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

I checked my personal email next and was relieved that there were no messages from the press. I was judicious in giving the address out, but people can be bribed with money and attention. There was one message from Wukowski:

Hope your day is going well. Want to come to my place tonight? I’ll pick you up at 6:00. Pack an overnight bag.

W

I sat back in my chair. I’d never been to Wukowski’s home. His asking me was a sign of his willingness to be vulnerable. I felt both scared and elated. Before I could chicken out, I responded: I’ll be waiting.

Today was Tuesday. I still needed to buy wine and prepare an appetizer for the Thanksgiving meal. It was almost a mile to Glorioso’s market. I locked up the office and made my way downstairs, through the Phan’s store and to my car with no reporters in sight. Maybe the story was a one-night wonder.

The air was noticeably warmer than last week, but the skies were overcast. Snow was on the way. I popped on a knit hat with a brim and headed toward Brady Street and the market.

Glorioso’s was jammed with shoppers. Keeping my head down, I selected fresh vegetables, homemade giardinieria, sausage, cheese and wine. I managed to get outside without being recognized.

Sciortino’s Bakery, just across the street, boasted the best bread in the city and their cookies were to die for. I bought three loaves of Italian bread and assorted cookies. Snow started to fall as I drove home. The heavy wet flakes slid down my windshield and accumulated in a little slushy barrier under the wiper blades.

Reporters stood on the sidewalk, on either side of the driveway. So much for my optimism about their losing interest. They shouted at me as I put my card up to the garage door reader. “Any comment on the Petrovitch case?” “Are you and Detective Wukowski involved?” “Where’s the girl hiding?” I ignored them and pulled into the garage.

After hauling the bags up and divesting myself of boots and outerwear, I put the groceries away and investigated the refrigerator. There were still lots of goodies that were dropped off after what I mentally referred to as the “Pipe Incident.” I heated meatballs, grated cheese and sliced a loaf of Sciortino’s bread. It made a delicious sub sandwich. As I sat at the counter, my mind traveled back to yesterday, when nothing appealed to my appetite. Love was a superb seasoning.

After finishing the meal, I packed an overnight bag and spent an hour preparing my final report for Bart. The last three weeks were almost entirely devoted to the Johnson case and the bill was in the five figures. I hoped Adriana got some money out of the inheritance from her parents or from the Zupans. If not, I’d have to write off the charges. There was no way I’d hound her for the money.

Wukowski arrived at five-thirty. We kissed at my front door, at the end of the hallway…heck, we pretty much kissed all the way to the couch, where we kissed some more. I pulled back a bit and said, “Is the plan still to stay at your place? Because if it is, we should stop now.”

He gave me an unrepentant bad-boy grin. “You’re right. Let’s get your things and go.”

He took the small suitcase and hoisted my garment bag over his shoulder. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay the week,” he said, with a cheeky grin.

I swatted his arm. “I’m not the kind of gal who wears the same clothes two days in a row. No ‘walk of shame’ for me.”

At the doorway, as I started to put my coat on, he said, “Uh, Ange, about my house.” I waited. “Well, it’s a lot different from the condo.”

“Don’t tell me it’s full of pizza boxes and beer bottles.”

“No. It’s presentable, but it’s not really…decorated.”

I reached up and put my hands on his cheeks. “It’s clean?” He nodded. “There’s a bed?” Another nod. “And you’ll be there. So I’m happy.”

Wukowski’s Jeep was double-parked in the garage, behind my Miata. He carefully placed the suitcase and garment bag in the back seat, out of sight of the reporters, should they take pictures of us leaving. “Ready to face the media, moja droga?”

“You don’t think they’ll stake out your place, do you?”

“They’d have to follow me there. If they do, I’ll call the lieutenant. He’ll send a couple of squads. We don’t take kindly to civilians stalking an officer.”

“If they have your license, they can find the address.”

“Nope. It’s not public record, for our protection.”

“Good.” I settled back into the seat and waited for the garage door to rise. Sure enough, the newshounds pounced, but the windows were up and we ignored them. I stared straight ahead, refusing to cover my face or otherwise present a guilty front.

We listened to All Things Considered on WUWM as we drove south on I-94. Wukowski took the Howard Avenue exit and continued east. He pulled into the driveway of a red brick Cape Cod home. As the door to the detached garage rose, I saw a small fenced back yard.

“We’re here,” he said.

I leaned over and kissed him lightly. “So I see. C’mon, show me your bachelor pad.”

Wukowski took the overnight case and garment bag and joined me in the driveway, where he punched a fob on his key ring to close the garage door. Then he ushered me to the back door of the dark house.

Once inside, I was surprised by the modern kitchen, with concrete countertops stained a swirly brown, creamy maple cabinets and top-of-the-line stainless appliances. It was small, but functional and appealing. “Wow,” I said as I turned in a circle to take it in. “This is really nice.”

He set the case down and hung the garment bag inside a coat closet. Then he helped me off with my coat and turned to hang it up. “It was pretty much a 1950s kitchen when