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

look that said, Jerk. “It was pitiful, Angie. Even the pallbearers left after they got the casket to the grave. Just Mrs. Morano, the priest, the funeral director, and us. I sure hope there’s more to mourn me when the time comes.”

“Of course there will be, Iggy.” I helped myself to more salad and built a sandwich—turkey, Swiss, lettuce and thousand island dressing on rye bread. “I know it’s speaking ill of the dead, but honestly, she was buried alone, except for her mother, because she lived for herself alone. What goes around, comes around.” I took a bite of my sandwich.

“’Do not be deceived, God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows,’” Wukowski intoned, then bit into his ham, Colby, sweet pickles and mustard on rye.

I nodded and chewed.

“Newton’s third law,” Iggy added. Both Wukowski and I stopped chewing and stared at him. “Hey, I’m no dummy. I read,” he protested.

“What a eulogy,” I said. “Well, the funeral didn’t tell me much. What about you two?”

Wukowski leaned forward. “You read the cards on the flowers?”

I nodded.

“What’d you think of the lilies? Pretty spectacular, wouldn’t you say?”

“They were lovely. And the card was, too. But, of course, a business would send more than just a small bouquet. After all, Jane Dunwoodie would want the agency to look good.”

“Maybe,” he mused. “But what about the tears?”

I told them the story of Jane and John’s little girl, adding, “Any mother would break down at a child’s funeral, if she’d been through that.”

“Elisa wasn’t a child, except in the sense that we’re all someone’s child.”

“Okay, but don’t you think that Jane would relate to Mrs. Morano and remember her own grief, too?”

“Maybe,” he repeated. “But I think a little judicious nosing into the affairs of Dunwoodie wouldn’t hurt.” I opened my mouth to argue, but he added, “You ought to be glad. It gets us away from Tony, doesn’t it?”

He was right, I ought to be glad of that. So I shut up and ate my lunch, sipping my unfinished glass of wine while the men drank their coffee and talked about the latest Brewers loss. It felt quite cozy, sitting at the table, sharing a meal with the two of them, almost like a wife, husband, and hubby’s friend. “’O, that way madness lies,’” I told myself. They left, and I stacked the dishes in the dishwasher and stored the salad in the fridge for later. I wouldn’t let hassles with the cook spoil my enjoyment of the leftovers.

***

The funeral had unsettled me. And the investigation was at a point of uncertainty. I wasn’t sure which way to turn, what to look for next. I’d uncovered enough dirt on Elisa to cast doubt on the circumstantial evidence against Tony, which was what Bart wanted. But what I wanted was to see the killer named and tried and sentenced. I wanted justice. For Elisa, for her mother, for the Belloni family. Did that make me crazy? Did I want to confront the letter-writer? To put myself in harm’s way? Something in me shouted—leave it, let it lie, walk away! Something in me whispered—don’t be a coward, do your duty, finish what you started.

I paced the living room, aware of the beauty that I’d struggled to create for myself after my divorce—the special-order furniture, the custom draperies, the art works and gingillo—knick-knacks—that I’d spent hours and days locating and placing. And there, scattered among the books in the wall of carpenter-built shelving, the pictures—young David and Emily, their weddings, their children. I hugged the framed photo of my grandchildren, taken last Christmas as they stood in front of Papa’s fireplace and sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” their mouths rounded into perfect little ovals. It was my life, and it was precious to me.

Isn’t Gracie’s life precious, too? I asked myself. And her children’s, and the new baby’s, not even born? Can you walk away from them, tell them you’ve gone as far as you care to? Can you?

No, I sighed. No. I replaced the photo on the shelf and made myself a cup of tea. When it was ready, I sat on the couch, my back to the view, and called the Belloni house.

Tony answered. “Angie?”

Caller ID. It’s a good thing. Unless you’re the one whose call they don’t want to take. Kevin flashed in front of me, but I shoved the image down. One dirty job at a time. “Hi, Tony. Yes, it’s me. Angie. How are you holding up?”

“Not so good, Angie.” His voice was strained. “The press is camped outside the house again, and I can’t get a damned thing done at work. They even followed us to Gracie’s OB appointment today. You’d think we were Princess Di, the way they act.”

“It won’t last, Tony. It’s just because today was Elisa’s funeral. They’re trying to get footage for the nightly news. Stay inside and lay low.” I paused. “How’s everything with Gracie? Only three weeks to her due date, right?”

“Right. And I’m here to tell ya, this is the last one. No matter what the church says. They might have Gracie scared, but I just don’t buy that birth-control-is-a-sin stuff, do you?”

“I’m not the right person to ask, Tony. I walked away from the whole Catholic thing years ago.”

“Yeah?” He sounded surprised. “Well, I’m not turning my back on holy mother church, but I made up my mind—no more babies. You know what it costs to send one kid to college? And I got five!” A short silence, then, “Course, jail would solve both problems, wouldn’t it? No more sex, so no more babies. And no way to educate the ones I got.”

“Now, just stop right there, Tony. That’s no way to think or talk. What if Gracie heard you? You need to be strong for her, keep a positive attitude. The charges won’t stick. They can’t, because you’re innocent. Right?”

“Right. But innocent men have gone to jail before, Angie.”

“Not this time.” Please God, I thought, make it