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

who treated my injuries certified me for fifty percent instead of the usual thirty-five. I like my privacy.”

Hmm. He didn’t seem paranoid. I decided to reserve judgment and enjoy the relative anonymity that the tinting provided. Turning to Bobbie, I ran down a brief list of instructions. “It’s fine to let people know we’re together. I don’t want to call you my associate, though. I don’t want anyone to try to track you.”

“I can be your boy toy. Acting straight is no problem.”

The reflection in the rearview mirror showed Bram’s eyebrows rising. “Okay, but no PDA. Wukowski wouldn’t like it.” Besides, Bobbie and I were just buddies. Physical affection would be too weird. “Next, don’t hover over me. We’ll split up before the actual service begins and observe anyone who comes into the sanctuary. When it starts, we’ll sit together, toward the back. Watch for signs of anything out of the ordinary. I honestly don’t know what that might be. Let your intuition be your guide. Don’t be obvious, though.”

“Me? Obvious?” He grinned. “I’ll be your slightly disinterested boyfriend who’s only there because you dragged me along. That’ll give me leeway to rubberneck. Don’t worry, Angie. I can do this.”

“Good.” I faced ahead and asked Bram, “What about your team?”

“We’ll be in the last pew once everyone’s seated, observing, but also for security. It’s unlikely that the perps will try anything, but I didn’t live through…missions by being careless.”

Bobbie and I left Bram in the church parking lot and entered the sanctuary. The church was ornate, with glass mosaics covering almost every inch of the walls, ceiling and dome. A long, deep red carpet led to the front of the church and the closed casket, which was flanked by lit candles in tall candlesticks, and was covered in a blanket of white daisies and yellow gerberas. I thought of the bright kitchen of her home and knew that Dragana would appreciate the pretty, cheery flowers. Josif Zupan stood at the head of the casket, wearing a dark blue suit and an impassive expression.

In a side aisle, a man in a cassock headed toward the altar. “I think that’s Father Matthieu,” I told Bobbie. “I’m going to introduce myself.”

“No worries,” he said. “I’ll do some gazing upward. The mosaics are spectacular, even if I don’t get the subject matter.”

I scurried after the priest, my heels echoing in the large enclosure. “Father Matthieu?” I whispered.

The tall man turned and approached me. He had kind eyes and a smile that was almost hidden by his beard and mustache.

“I’m Angie Bonaparte, Father. We spoke on the phone about the Serbian Society.”

“Yes, I remember. This is a sad day for Josif and those who knew Dragana, although I believe she had few friends. That is a shame. She was a lovely woman. It’s kind of you to pay your respects.”

“My…friend and I want to stay for the funeral. Is that allowed?”

“Most certainly. It’s not a full funeral service, you understand. Dragana was not a member of our church or any church. But I am happy to celebrate the Trisagion for her and for Josif’s sake.”

“Tree-sigh-on?” I asked.

He handed me a printed bulletin and pointed to the word. “It’s normally conducted at the funeral home, with a full service at the church on the following day. Because Dragana was not formally affiliated with St. Sava’s, I’ll hold the Trisagion here today. It is brief, but meaningful. I hope Josif will benefit from it.” He ruffled the small stack of papers. “Please excuse me while I robe and vest myself. My assistant is not here to greet the mourners and hand out the bulletins.” He had a harried look.

“I can place the bulletins on the table at the sanctuary door, if you’d like.”

“Thank you.” He handed me the stack and turned to walk quickly up the aisle.

I went back to the foyer, where Wukowski and Iggy were entering the church. We ignored each other. I put the bulletins down, keeping the one which Father Matthieu gave me and taking another for Bobbie. Then I moved away and walked around the sanctuary, admiring the wall mosaics and waiting to scope out other arrivals. Bobbie sat in the fourth pew from the front. So far, no one else was there.

I approached Bobbie and handed him a bulletin. “Here’s the order of service,” I whispered. “Why don’t we leave these here and greet Josif together? I’ll introduce you.”

Bobbie nodded and rose. “I sat closer than you said, Angie. I thought her husband might want the sense of someone at his back.”

“That was insightful of you,” I said.

“Angie,” Josif said when we reached the front, “most kind of you to come.”

His voice was a monotone, his body stiffly erect. His arms hung at his sides and his face was a mask. Only his left eyelid betrayed emotion. It twitched rhythmically.

When he extended his arm for a handshake, I made an instant decision. He needed the warmth of a human touch. I grasped his upper arms, afraid that a full-on hug would be too much for him, and kissed his cheek. “Josif, you have my deep sympathy,” I said in a low voice.

I heard a sharp intake of breath and his biceps flexed under my hands. Then he gripped my shoulders and said, “Many thanks.” There was a small catch in his voice. He released me and backed away.

“Josif Zupan, this is my friend, Bobbie Russell.”

Bobbie stepped forward and they shook hands. Then Bobbie covered Josif’s hand and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss. Although I didn’t know your wife, many people have said how caring a woman she was.”

Josif’s face crumpled for a moment, before the mask was back in place. “Da, she wonderful woman. I miss.” He turned back to me. “You and Mr. Russell”—he pronounced it Roo-sell—“stay for the service and the meal?”

“We’d be honored,” I said.

“And you come to burial?”

I could see that, without us, it was likely Josif would be at the gravesite with only Father