“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 back in his chair and surveyed her. “So, Harold and June dandled you on their knees and fed you cookies, but you think they didn’t know that you’d take care of them for life if they offed your Uncle Armand.”
Mae closed her eyes briefly. “They did not off my Uncle Armand.”
“We’ll get back to them later. Okay, besides you and Harold and June and Uncle Claud., there’s nobody else in the will?”
“No.”
“Did your uncle own a business?” He tapped his pen on the pad. “Was he involved in anything that somebody might have wanted to take over?”
“He was a partner with my Uncle Claud.”
“Were there any other partners?”
“No. Just my Uncle Claud.”
He opened his mouth again, and Mae moved to block him before he took off in another wrong direction. “He also did not kill my Uncle Armand.”
“Did they get along?”
“No. My Uncle Claud disliked my Uncle Armand because he thought that he was profligate and libidinous and a disgrace to the good name of Lewis.”
“Sounds like a direct quote.”
“It is.”
“Was it true?”
“Yes.”
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “Libidinous at seventy-six?”
Mae sighed. Mitchell Peatwick might be a fool, but he was a persistent fool. “He kept a mistress. In fact, they made love the night he died. She tells everyone that whether you ask or not. Then she weeps.”
He sat back in his chair. “Could we digress for a moment?”
Mae looked at him with exasperation. “Do I have a choice?”
“No. He was seventy-six years old with a heart condition and he made love with his mistress who was…what? Fifty?”
“Twenty-five. Her name is Stormy Klosterman. This is not relevant—”
“Klosterman?”
Mae gave up. “Her stage name is Stormy Weather. Of course, she was temporarily retired while she was with my uncle.”
“Of course.” He blinked. “That would have been how long?”
“Seven years,” Mae said flatly. “He caught her umbrella when it rolled off the runway one night. It was magic.”
He grinned at her. “Not a fan of Stormy’s, I see.”
Mae shrugged. “She’s all right. At least, I don’t think she killed my uncle. She didn’t get a dime.”
“Did she know that before he died?”
“Yes. He was very clear about that with all his women.”