LITMIR.BIZ

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doesn’t need you.” Carlo shoved his face in Mitch’s. “She’s got me.”

      Mitch glared back at him. “Lucky her.”

      “Tell her you quit now,” Carlo said, practically spitting the words.

      “No,” Mitch said, and Carlo punched him.

      Mitch slammed into the wall and slid slowly down to the floor, his head ringing, hitting the carpet just as Mae came through the door.

      “Carlo!” Mae swung her purse and caught him a good hard clip across the shoulder. “Damn it, he’s my detective. You leave him alone.”

      “Aw, Mae.” Carlo rubbed his shoulder, but he seemed a lot more upset by the force of her anger than by the force of her blow. “It was just a tap. It didn’t even hurt, did it, Peatwick?”

      He glared down at Mitch, who glared back and wiped the blood from his mouth. “Of course it hurt, you Neanderthal.” He turned his hand over and showed them the blood. “See that? That’s blood. If there’s blood, there’s pain. It’s like smoke and fire. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

      Carlo reached down and grabbed his shirtfront again and hauled him to his feet. “Don’t be such a wuss.”

      “That’s enough, Carlo.” Mae’s voice was sharp with warning. “Let go of him.”

      “I’m just helping him up.” Carlo released Mitch’s shirtfront and patted him on the back with enough force to dislocate a lung. “He’s got something to tell you, Mae. Don’t you, Peatwick?”

      Mitch scowled up at Carlo’s glare. “Yeah.” He turned to Mae. “Your cousin is a psychopath. Are you ready to go?”

      Carlo moved toward him, and Mae pushed herself between them. “Don’t hit him anymore, you hear me? If I want him to quit, I’ll fire him. You stay away from him.”

      Carlo’s movie-star face creased with unhappiness. “I was just trying to protect you. This guy—”

      Mae put her face very close to his. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Business. Understand?”

      Carlo shot Mitch a glance of pure loathing. “Whatever you want, Mae.”

      Mae folded her arms and held her ground. “At the moment, I want him. Back off.”

      To Mitch’s amazement, Carlo backed up a step.

      “I’ll see you Sunday for dinner.” Mae’s voice was soothing, and Carlo relaxed visibly as he gazed at her. “Take care of Uncle Gio.”

      “All right.” He scowled at Mitch again. “You have any trouble with this guy, you call me.”

      “You’ll be the first to know.” Mae tugged on Mitch’s arm.

      “Actually, I’d prefer to be the first to know.” Mitch let himself be towed down the hall, keeping an eye on Carlo over his shoulder. “At least promise me you’ll give me a head start.”

      “Come on.” Mae didn’t bother to conceal her exasperation as she pulled him through the front door to his waiting car. “I’ll take you home and get you cleaned up. You’re a mess.”

      “Thank you.” Mitch dabbed at his bloody mouth. “What a wonderful client you’ve turned out to be.”

      “Don’t whine,” Mae said. “It’s bad for your image.”

      MAE’S HOUSE wasn’t as palatial as Gio’s, but it was impressive nonetheless, a wedding cake of a mansion piped with white trellises. Mitch surveyed the facade as he got out of the car and then turned to Mae. “Doesn’t anybody in your family live the simple life?”

      “Uncle Claud lives in a very small condominium on River Road,” Mae offered. “He’s very austere.”

      “River Road is pretty expensive austere,” Mitch said, remembering his own condo payments there.

      Mae climbed the wide, shallow steps to the front door. “You said simple, not cheap.”

      “I meant,” Mitch began, and then Mae reached the door, and it opened before she could touch it, and he got his first glimpse of the butler.

      As a butler, Harold made a nice bouncer. Still, he was a slight improvement over the bulging scowlers at Gio’s, looking more like a seedy aristocrat on steroids than a garden-variety thug. He nodded formally at Mae and stepped back from the door. “Good afternoon, Miss Mae.”

      “Good afternoon, Harold.” Mae nodded to him just as formally, and walked past him into the house, and Mitch trailed after her, wondering who they thought they were kidding.

      The place was impressive in its oppressive elegance. Everything was dark, rich and heavy: paneled walls with red brocade inserts, figured carpets in oriental reds and greens, massive walnut posts on the curving staircase. The overall effect was one of great weight. It wasn’t the kind of place that anyone had ever dashed through, laughing gaily.

      Mitch resisted the urge to ask for a flashlight and followed Mae farther into the dim hall.

      Harold frowned at him as he closed the door after them. “Who’s the stiff?”

      Mitch turned back to him. “Excuse me?”

      Mae took Harold’s arm and drifted deeper into the hall, leaving Mitch to follow. “This is Mitchell Peatwick. He’s the private investigator I’ve hired to look into Uncle Armand’s death.”

      “So this is what you and June cooked up.” Harold sounded displeased.

      Mae jerked her head at Mitch. “Not in front of the help. We’ll discuss it later.”

      “I am not the help,” Mitch said with dignity. “I’m a professional.”

      Both Harold and Mae shot him incredulous glances, and then Harold turned back to Mae. “This is a bad idea.”

      “Maybe so, but it’s the only one I’ve got, so we’re going with it.” Mae stopped. “I’m hungry.”

      “Tray in the library in ten minutes.” Harold moved toward the back of the hall. “Don’t spill.”

      Mae caught his arm to stop him, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek, and Mitch’s opinion of butlerhood as a career improved. “I never spill.”

      “Tell that to the library carpet.” Harold moved on again.

      “What’s he mean, ‘Who’s the stiff?’” Mitch scowled. “Who’s he calling a stiff?”

      “You, evidently.” Mae nodded toward the door through which Harold had just vanished. “Come on out to the kitchen. I’ll get you cleaned up and then we can talk in the library.”

      Mitch’s first impression of the kitchen was a lot of gleaming white tile and massive appliances surrounding a Marilyn Monroe look-alike.

      “Oh, my.” She smoothed her white dress over her hourglass figure, and Mitch realized belatedly that she was sizing him up. “Is this him?”

      “This is Mitchell Peatwick, June.” Mae went past her to the sink and pulled down a paper towel before she turned on the tap. “He’s the private investigator I hired.”

      June tilted her head to survey him, her blue eyes caressing every inch of him. “Very nice.”

      “Thank you,” Mitch said. “It’s about time I got some appreciation.”

      “Oh, poor baby, what’s wrong?” She pulled out a chair and motioned him to it, every movement sensual and pleasing, and Mitch blinked as the butter of her charm flowed over him. For some reason, she reminded him of Mae, which made no sense because there was nothing butterlike about Mae. “Is that blood on your mouth?” June asked him.

      “Yes. I met Mae’s cousin Carlo.” Mitch sat in the chair and then jumped a

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