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

cup of green tea, I settled back in the living room and turned on TV, searching for something to distract me. Antiques Roadshow was a nice mixture of information, personalities and surprises. When it ended at eight, I rose to take my empty teacup to the kitchen. The landline rang and I jumped for it, causing the cup to rattle in its saucer.

“Angie,” Wukowski said, “it’s a freakin’ mess here. The higher-ups are still angling for position. Iggy and I have been dismissed for the night.” His voice held traces of both anger and relief.

“Come over,” I said without hesitation. I suddenly felt hungry. “I’ve got a fridge full of food.”

“And I’ve got the heartburn from hell.”

“Well, I can scramble eggs and make toast. That shouldn’t upset your digestion.”

“Yeah. That sounds good. See you soon.”

Twenty minutes later, my phone rang again. “Ange, there are reporters at the front of your building and the garage entry. I drove past and parked a block away. I don’t see how I can make it into the building without their spotting me.”

“Oh. I guess that would be bad, for you to be associated with me outside the job.” I was disappointed and my voice reflected it.

“I’m not worried about that, moja miłość. I don’t want to put you on the spot, though.”

“If that’s all that’s stopping you, come on in. And I’ve been meaning to ask you what moja miłość means.”

“I’ll tell you after supper.” His voice rumbled, a bit lower than his usual baritone.

This might be the perfect end to a horrible day.

When the intercom rang, I answered and buzzed Wukowski in, waiting at the door to hug him. He smelled fresh and frosty, like the winter wind off the lake. We embraced for several long seconds, until he kissed me and said, “Let me get out of this coat.”

I waited as he hung it in the closet and took off his shoes. “C’mere.” He opened his arms and enveloped me in another hug, rubbing my back with one hand while he pulled me close with the other.

“You okay?” I spoke into his chest.

“Yeah. Long day, though. Long, bad day.” He loosened his hold. “You mentioned eggs and toast? ‘Cause all I’ve had today is coffee and more coffee, punctuated by a Danish and several loads of crap.”

I laughed. “No wonder you have heartburn.” Taking him by the hand, I led him into the kitchen and gave him a little push toward the stools at the peninsula. “Sit,” I said in a mock-stern voice. I boiled some water and steeped peppermint tea. “Drink that, caro. It should help.” As I scrambled eggs and toasted bread, he swallowed the tea and his shoulders slowly descended from his ears. I didn’t want to see him tighten up again, but I had to ask. “How’d it go with the reporters downstairs?”

He shrugged. “They were shouting questions to anyone who headed toward the building. ‘Do you know Angelina Bonaparte? What kind of neighbor is she? Do you ever see Mafia goons hanging around the building?’ Everybody ignored them. I thought I’d get in unnoticed, but that female investigative reporter from WITI spotted me and shoved a mike in my face. ‘Are you here to arrest Ms. Bonaparte?’” He laughed. “I wanted to say, ‘No, I’m here to make love to Ms. Bonaparte.’”

I almost dropped the egg carton I was putting back into the fridge.

“But I thought better of it,” he added with a big grin.

“Thank you. I don’t think my papa or Aunt Terry would appreciate that announcement on TV.”

While we ate, he gave me the rundown on the afternoon and evening developments. MPD still had tentative jurisdiction, but he was sure that would end tomorrow when the Feds took it to court. “We searched the Zupan residence and found Josif’s paystubs in the file cabinets,” Wukowski said. “He only worked twelve weeks this year, and none of them a full forty hours.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Lily talked to one of the guys in the union, who told her that Josif was standoffish. Small wonder they didn’t offer him jobs.”

“Dragana made good money working for Petrovitch, though. The average salary for a legal secretary in Milwaukee is about twenty-five thousand. For a paralegal, it’s thirty-one. She pulled in fifty-two grand last year, according to their tax returns.”

“Hush money?” I wondered.

He set his fork down on his empty plate, wiped his mouth with the napkin and pushed back a bit from the table. “Thanks, Angie. I needed real food.”

“Any time,” I said, and was surprised to find I meant it. There was a time in our relationship when I wanted—no, needed—space. Right now, I wanted and needed to be close.

He resumed the conversation. “Iggy and I wondered about that, too—if Petrovitch was paying for her silence.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t feel like that to me. Josif’s letter stated that she found out the truth because of an argument between Petrovitch and the Johnsons. And if she lied to Josif and was complicit in Petrovitch’s dirty dealings, why would she confront him?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “With Petrovitch, the Zupans and the Johnsons all dead, this is shaping up to be one of those cases where we never understand all the motives or even all the outcomes. I hate that.”

“Me, too, caro. I like all the loose ends to be tied up in a pretty bow, like a Poirot story, but real life isn’t like that.” I rose to clear the table.

As I loaded the dishwasher, Wukowski came up behind me and put his hands on my waist. “You asked me what moja miłość means.” His tone was low and somewhat apprehensive. “It means, ‘my love.’ Kocham Cię, Angie. I love you.”

I turned in his arms, fear and caution tossed away like clothes that were too tight. “Ti amo. I love you, too, Wukowski. I don’t know where it’s going, but I love you.”

“I know where it’s going.” His kiss was tender, as his hands