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

there would have been no issue. So in a way, it was partly my fault for goofing off. C’est la vie. It all worked out anyway.

Just as the glazier and Smitty finished their work and left, the security consultant arrived. He looked about eighteen years old to me, all hair and teeth and new blue suit. But my confidence level rose as he demonstrated the motion detectors and how they could be connected to the building’s alarm system. He seemed to know his stuff.

“What are the odds of a false alarm?” I asked.

“Low, in a business. It’s mostly pets and kids that trigger the falsies. We’ll set the sensitivity so that mice or insects won’t set it off. And since we also protect the building, the monitoring charges are a lot less than if you went to another company.” He showed me a rate chart.

“Do it,” I said. I’d clear it with Susan when she got back. We set up a day for the wiring and other physical work, and he left.

Susan still wasn’t back. She wouldn’t be able to enter the office without the new keys. I called her cell phone, got voicemail, and left a message telling her that it was now two o’clock and I would be in the office until three, waiting to hand over her new door keys.

While I waited, I made notes on my interview with Elisa’s mother, Mrs. Lembke and the woman outside Marsha’s building, and reviewed the Morano folder from Dunwoodie’s, trying to decide who to tackle next. By then, my watch read two forty-five. I wanted to be in place outside Marsha’s building by three-thirty, just in case she got home early. I couldn’t wait for Susan any longer.

Just as I grasped the doorknob to the stairway, the elevator doors swung open and Susan rushed out. “Angie, I’m so sorry.” She was breathing rapidly and looked flustered.

“Don’t worry about it, Susan. I have to go, we can talk later. Here are the new keys.” I handed her a ring with two new keys, one to carry and one for a spare, and told her to keep the spare at home, in a safe place. She nodded, and I pounded down the stairs to my car.

Chapter 14

A fraudulent intent, however carefully concealed at the outset, will generally, in the end, betray itself.

—Titus Livius (Livy)

As I neared Marsha’s building, I pondered the best approach to take. Everyone I spoke to mentioned her fragile state. I’ve found through experience that those who are unsure of themselves like others to project calm authority, but not overwhelm. So I’d be a little bit Mom and a little bit buddy. I waited in the alley behind the building, where the tenant parking spaces were.

At four-fifteen, a Honda Civic, several years old and sporting rusty fenders, pulled into the spot assigned to the McGuire/Cantwell apartment. A young woman, dressed in a black business suit, exited the car and bent into the back seat. As she retrieved her briefcase and turned to lock the car, I pulled on my suit jacket and approached her. “Ms. Cantwell?” I asked. She jumped, as startled as a newborn hearing a loud noise. Whoa, I thought, go easy.

“Yes?” As she responded, she backed up several steps.

I slowly walked over and stopped ten feet away. “I’m Angelina Bonaparte. I’m an investigator working for the lawyer who represents Anthony Belloni. I’d like to talk with you briefly about Elisa Morano.” I extracted a business card from my briefcase and held it out to her, silently willing her to approach me.

She did. After glancing at the card and putting it in her jacket pocket, she looked me over. I returned the compliment, noting a twenty-something woman in a chic suit (Ann Taylor?) and pumps, whose mousy brown hair was expertly enhanced by auburn highlights and whose makeup, while subtle, did a lot to glamorize rather plain features. In short, her appearance took me by surprise. It just didn’t match Mrs. Lembke’s appraisal or Mr. Sobczak’s concern.

“I suppose I’d better talk to you.” Her voice was a monotone. “Come on up.”

I followed her into the hallway of the building and upstairs to her apartment. It was neatly but plainly furnished, with no decoration on the walls and not much flair to the furniture. I wondered at her background as a design student, given the blandness of the living room.

After setting her briefcase in the coat closet, Marsha sank onto the couch, folded her hands, crossed her legs at the ankles and looked at me. No gesture or offer of a seat, no words of welcome, no smile. She was an empty container, with no animation or interest in me.

Unbidden, I took a seat in a leather recliner, set my purse and briefcase on the floor, and leaned forward. “I understand that you and Elisa went to design school together and were roommates for a time.” She nodded. “You met in design school?” Again, she nodded. It was like interviewing someone spaced out on tranqs. Could that be the problem? Drugs? I decided to step lightly. “Would you say you were friends?”

Friends. That simple word broke her shell of listlessness. Her lip curled up in a snarl, her eyes flashed, and her hands clenched together tightly as she leaned toward me. “I used to think we were friends. I used to call her my best friend.” Those final two words snapped, enunciated precisely and with venom.

“Something happened to change the relationship?” I kept my voice neutral.

“Did she suffer when she died?”

The question and the longing behind it pushed me back in my chair. This lady was a ticking bomb. I didn’t want to be the one she exploded on, but I needed information and she certainly seemed a likely candidate to replace Tony on the Elisa hit list. I decided to stay factual and low-key. “There was a lot of blood. The coroner’s report indicates that she died quickly.”

“Too bad.” Marsha stood and began to pace