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

Chapter 2

No one can be happy who has been thrust outside the pale of truth. And there are two ways that one can be removed from this realm: by lying, or by being lied to. — Seneca

The next morning, after exercising, I enjoyed the benefits of my multiple-head steam shower, followed by routine moisturizing—creams for my face, body, décolletage, hands and feet—before wrapping myself in a soft terry robe and padding into the walk-in closet. With no scheduled face-to-face client meetings, I decided on a casual business look: an angora boat-neck sweater in teal, with tobacco brown wool slacks and a deep brown leather blazer. Underneath, however, was another story. I’m a bit of a lingerie fanatic, which Wukowski loves. I chose a soft-cup ivory demi bra with dark blue lace and matching thong, hoping that my guy would be with me tonight to discover the sexy present underneath the somewhat staid wrappings.

As I dressed, gelled my hair and did my makeup, my mind wandered to the Wagner case. What compelled a family man and dependable teacher to simply bolt? Marcy needed answers. Someday, her kids would, too. I wasn’t ready to close the file yet.

My east side office on Prospect is in an older building close to my condo. The sign on the door reads AB Investigations, with Neh Accountants underneath. AB stands for Angelina Bonaparte. Neh Accountants is a one-woman firm run by my friend, Susan Neh. We met when we both worked for Jake Waterman, she as a forensic accountant and me as an apprentice investigator. When we each decided to go out on our own, it made sense to share office space and reduce expenses. Expenses weren’t an issue now, with both of us well-established. Still, with my intern, Bobbie Russell, joining the business, I might have to search for new quarters. It’s pretty cramped in our one-office, one-conference room space.

Juggling briefcase, purse and Starbucks coffee, I unlocked the office door and disarmed the security system. After divesting myself of coat, hat and gloves, I fussed at the mirror a bit with my hair. I stand five foot three, so the wall mirror on the back of the coat closet door was set fairly low. A white-haired woman, fit and stylish, looked back at me. I ran my fingers through my hair to work out the hat-flattened areas and settled at my desk. My first call was to the funeral home listed in Hank Wagner’s obituary.

“Figgs Funeral Home. Julie Ann speaking.”

The voice was perky, with a girlish lilt, definitely not the sonorous tones I expected to hear. “Good morning. I’m calling about Henry James Wagner. The obituary listed Figgs. I was shocked to learn of his death. I wonder if you could give me some further information.”

“If you’ll wait one moment … ah, um … I’m afraid I can’t provide information over the phone on that matter. Mr. William Figgs handled those arrangements. Can I have him return your call?”

Why the obvious reluctance to talk about Hank Wagner? I left my number and turned to a pending report for a local insurance company, who hired me to determine if their employee’s claim of job-related carpal tunnel syndrome was valid. The woman apparently filed for some type of disability every year in December and returned to her family home in Door County to recuperate. This year, there would be no payout for Ms. I’ll-be-home-for-Christmas. It took three weeks, since I wanted to enjoy my own holidays with my family and Wukowski, but I nailed her. I had video of four hours of non-stop needles clacking on Christmas Eve day as she and three other women settled in for a marathon “finish your gifts” knitting session at a little yarn shop in Fish Creek. If she could manage that, she could manage data entry for her employer.

I printed the report, proofread it, ran the invoice program that Susan developed for me, and stuffed the papers and a flash drive containing the video into the envelope. Cases like these were the bread-and-butter of my solo practice.

Bobbie strolled in around nine. He had a loose-limbed walk that exuded self-confidence and sexuality and, combined with his twenty-something Rock Hudson good looks, he turned heads wherever he went. Too bad for us women that he batted for the other team.

In the two months since I took him on at AB Investigations, he proved his determination and ability many times over. Bobbie and I were friends before he joined the firm. I worried that, if he didn’t work out, it would impact our relationship. But he took a lot of the routine work off my shoulders, and brought in new clients from his partner Steve’s fashion world and from his own contacts in the gay community. I was glad I could depend on him, although supervising an intern had its share of headaches. Bobbie was a dynamo with a real love for the work. He sometimes needed to be reined in.

“Morning, Angie,” he said, as he hung up his outerwear. “How’d it go with Marcy?”

“Tough one. She still loves the jerk.”

“Ange,” he protested, “that’s harsh. Not to mention speaking ill of the dead.”

He had me there. Yes, I have issues, but who in my position wouldn’t? Mr. Bozo, my ex (no, I don’t call him that in front of our grown children or their kids), cheated on me twice, before I wised up and tossed him out. My business, as much as I loved it, exposed me to unfaithful spouses, lying employees, and grown children trying to rob their own parents, among other assorted assaults on decency. It wasn’t a recipe to promote trust.

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, “but it really gripes me that he walked out on Marcy and the kids, and took all their funds, to boot.”

Bobbie settled in the guest chair at the side of my desk. “So what’s on the agenda today?”

“I called the