Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📕

I didn’t believe him. The deadly aura with which he pronounced that anyone coming for him would be sorry, coupled with his very erect posture and ability to mask expression, made me think he was ex-military or had fought as a civilian.

“Can you tell me anything at all that might keep Adriana safe, or help locate Attorney Petrovitch?”

He shook his head. “Žao mi. I sorry. No.”

“Josif, although I didn’t know your wife, I was the one who found her, when I went to the lawyer’s office.” I waited for him to question me. His eyebrows rose slightly and his pupils dilated a bit. Anger, I wondered, or surprise and shock? He said nothing. “Do you know yet when her funeral will be? With your permission, I would like to attend as a sign of respect.”

“Not sure. Police have body.”

“Since you have ties to St. Sava’s, I assume the services will be there.”

He gave a sigh of resignation. “Da. St. Sava’s. I do this for Dragana. Not because I want.”

“You’d prefer another church?” I knew that wasn’t the case, but I wanted to test his answer.

“Ne. No church. When I die, burn me and throw ashes. No priest. No church. No lying about love and forgiveness.” Every word was clipped, taut with anger and…betrayal?

Let’s see how far I can probe, I thought. “I know that churches and churchgoers don’t always live up to their beliefs, but surely that doesn’t invalidate all religion, Josif.”

“You Americans, you know nothing!” His face twisted into an almost beastly mask of rage, but still he spoke quietly. “Your country never invaded. You never kill neighbor, shoot at innocent children. When you live through such things, then you tell me forgive and forget.” He leaned forward, challenging me.

Words would probably not penetrate, but I decided to try. “Our country was founded on what we considered invasion by the British, Josif. And in our Civil War, not only did neighbor kill neighbor, but brother killed brother. As for shooting at innocents, children in this country are caught in the crossfire of gang war every day. It’s true that Americans are privileged, but we’ve experienced our own tragedies. I’ve never been to war, but my work puts me in places where I’m sometimes pitted against bad people. The thing I have to remember is, they’re a minority. And I certainly don’t blame God for them. It’s humans who act that way, not the Almighty.”

Josif slowly let his breath out and sat back. “Dragana and you, you would be friends.”

“I wish that were possible. I wish she could sit here with us and share coffee and stories.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Da. I invite you to funeral. You come?”

“Yes. I come.” I placed a business card on the table and asked Josif to call me if anything helpful came to mind. I also offered him assistance in protecting himself, but he laughed it off. I wrapped up the remains of my breakfast sandwich and left, calling Bart’s voicemail from the car, to tell him I was safely away from the Zupan residence. Josif, I thought, was a man with a terrible past that he had yet to come to terms with. But then, who among us has come to terms with all that is in our past?

Chapter 12

I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself.

—Oscar Wilde

I went back to my condo, to change clothes before heading to Papa’s and time with my family. Casual was the order of the day, so I selected skinny jeans, a cashmere cowl-neck sweater, classic blazer and brown leather ankle boots.

Sunday afternoons are a family ritual. After church, Aunt Terry goes over to my father’s Bay View home, where they begin meal preparations. If I haven’t been to church with Aunt Terry—and I probably attend only twice a year, once being Christmas Eve, because I love the carols—I arrive around one o’clock with a bottle of wine and dessert. My son David and his wife Elaine show up about two with their ten-year old twins, Patrick and Donald. My daughter Emma and her husband John arrive soon after David, with my namesake, Angela, now eight going on twenty-eight. Emma sighs when describing how picky little Angie is about clothes. I smile. The child is always quite well turned out. She takes after her nonna.

This Sunday was like most, with Papa’s spaghetti Bolognese, Aunt Terry’s salad and breadsticks, and a couple glasses of the Montepulciano d’Abruzzo that I brought, its acidity a nice balance to the red sauce. After the meal, I usually go outside with the kids to kick a ball around or play a game.

Because Papa and Aunt Terry made a big deal at the table about my bringing Wukowski and his mother to Thanksgiving dinner, David took me aside after clean-up was over. “Mom, what’s up with you and the cop? Is it serious?”

I thought for a moment. “Semi-serious, David. I mean, we’re not seeing others, but we haven’t made any commitments, either.”

“Cops have a rep for being bad matrimonial candidates, Mom. They see too much. They grow emotional shells.”

“We’re not talking marriage.”

“Not now, maybe. But don’t you want that, sometime down the line?”

Did I? “I don’t know. I’m taking it as it comes.”

“So Thanksgiving’s not about you two introducing the families and making a big announcement?”

I laughed. “Is that what everyone thinks? I better disabuse them of that idea. We’re sharing the holiday because A, your nonno nagged me into it and B, Wukowski’s mom nagged him into it, and C, he and I wanted to be together for Thanksgiving and we also wanted to be with our families.”

I could practically see the flowchart forming in his geek brain. My David does something cutting-edge with computer programming, for which he makes an outstanding living. He also happens to be the proverbial tall, dark and handsome. I plan to advise Angela to set her