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

Ordinarily, I would stop at Shreiner’s in Fond du Lac for a pecan roll, but that would defeat the restraint I showed at lunch. Instead, I bought coffee at a Starbucks there, used the facilities and drove on.

Stevens Point is situated along the Wisconsin River, almost at the center of the state. It’s a small city of nearly twenty-seven thousand, with an additional ten thousand students at UWSP, a campus that is recognized for its natural resources program.

I parked and entered Marvin’s, located at the edge of the UW campus. Scanning the tables, I saw a sprinkling of students, persons wearing suits and several families enjoying a meal out. A nondescript man rose from a booth and approached me. I recognized him from the head shot on his website. “Ms. Bonaparte?” he said. “I’m Frank Jamieson.” We shook hands and he politely directed me to the booth.

As we walked, I took a few seconds to mentally assess him. Jamieson stood about five-ten and weighed around one-seventy, with brown hair and brown eyes. He wore an off-the-rack navy blue suit, between Hugo Boss and JC Penney quality, with a classic fit that was slightly looser in the chest than was currently stylish. I recalled from my background check that he was thirty-five years old and unmarried. His features were regular and his expression benign. Statistically, he was the epitome of average for American males.

“Thanks for meeting me, Ms. Bonaparte.”

“I thought we agreed to be Frank and Angie,” I said, careful not to show any sign of flirtatiousness. He struck me as a man who would run from that.

“We did … Angie. How was your drive?”

“No problems. I listened to an audiobook along the way, Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane, a fascinating story about childhood memories and the many faces we all wear. I didn’t even notice the time.”

“I confess, I don’t read much fiction.”

“Let me guess. Political memoirs and legal reviews.”

His laugh changed the topography of his face, from mildly pleasant to interesting, with prominent dimples on each side of his mouth and rather wickedly upturned eyebrows. Very attractive, until his expression settled into its usual lines. “You got me pegged, Angie.”

“I did a little research on you before I left Milwaukee,” I confessed.

“Very wise.”

A waitress stopped at the edge of the booth, with order pad in hand. “Trust me?” Frank asked. I nodded, and he said, “Two garlic cheeseburgers with garlic fries.” He asked for an iced tea and I followed suit. Then he settled back in the booth. “To the business at hand. It was not a pleasant experience for me to contact Figgs with the information that their indigent client, Jim Beltran, was really Hank Wagner. William Figgs was quite put out when he learned that there was enough money to cover an obituary. And of course, there was the hassle of getting the death certificate changed.”

So that explained Figgs’ exasperation on the phone. “I ran some preliminary checks on Jim and James Beltran,” I told Frank. “There aren’t many people with that name in the country—under a hundred. None of them matched Hank Wagner.”

His eyes narrowed at that. “Most men who leave their families are quite careless. He seems to have been very thorough in covering his tracks.”

“If it weren’t for the obituary, I don’t think I would have found him. Very aggravating and frustrating, Frank, to search month after month for someone and never get a single hint of where he might be or what he might be doing, and to know that his family is going through financial hardship because of his actions. That’s why I kept looking for him, long after my client’s funds ran out. I didn’t want him to get away with it.” I opened my briefcase and handed him a copy of the marriage certificate.

He shook his head while reading it. “I wish I’d done a search myself, when he first came to me. I might have found his family. They could have had a last chance to connect.”

And wouldn’t that have made Marcy’s life easier, I thought. Then I took a mental step back. It wasn’t reasonable to expect an attorney to go to that length to confirm a client’s marital status.

Jamieson handed me a document on 8 ½ x 17 paper. “A copy of the will for your client,” he said.

He sat in silence while I perused the two pages. Outside of the standard legalese, there was one pertinent paragraph of bequests. All Hank’s personal belongings in Stevens Point (did he have assets elsewhere?) would go to a local shelter, including an older car, but not the contents of the car. How odd!

I asked Frank for his take on it, but he simply shrugged. Then the waitress put our plates down in front of us. Frank smiled his creased-dimple smile. “You’re gonna like this, Angie.” We tucked in.

Being Sicilian-American, I have a love affair with basil, oregano, cumin, sage and garlic. Marvin’s cheeseburger on a hoagie bun did not disappoint. It was meaty, juicy, and flavored well with garlic salt. The fries were also garlic-laden and delicious. I didn’t finish the half-pound burger, but I enjoyed the effort. Frank managed to down all of his. We pushed back our plates, ordered coffee and waited for the busser to clear the table.

When no one was nearby to overhear us, I said, “I plan to dig into Hank Wagner’s life here in Stevens Point. His wife wants to know about his last days and, if possible, to understand why he left her and their children. I’d like to talk to some of the other, uh, clients at the shelter. Can you introduce me to Doris?”

“I can, but don’t be surprised if she doesn’t have much to say. Folks there are suspicious of outsiders.”

I sighed. “Well, I can try. Would you take me over there tomorrow? Maybe in the afternoon? I have an appointment at Padua Manor at ten tomorrow morning.

“How about noon at my office? We’ll