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

it twice today. So tell her you’re my brother and that I’m leaving the area tomorrow and want to make arrangements for our dying uncle. Let’s see what she says.”

“What name should we use?”

“My mother’s maiden name was Carson. We’ll be Ann and Bill Carson. She can’t connect us to that.”

He moved to pick up the office phone, but I stopped him. “There’s something hinky about this whole setup. I don’t want to use a phone that might be traced.”

“I have just the thing.” He opened a small lockbox that was tucked under the conference table and removed a cellphone. “From Spider Mulcahey. Bram told me to disassemble it and put it back together again, so I’d know how to switch out the SIM card and locate the battery. It’s prepaid, a burner phone.”

Late last year, Spider and Bram, former Special Ops guys, helped us on the Johnson case. I nodded. “Go ahead. On speaker, please.” I pointed to the number in my notes.

“Padua Manor. Mrs. Rogers speaking. How may I help you?” She was back to sweet.

“Mrs. Rogers, I’m in such a bind,” Bobbie said. “My uncle Jake is in a bad way. He lives on the family farm, near Stevens Point. My sister Ann is with him now, at the doctor’s office. They just recommended hospice care.”

“Oh, my, that is very hard to hear, Mr. …?”

“Carson. Bill Carson.”

“Well, Mr. Carson, we’d be happy to assist the family. Would you like to come in for a tour?”

“That’s just it.” Bobbie’s voice rose a bit, as if in suppressed panic. “I’m hundreds of miles away and Ann has to get back to her job in two days. A big client presentation, and she’s the agency lead. Can you possibly see her tomorrow, say …” he looked at me.

“Ten,” I mouthed.

“Ten o’clock?” he asked her.

“I think so. Let me check.” We heard papers rustle and the sound of quiet moaning as a door opened and closed. “Yes, that would be fine, Mr. Carson. Will your uncle be with her?”

I shook my head.

“I’m not sure he’s up to it, Mrs. Rogers,” Bobbie said. “My sister has his power of attorney, though, both legal and medical. We hope to finalize things and get Uncle Jake situated quickly.”

“That’s probably for the best. Your uncle’s most likely not in a state to make good decisions. We can help you with that. Tell your sister I look forward to meeting her.” The call ended.

“Did you notice how she offered to help the family, to make things easier for us, but asked nothing about Uncle Jake?” I asked Bobbie.

“Yeah. Makes you wonder who the primary focus is on, doesn’t it?”

“It does, indeed.”

I gave Bobbie my itinerary for the next day and headed for home, after dropping the office mail at the local post office. My condo was a treat to myself after my divorce, along with my black cherry Miata convertible. I caught some sideways looks when I sold the family house and the Buick Park Avenue, but those weren’t the real me. I didn’t regret the years I was married—after all, I had two great kids and three wonderful grandchildren—but when the time came to break away, I realized just how much of myself was submerged in the identity of wife and mother. The real me wore sexy underwear, lived in a classy condo and drove a great little roadster, except in the winter.

Wukowski convinced me that the Miata convertible was impractical for winter driving, so I had a short-term lease on an AWD Mazda CX-5. I had to admit that it handled better in snow and slush than my post-divorce car fling.

Once home, I fired up my laptop, using an Ethernet connection. Wireless is notoriously easy to tap into. Anticipating a high-fat supper with Jamieson, I pulled yogurt and fruit from the fridge and prepared a cup of hot tea. After booking a reservation at a little B&B near the campus, I settled at the kitchen peninsula and ran a background check on Attorney Jamieson.

He was the older son of parents from the Stevens Point area, single, with a bachelor’s in public administration from American University in D.C. and a J.D from Marquette University in Milwaukee. After law school, he clerked for a well-respected federal court judge in Chicago, then returned to Stevens Point and opened a solo practice. His web page listed family law (legal separation, divorce, custody), wills and probate, and small business law as specialties. That struck me as odd. I would have imagined, with his educational background, that he was set on a career in politics, or perhaps aiming toward a federal or state court appointment.

I also ran searches for James Beltran and Jim Beltran. The surname, I learned, was Spanish in origin. Many of the hits were for Filipino men. None connected to Hank Wagner.

Lastly, I checked into the Padua Manor facility where Hank died. It was small—only thirty-five beds—and locally owned and operated. It had several violations listed on the Wisconsin Department of Health Services website. Since the records were only made public in 2012, it was a pretty good bet there were earlier violations, too.

After my meal, I loaded my few dishes into the dishwasher and went to my bedroom to pack an overnight bag. The clothes I selected this morning were a bit too casual for a meeting with an attorney, even one who offered to buy me supper at a diner. A woman in my profession, and one who is a bit older, needs to dress for the respect she wants. I chose a very dark plum wool jersey dress, with long sleeves and a high boat neckline. Because the material was stretchy and my light bra and panties might show through, I replaced them with a black charmeuse set, whose smooth cup bra and thong panties would be invisible under the dress. A discreet silver necklace and earrings, dark thigh-high stockings and two-inch black heels completed the look. Then I refreshed my makeup and headed north on