What the Lady Wants. Jennifer Crusie

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СКАЧАТЬ her feel guilty for using him. Of course, maybe it only looked like sympathy. Maybe it was really a hangover.

      “He was murdered.” Mae leaned forward a little, just enough so that her breasts moved under her jacket. It had worked on him before, although she had to be careful not to overdo it. Sometimes men became jaded after too many minutes of shifting silk crepe. Or they got that glazed look. She peered into his eyes. Still fairly alert. Full speed ahead. “But nobody believes me when I tell them that.”

      “Including the police?”

      Mae tried to look defeated and vulnerable. He looked like the type who would go for defeated and vulnerable. Brigid O’Shaughnessy had done well with defeated and vulnerable. “I haven’t gone to the police. They wouldn’t have believed me. His doctor signed the death certificate. There’s nothing the police can do.”

      He picked up his pen again. “What was his name?”

      “Armand Lewis.” Mae watched as his hand moved across the yellow pad, making slashing strokes with the pen. He had strong, broad hands, and his movements were sure, and she was well down the road to her own fantasy when she realized what was happening and put a stop to it. There was too much at stake to blow on a nice pair of hands, particularly a pair hooked to a brain lame enough to buy her story.

      He looked up at her. “What did the doctor put on the death certificate?”

      “Heart attack.”

      He wrote that down and then said, “Did your uncle have heart problems?”

      “Yes.”

      “How old was he?”

      “Seventy-six.”

      When he spoke again, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Obviously, it has occurred to you that it is not unlikely that your uncle would die of a heart attack at seventy-six.”

      “Obviously.” Mae smiled at him, Brigid to the teeth.

      “Do you have a reason for thinking he was murdered?”

      “No.” Mae leaned forward a little and moistened her lips. “I just know he was. I have a sixth sense about things sometimes.”

      He smiled at her, the kind of smile people give to unreasonable small children and the deranged. “And this is one of those times.”

      “Yes.”

      “Okay.” He went back to the pad, and Mae relaxed an iota. “Did he leave a lot of property?”

      “Yes. His estate should be in the neighborhood of twenty million.”

      “Nice neighborhood. Who inherits?”

      “I will, once the will is probated.”

      His head jerked up. “All of it?”

      Mae nodded. “Half of his stock and all of everything else.”

      “Who gets the other half of his stock?”

      “His brother, Claud Lewis.”

      “Does Claud need the stock?”

      “No.”

      Mitch frowned. “And there are no bequests to servants, nothing to charity, no locked boxes to distant relatives?”

      Mae shot him another Brigid smile to get him back on track. “Really, this isn’t necessary. There are small bequests to the butler and the housekeeper, but they wouldn’t have hurt my uncle.”

      “How small?”

      “Fifty thousand each.”

      He met her eyes. “In my neighborhood, fifty thousand isn’t small.”

      Patience wasn’t supposed to be a bombshell’s strong suit, but Mae didn’t have much choice. Mitchell Peatwick was turning out to be a lot more focused than she’d thought. This was not good. “It’s not enough for them to retire on. If Uncle Armand were still alive, they’d be making almost that much in salary every year, plus free room and board. They’re in their sixties, and they’re not going to find places like the ones they had with my uncle. His death was a disaster for them. Now, about my uncle—”

      “I don’t suppose there are a lot of calls for butlers these days,” Mitch agreed. “Still, give me their names.”

      Mae took a deep breath. Why was it that men always said they wanted to help her and then refused to listen to her? Was it her, or was it some awful by-product of testosterone? “They didn’t kill him.”

      “Give me the names.”

      She smiled again, a little tighter this time. “Harold Tennyson and June Peace.”

      “Where are they living?”

      “In the house.” Mae tried to unclench her teeth. The heat was making her irritable, her tight shoes were making her irritable, but mostly Mitchell Peatwick was making her irritable. “My uncle’s house.”

      “So you’re keeping them on.”

      “Well, of course.” Mae’s patience finally broke. “I can’t throw them out into the snow.”

      He smiled at her.” It’s July. You’d be throwing them out into the grass. And since you’re not throwing them out, they didn’t lose anything when he died.”

      Mae swallowed her irritation. “They didn’t know that I wouldn’t throw them out.”

      “They’re not acquainted with you?”

      “Of course they’re acquainted with me. But I never promised I’d keep them on if anything happened to Uncle Armand. We never talked about it.”

      “How long have they known you?”

      “What difference does it make?”

      “If they have known you for any length of time, they would have known what you were likely to do. How long have they known you?”

      “Twenty-eight years.”

      His eyes widened slightly. “Since you were born?”

      “No, since I was six and went to live with my uncle.”

      “You’re thirty-four?”

      “I’m thirty-four.”

      “You don’t look thirty-four.”

      “That’s because I’m not married.” Mae’s smile felt as if it were set in concrete. “Marriage tends to age a woman.”

      “Doesn’t do much for a man, either.”

      “Actually, it does. Married men live longer than single men.”

      “It just seems longer.” He leaned СКАЧАТЬ