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

died,” I finished for her. “We need details.” I checked my watch. Six-fifteen. Time to pick Adriana up at the salon. “Can I keep this copy of the sheet?” Susan nodded. “I’ll get Adriana’s permission to share it with Bart. Tomorrow, we’ll go to his office to sign papers for the various banks, so they’ll disclose account information to him.”

As I drove to Kevin’s, I pondered the financial trail. Someone put a lot of money into banks throughout the U.S. and the world in 1999. They set the Johnsons up as account signatories. Judging by how they lived, the Johnsons never took a dime. Loyal, or scared? I wondered. Suddenly, the meager measures we’d taken to protect Adriana seemed hugely inadequate. I gave the Miata a little more gas, wanting to see for myself that she was safe and sound.

Chapter 16

It's a new challenge to see how people can change your look. I like words like transformation, reinvention, and chameleon.

—Naomi Campbell

Kevin’s salon was a very high-end place, one of the most recognized—and expensive—in Milwaukee and environs. I pulled into a curbside parking space, thankful that I didn’t have to fight the daytime crowds. The chic young man at the front desk greeted me with, “Love the hair, but it can use a trim and some new styling products.”

“Not today, thanks, but I’ll think about it. I’m here to pick up a friend. Bobbie Russell brought her in for a makeover. Adriana?”

The receptionist’s eyes glazed over. “Ahhh. Bobbie.”

“Right,” I said briskly, to snap him out of his reverie.

“This way.” He stood and indicated a curtained-off area.

I swear, without his guidance, I wouldn’t have known it was Adriana, except that her clothes hadn’t changed. But the hair, the face, even the nails! Understated sophistication and devastatingly different from her “before” look.

When she noticed me, Adriana turned away from the mirror and ran to me, hugging me and causing my head to pound. I sucked it up. She deserved to celebrate.

She pushed back, still with her hands on my shoulders, and, sounding very unsure of herself, asked, “Like it?”

“No,” I told her. “I LOVE it. Wow! Just wow.”

Her mousy brown hair, normally in a ponytail, was now a glowing russet mass of swingy layers that flattered her face to no end. And the face was no longer young teen, but young woman. Subtle foundation evened out her olive complexion. Equally subtle blush and highlighter defined her cheekbones. And for the first time, the girl had eyelashes—long, lovely, curled, and mascaraed. Bronze eye shadow and natural pink lip gloss finished the look.

As I stared, Adriana began to blush. “It’s not too much, is it?”

“It’s perfect,” I assured her.

A man came into view, his hand held out. “I’m Kevin,” he said.

The man himself. I silently calculated how much this would cost. It was worth every cent. “Angie,” I told him my name, as we shook hands. “This is…I mean, she’s…” I sighed. “Fabulous.”

Kevin smiled and gestured toward a very large salon bag. “Those are to make sure she stays that way. Instructions included.” He turned to Adriana. “Remember, you’ll need a trim and touch-up every six weeks, more if your hair grows fast.”

She nodded. “I will, I promise.” Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

Kevin embraced her in a gentle hug, flipped her hair slightly and said, “So lovely.” Then he ambled out, opening the curtains on his way.

“Tip?” Adriana mouthed.

“Not for the owner,” I whispered, “but for the persons who shampooed and polished and so forth. They all get a tip. I usually split twenty percent among them.”

Adriana paid the damages at the front desk. She then asked the receptionist for an envelope, wrote a note on the outside, added a short list of names, and inserted her tip money. Nice touch, I thought.

Outside, I settled her in the Miata, with the salon’s bag between her feet. As I started the car, I glanced over. Honestly, it was hard not to stare at the transformation. “How about we head to my condo and order in? I was thinking Chinese, but if you don’t like that, we can order pizza.” I chastised myself for not remembering Susan’s comments about the difference between Chinese and Chinese food.

“Chinese is great,” Adriana told me.

I showed Adriana how to use my tablet—another technology that she never learned—and asked her to order while I drove. When we arrived at my condo, she wandered around the living room, taking in the view of Lake Michigan and checking out the family pictures, framed and nestled among the books in my custom bookshelves.

I called from the kitchen area. “Something to drink?”

“Mmm—maybe a diet soda?”

“Coming up,” I told her. I carried her glass and my water into the living room and sank onto the sofa, glad to be off my feet. She turned from the bookshelves in time to see me chug some Tylenol.

“Oh, Angie. I’ve been so caught up in my makeover, I never asked how you were feeling.”

Points to her for recognizing the lapse. At her age, after a major makeover, I would have been caught up in myself, too. “Not bad,” I told her. “Just a bit of a headache.”

She took a seat in the chair at right angles to the sofa, shucked her shoes and tucked her feet up underneath her. “Where’s Bobbie?” she asked.

“On a surveillance job, watching the Zupan home to see if Petrovitch shows up.”

“Surveillance, huh? I bet Bobbie was thrilled.”

I laughed. “He was. But one’ll get you ten that he won’t be as thrilled when he gets done. Surveillance is plain boring. All you do is sit and watch. You can’t even get too involved in a book, in case you might miss something. I usually spend the time making up stories about the personal lives of people I see going by.”

“Boy, I bet you could write a book.”

“Not me. I love to read, but I don’t have the author gene myself. A woman’s gotta know her limitations.” The intercom rang and I excused myself