormy. She put down her fork and stared in misery at her salad.
“You’re not eating your lunch,” Stormy said.
“I’m not very hungry,” Mae said.
AT FOUR-THIRTY that afternoon, Mitch ran down the stairs of his apartment building, determined to be upbeat that night for Mae’s sake, even though he’d spent the day talking to everyone who’d ever known Armand Lewis to see if they’d noticed anything unusual about him lately.
They had. He’d been selling everything he owned. Evidently, the lawyer hadn’t been exaggerating the night before. If the rumors he’d been picking up were true, Armand’s assets were exactly the house and its contents. He’d even sold his classic BMW for $250,000. Armand had had one hell of a garage sale, after all.
Mitch pushed through the street door rehearsing exactly how he was going to drop this bomb on Mae, but he stopped when he saw his car.
All the tires were slashed again, but this time, Jack the car ripper had gone after the seats, too. “Top of the line K mart seat covers,” Mitch said regretfully, and then he went back inside and called his mechanic, his insurance agent and the police. His mechanic said, “Somebody really hates you, Kincaid,” and promised to come get the car. His insurance agent said, “You know, Mitch, this isn’t going to look good on your insurance history,” and promised to file the claim. The desk sergeant at the police station said, “Did you ever think of parking it anyplace else?” and began to make out the report.
“Got any idea who’s doing this to you?” the sergeant said as he took down the information.
“Oh, maybe.” Mitch thought grimly of Carlo. “Let me get back to you on this.”
“Well, don’t wait too long,” the sergeant said. “Next time, it could be you instead of the tires and seats.”
“Yes, but think how relieved my insurance agent would be,” Mitch said, and hung up to call a cab.
“DID YOU EVER LOOK behind these books for the diary?” Mitch asked when he was standing in the library with Mae an hour later. She was glad to see him, and his sudden enthusiasm about the diary was touching in its way, but mostly she just wanted to get the rest of the day over with. “I think we should pull them out and—”
“Dalton is going to be here in a half hour.” Mae slumped down into a chair. “Do whatever you want, but I’ve got to talk to him.”
Mitch pulled a step stool over to the first bank of shelves. “I love libraries. Some of my best moments have been in libraries.”
Mae regarded him wearily. “Why do I get the feeling that we’re not talking about great books here?”
“Okay, so I like women who read.” Mitch pulled out a section of books and felt behind them. “These books are all pushed flush with the wall. Do you see any that are sticking out a little?”
Mae surveyed the shelves. “No. How much reading did these women do?”
“A lot. Most of them were librarians.” Mitch put the books back and climbed down. “If you were Armand, where would you put the diary?”
“I’d take it with me. What do you mean, librarians?”
“The first woman I ever loved was a library aide in high school.” Mitch scanned the shelves. “Connie. She was perfect. We never argued, and she always went along with whatever I wanted, and we had incredible sex. I’ve been trying to find a woman just like her ever since.” He frowned at Mae. “Where would he have taken it to?”
“The diary? Probably the town house. So why didn’t you stay with Connie?” Mae asked, trying to squelch the annoyance in her voice.
“We went to different colleges, and it just sort of faded away. It was great. Incredible sex until we got bored with each other, and then we just said goodbye. I never found anyone like her again.” He shook his head at Mae. “We searched the town house. The diary’s not there.”
“So what happened next?”
“We came back here,” Mitch said, clearly puzzled.
“No, what happened next with the librarians?”
Mitch looked uncomfortable. “Could we talk about the diary?”
Mae folded her arms. “Later. Who came after Connie?”
Mitch sighed. “Daphne. She was a library major, working the college stacks, and she dropped some books and I picked them up. We were together for two years. Now, about the diary—”
“What happened?”
Mitch gave up. “She wanted to get married, and I said no, and she left. I couldn’t believe it. Marriage. She must have been out of her mind.” He frowned at the shelves. “That damn diary has to be somewhere, and I bet we’ve been where it is. Come on, Mabel, think.”
“And after Daphne, there was…”
“What?”
“After Daphne…”
“Oh. Susan.”
“Another librarian.”
Mitch nodded. “Daphne introduced us.”
“And what happened to Susan?”
“After a couple of years, she wanted to get married, too. Let’s go upstairs and look in that box of Armand’s stuff that Harold brought back from the town house.”
“The diary isn’t there. So what happened then?”
“To the diary?”
“No, to Susan,” Mae said with obvious patience.
“She married a chiropractor six months later. It’s got to be here, or at the town house, or at Stormy’s condo, or with Barbara. Armand didn’t go anyplace else. Except Barbados.” Mitch frowned. “Are you sure he had the diary when he came back from Barbados?”
“He seemed to think so on the phone that night. So who came after Susan?”
Mitch scowled at her. “Rachel. Can we talk about something else?”
“No. Was Rachel another librarian?”
“No, she had a cable TV show.”
“Ah, a break in the pattern. What kind of show?”
“It was called Book Chat,” Mitch said with an attempt at dignity that turned into a grin when Mae laughed out loud. “So I like literate women. Big deal.”
“And what happened to Rachel?”
“She wanted to get married,” Mitch said. “Could we get back to the diary now?”
“Exactly how many librarians did you love and lose when they wanted to get married?”
“I have no idea. About the diary—”
“Count.” Mae’s voice was an order, so Mitch sighed and began ticking them off on his fingers, silently.
“Nine,” he said finally.
“How many actually were librarians?”
“Seven.”
Mae shook her head. “I can’t believe it. You’re a human Bob.”
Mitch scowled at her. “I beg your pardon.”
“When Bob was a puppy, June was cutting a steak
on the counter, and it slipped and fell on the floor, and Bob grabbed it and ran into the library and swallowed it whole. It was the high point of his life. He threw it up on the library carpet about five minutes later, but it was still the high point.”
“If you’re comparing my relationship with Connie to swallowing a steak whole, I’m going to be annoyed.”
“Since then,” Mae went on as if she hadn’t heard him, “Bob has sat by that counter waiting for another steak, even though June doesn’t cut them there anymore. He’s been sitting there for seven years, bashing his head against the cabinet, waiting for a steak that isn’t there anymore.” She shrugged. “You’re a human Bob.”
“If you’re through amusing yourself with faulty analogies,” Mitch said distantly, “I think we ought to look for the diary.”
Harold appeared in the doorway. “That stiff Dalton is here.”
“Show him in,” Mae said. “Let’s get this over with.”
“A human Bob,” Mitch said. “Thank you very much.”
FOR ONCE, Mitch agreed with Harold completely: Dalton was a stiff. He came in looking immaculate and not quite real. Mitch watched Mae to see how she reacted, jealously documenting the way she stood to greet him, the way she gave him her hand, the way she didn’t smile at him. She was doing pretty well, considering the guy was rich and good-looking and obviously wanted her.
Mitch sat down, depressed by his own inadequacies. Okay, so he wasn’t exactly broke—once the bet was over, he could go back to living like a stockbroker—but he wasn’t in Dalton’s financial league and never would be. And he was also never going to look magazine-smooth like Dalton, which normally didn’t bother him at all but was now bothering him significantly. Look at the guys Mae hung out with: Carlo, Nick, Dalton—hunks every one.
“No, Mitch stays,” he heard Mae say to Dalton, and he jerked his attention back to the situation at hand.
“What I have to say is personal.” Dalton looked deep into her eyes.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Mitch growled at him. “She’s tired. Cut her a break.”
Dalton turned to him. “I need to see Mae alone. I’m sure you understand.”
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