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

Uh-oh, I thought. Morning-after-makeover meltdown. I knocked on the doorframe.

Adriana appeared, mascara wand in hand. Her unoccupied hand took my wrist and propelled me into the guest bath. Products were spread across one side of the large vanity. A small mirror, blow dryer and curling iron occupied the other half. Several papers with application instructions and drawings lay next to the sink. Adriana was almost in tears.

“Nothing works the way they showed me,” she wailed. She capped the mascara and set it on the counter. “I can’t do this.”

I remembered my Emma experimenting with makeup in the sixth grade. A mother’s touch was definitely needed here. Age-wise, Adriana might be in her early twenties, but style-wise, she was years behind even that young Emma. “It’s okay,” I reassured her. “It just takes practice. Let’s look at the instructions they gave you at the salon.”

Adriana gave a tremulous smile when I said that her hair looked good—smooth and swingy and curled in at the ends. The makeup, however—well, let’s just say we started over. I showed her how to apply foundation using a slightly wet makeup sponge. I directed her in the use of blush, cautioning her to use a light hand when dipping the fluffy brush into the loose powder and then to tap off any excess in the sink. She looked alarmed, as if a few grains of waste were too much for her to contemplate, but I assured her that was the way to avoid clown cheeks. She smiled at that. As we worked through the eye and lip products, referring to the makeup stylist’s instructions, Adriana settled into the process. By the time we finished, she was lovely again.

I gestured at the mirror. “See? You can do it!”

“Maybe.” She turned to me. “But you’re here today, Angie. What if I can’t do it on my own?”

“I’m only a phone call away,” I said.

“Okay. Thanks.” As she replaced the products in the salon bag, she muttered, “I can do it. I can.”

I smiled and walked out. Best to let her finish convincing herself.

Tony called to give me the all-clear and I went down to get the keys to the Mafia-mobile and park it behind the dumpster for a few minutes. When I came back upstairs, Bobbie and Adriana sat on the couch, watching the morning news on TV. “Breakfast at Ma’s, my treat,” I said.

Ma Fisher’s is a Milwaukee institution, originally two booths and a counter with stools, that morphed into a decent-sized East Side restaurant, by serving good basic food and staying open late for weekend revelers on their way home from the bars. In addition to that, George, the owner, was known to help out the needy with a meal.

“Before we go, let’s check on the plates for the two surveillance cars.” It took five minutes to find out they were both registered to the Serbian Society LLC. I was frustrated. That blasted Society was at the hub of what began to look like a vast conspiracy. I had to dig further, find more connections. But not now.

“Let’s head out,” I told Bobbie and Adriana. “We can talk over plans at Ma’s.”

I couldn’t be one-hundred percent sure that Mack spotted all the surveillance people, so I covered my signature white spiky hair with a scarf and told Adriana and Bobbie to duck down in the car until we were several blocks from my building. They were excited about being on a covert operation. I didn’t want to deflate their balloons and I figured I could start to train Bobbie a bit, so I explained to the tune of London Bridges (it’s fairly easy to spot talking vs. singing and I wanted any watchers to dismiss me as just another woman alone, singing along to the radio) about misdirection by the use of hats, glasses, wigs, outer clothing and quick changes in hair or makeup.

“You can change your hat or coat, hat or coat, hat or coat; you can wipe your makeup off, my fair lady.” Bent over nearly double in the passenger front seat, Bobbie’s eyes were bright with interest. When I gave Bobbie and Adriana the all-clear, Bobbie sat up, pulled his little notebook out and started writing. I was glad to see he took me seriously, despite my less than stellar alto voice and the silly rhyming. Adriana grinned.

At the restaurant, George greeted us and showed us to a booth. We perused the menu and ordered. Bobbie ate very healthy—egg whites, unbuttered toast, turkey sausage. Adriana got a Belgian waffle with cherry compote and whipped cream on top, looking guilty as she ordered it. I gave her an encouraging nod and asked for a gyros omelet with sourdough toast. When in a Greek-owned restaurant, eat Greek food.

As I raised my cup to my lips, my cell phone delivered a twangy country classic, Will Your Lawyer Talk to God for You? Bart had the “account information” I asked for earlier. I told him I’d meet him at the office and I would be bringing “our client” along because we needed to talk about her safety. I also promised to fill him in on the latest developments since Sunday night.

We finished our meals and headed for Bart’s office. On the way there, my young friends chattered away like BFFs.

***

Parking is at a premium in the old Third Ward, where Bart’s office is located. Wanting Bobbie and Adriana to keep a low profile, I dropped them off in front of the building, parked on the street and fed the meter—figuratively. The coin models are obsolete, replaced by a credit card machine at the end of the block. Yet another way to track a person’s movements, I thought. But I didn’t want to use a ramp and take the chance of getting blocked in. For now, paranoia took a back seat to safety.

As I stepped into the lobby, I heard Adriana talking with Mighty Mary about