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

“Guess so. Thanks for the help. I’ll give her your number. If she calls, it might be better to let her tell you.”

“I hear ya. Go easy on her, Angie. And call me when you know what’s what.”

Quid pro quo, I thought. She was almost a professional source. “I will,” I promised.

I approached the front door and pressed the buzzer. No answer. I pressed again, this time laying on it for a few seconds. Again, no answer. They were probably at work.

As I turned to leave, the door burst open and a small child raced out, uprighted the red bicycle that lay on the grass, jumped on it and pedaled furiously down the sidewalk. She was the embodiment of Einstein’s energy-matter equation in what appeared to be a little four-year-old body. The bike wobbled back and forth on its training wheels that hovered inches above the pavement, providing stability but allowing her to learn how to balance on two wheels. Sweet freedom, that first sense of speed and mobility.

Her mother exited behind her, a baby strapped to her chest in one of those sling contraptions that today’s young parents use. “Oh, I’m sorry, did Missy bang into you?”

“No, don’t worry about it.” I shook my head as I saw little Missy reach the end of the block and turn back. “Don’t you wish God gave parents the same energy that he gave children?”

“You have no idea,” she said, as she settled into a lawn chair and adjusted the baby. “I never knew I could be so tired.”

“I remember,” I said. “It does get better, but not right away.”

She smiled at me and glanced tenderly at the baby.

“How old is the little one?” I asked.

“Seven weeks.” She looked up at me, shading her eyes from the sun.

“Maybe you can help me,” I said. “I’m trying to get in touch with Marsha Cantwell. One of her old neighbors, Mrs. Lembke, gave me this address.”

“Well, she lives upstairs from us. But I’m pretty sure they’re both at work.”

“That’s what I thought. Maybe I’ll try tonight. Any idea when she usually gets home?”

“Around four. She leaves for work real early, like my John, but she gets home a lot earlier than he does.”

“Do you know what kind of work she does?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure, they keep to themselves. Didn’t even come outside for the block party in July.” She paused. “If I see her, should I give her a message?”

“No, but thanks. I’ll probably be back later.”

As I settled into the driver’s seat of the Miata, Missy pedaled up and screeched to a halt. Her big eyes, startlingly blue, raked the car. “Nice wheels,” she commented in a surprisingly adult manner.

“Well, thanks. I like yours, too.”

She waved, looked over her shoulder at her mother, and cycled away. Such innocent joy in a fine summer day and a nice set of wheels. If only we could all remember to feel that joy. I decided to take an hour to smell the roses.

The Domes were just down the street and I had a season ticket. Formally titled the Mitchell Park Horticultural Conservatory, the Domes are a set of giant glass greenhouses shaped like beehives. Each dome spotlights a unique theme—arid, tropical, floral. The floral dome changes with the seasons and holidays. Today, I strolled among brilliant summer flowers and tropical plants. There were few people and I savored the peace and beauty around me, refreshing myself and feeling a slight lifting of the heaviness that seemed ready to descend on me. Too many pressures, both personal and professional, and not enough spiritual refreshment, I diagnosed. I promised myself that I would call my best friend, Judy, tonight. It was too long since we’d had a girly chat or a movie. She’d set me straight on Kevin and probably a few other things. I smiled as I exited into the sunlight.

When I stressed that it was an emergency, the locksmith and the security company had promised to be at the office this afternoon. I had time before I needed to be back at Marsha’s and I wanted to understand how the security company’s motion detectors worked before I let them install anything. I drove back to the office.

Susan was out. The door was locked tight. The locksmith stood there, talking on his cell phone, leaving me an angry message. I hastened down the hall with my hand outstretched. It doesn’t do to get on the bad side of a tradesman, especially if it’s a trade you may have need of in the future. “Sorry I’m late, I hope you weren’t waiting long. I’m Angelina Bonaparte.”

“Smitty. Smith Locks and Keys.” He waved his hand at me, but didn’t shake. Considering the graphite that had settled into his skin, I appreciated the nicety. After examining the door, Smitty recommended a multiple-deadbolt high security lock and suggested that the pebbly glass in the upper half of the door be replaced with laminated glass that would withstand a bullet or bomb. “No sense putting in a good lock when any fool can crack the glass, reach in and disengage it. Right?”

I nodded. “Right. Do you do the work?”

“No, but I have contacts. You’ll get a good price, I promise. Your old man, he got me out of a jam a while back.”

“I see.” I didn’t want to know what kind of jam Smitty had been in and how Papa had managed to extricate him. “I appreciate it, Smitty, and I’ll be sure to let Papa know how helpful you’ve been. Can you get it done today?”

“Sure, I’ll make the call now.”

The message light was blinking on my phone. It was Susan, telling me that she’d had an emergency call from a client and couldn’t be back until two o’clock. An emergency call? For an accountant? Did someone lose a decimal point? I was a little hacked off, but reasoned that if I hadn’t taken an hour to wander around in the Domes,