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

parking lot. There was a folded note on the Cruiser’s passenger seat, with “Angie” lettered on the outside. I opened it and read, “This car has some non-standard engine features. Take it easy on the gas pedal or you’ll get pulled over.”

I handed it to Bobbie, who grinned. “Fun,” was all he said.

On the drive south via I-94, I pulled out my tablet PC. It was a fifty-mile straight shot down the interstate to the monastery, which was situated on several acres of rural land. I scanned the traffic around us as we drove, using the side and rearview mirrors. Bobbie noticed, so I gave him a quick lesson in the use of mirrors and how to spot unlikely or suspicious cars. We amused ourselves by speculating about the occupants and drivers around us.

About one-twenty, we exited I-94 and drove to the monastery. Two large wrought iron gates, each topped with a single cross, blocked access. “Turn around,” I told Bobbie. “I’d like to circle the grounds.”

Bobbie drove along the Rowlins Savannah Forest Preserve, which bordered the monastery property before dead-ending at Third Lake, a public lake fed by Fourth Lake—go figure! Cottages, homes, taverns and bait shops were built along the water. There was no access to the church grounds from the lake side, short of using an ATV.

“Let’s wait in the forest reserve area, just before it intersects with the monastery road. We can watch for the hearse from there,” I told Bobbie. Even though the day was sunny, my tablet app showed the temperature was thirty degrees and the wind chill was twenty-five. It was too cold to stand outside and I didn’t want to wait on the grounds, even assuming they’d let us in without Father Matthieu or the funeral director to vouch for us. That forbidding gated entrance made me think that unexpected visitors were not welcome.

“Good thing it’s not gloomy,” Bobbie said. “I hate gloomy days for a funeral.”

“Me, too. It seems to add oppression to grief.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. The dashboard digital clock read 1:40. I saw a black vehicle ahead and motioned to Bobbie. “Is that the hearse?”

Bobbie stiffened. “I think that’s the Park Avenue I saw circling Zupan’s house.”

My heart rate sped up. “You think it’s Petrovitch?”

Bobbie leaned forward, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that his fingers turned white. “There’s no front plate and I can’t see the driver. I’m not sure.”

Fear and a sense of foolishness gripped me. “Wukowski warned me that the perp might show up at the funeral. I never thought about the burial.”

The car turned onto Grant Avenue, which fronted the church grounds. I took my gun from my purse, safety on. “I’m going to scout it out. You stay put.” He started to argue, but I pointed at my weapon. “I’m armed. You’re not. Don’t worry, I’ll stay in the tree line and try to get the license plate number.”

I exited the Cruiser, but left the door open for easy access. Scuttling forward, I stood behind a large tree trunk and peeked out. The rear of the Park Avenue displayed the plate issued to Oliver Wendell Peterson, Petrovitch’s supposed alter ego. I backtracked to the car and told Bobbie. Then I dialed Wukowski.

Before he could say ‘hello,’ I asked, “Where are you?”

“We’ll be there in ten. The service doesn’t start until two.”

“Bobbie and I are at the grounds. There’s a Park Avenue up ahead, same plates as the one Bobbie spotted at Josif’s house. I think it’s Petrovitch.” Bobbie poked me and pointed. “He’s leaving,” I told Wukowski. “We’re going to follow him.”

There was a tense silence. I waited for Wukowski to protest or, even worse, give me orders to stay put. It surprised me when he simply said, “Don’t do anything crazy, Angie. I’m calling the Illinois state patrol now. What’s the license plate on Bram’s car?”

“I have no idea. Hold on.” I rummaged in the glove box. “No registration in the glove box.”

“Okay. I’ll call him.” He paused. “You’re armed?”

“Yep. I’m packin’.”

“Not funny. I’m giving this phone to Iggy while I make the calls. Keep talking to him. We need to know where you’re at.”

I released the safety on my weapon. Bobbie’s eyes cut to me. “Stay back,” I said, “but don’t lose him, Bobbie. Wukowski and Iggy are ten minutes behind us and we should have a state trooper on our tails PDQ.”

He took a deep breath. “Got it.” Then he glanced at me. “Angie, he’s never seen this car. For all he knows, we’re just locals leaving the lake area. But your hair is pretty distinctive, girlfriend.”

I fished the scarf out of my coat pocket and wrapped it around my head and neck, pulling it low enough to obscure my hair. “Good call.”

“He’s turning around. Headed our way. I’m backing up.” Bobbie threw the Cruiser into reverse and hit the gas. When the Buick passed us, Bobbie gently edged ahead. “Okay, he’s heading north on US 45.”

I relayed the information to Iggy, who said, “Don’t be a hero. There’s always another day.”

“Like hell,” I said. “This has to stop.”

I could hear part of Wukowski’s conversation, as he first called Bram and got the plates on the Cruiser, then relayed it to the Illinois authorities. His voice was filled with tension, but controlled.

Iggy came back on the line. “Where are you now?”

“On US 45, coming up to the traffic lights at Illinois 31. We’re still heading north. There’s a pizza joint on the right, Malnati’s.” I turned to Bobbie. “Try to keep a car or two between us, but don’t lose him.”

As we approached the lights, a box truck made a right turn from 31 onto 45, obscuring our view of the Buick. Bobbie checked the driver side mirror and pulled out into the left lane, just as the truck signaled the same move.

“Watch out,” I said. “The truck’s moving into our lane. I don’t think he sees us.” Bobbie gunned the Cruiser and we shot