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

of the miasma of smoke and the sense of impending disaster. Something was very, very wrong. No insurance agency in the world would hand over money without the receiver signing papers for it. What was really going on here?

I sat in the Miata, closed my eyes, and let images roll on the screen of my mind. My first interview with Jane Dunwoodie, aggressive, cold, sure that Elisa got what was coming to her. Her children’s pictures on her desk. Jane as a long-haired girl, knife raised to attack a man on a sidewalk. The RCCLU meeting, scary enough to make Guy sweat and shake. Elisa’s funeral, with Jane and Mrs. Morano rivaling each other for tears.

My eyes popped open. I’d attributed Jane’s tears to remembrance of her own daughter’s funeral. But it seemed that she hadn’t exhibited that kind of behavior at other times. Instead, she’d channeled her grief into rage and attacks on those who disagreed with her strong opinions. So why the tears over Elisa? Guilt, maybe? And the money, the villa in Belize, the job—reparation?

Chapter 27

We must repay goodness and wickedness: but why exactly to the person who has done us a good or a wicked turn?

—Friedrich Nietzsche

I used my cell phone to call the RCCLU office. Mrs. Staunchley’s cheery voice greeted me. “Mrs. Staunchley, can you put me in touch with a priest who belongs to your organization?” I asked. “I’m writing an article for the Herald-Citizen and I want to be sure that my facts are correct.”

“Well…” she hesitated. “I’m not sure if Father Tom will have time. Maybe our director can help you?”

“I’d love to set up an interview with your director, but, for now, I’m in need of clarification on some theological points. And I don’t want to talk to one of those liberals.” I made the word as nasty as I could.

“My, no. That would not be helpful.” I heard some papers rustling and I waited. It only took her a couple of seconds to decide and to locate the information. “Father Tom Merrill is the RCCLU advisor. He’s an instructor at St. Francis.” She gave me his number at the archdiocesan seminary. I thanked her and quickly disconnected before she could try to set up an interview or ask for my name.

My Catholic upbringing had taught me one thing. A priest will not divulge what is told to him in confession. However, I wondered, what about something that might be mentioned or alluded to outside of confession? I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. And I also figured it couldn’t hurt to have a police officer do the asking. So I called Wukowski and filled him in.

“Good work, Angie. But I don’t know, I can’t see this priest being willing to talk to us.” I waited in silence. “I guess we can try. Let’s just drive over there and try to find him. If I call first, he’s more likely to stall or put us off with official statements.”

St. Francis De Sales Seminary is the oldest seminary in continuous existence in the United States. The grounds account for a large part of the city of St. Francis, a suburb just to the south of Milwaukee. I drove through a canopy of maples and parked in the drive in front of Henni Hall, the main building on the campus. Its colonnaded front and towering dome made a strong statement of permanence.

Wukowski exited the police sedan as I got out of the Miata. I noticed his chin drop slightly and imagined that, behind his dark sunglasses, he was ogling my legs in my short summer shift dress. And on church grounds, you naughty boy! I thought.

As we entered the building, he spoke to me in an undertone. “Let me do the talking.” I nodded.

There was no listing in the entryway for the RCCLU, but Wukowski cornered a young seminarian, who told us where we could find Father Tom Merrill. In a move to economize, the archdiocese had closed other administrative buildings and relocated to empty floors at St. Francis. Father Tom had a small office on the second floor, barely as large as my walk-in closet. The door was open, probably for air circulation, since there didn’t seem to be any air conditioning working. Wukowski stuck his head in and said, “Father Thomas Merrill?”

The man at the desk nodded and motioned us in. Wukowski flipped open his badge wallet and displayed his badge. I angled around to read it. “W.T. Wukowski.” No first name. Then I turned back to the priest and introduced myself as simply Angie Bonaparte, expecting that he’d think I was also with the MPD.

He didn’t ask. “It’ll make the room hotter than blazes,” he said, “but perhaps we should close the door.”

The small room contained Father’s desk and chair, three walls of bookcases, a couple of filing cabinets and one visitor chair. Wukowski dragged another chair into the room from the hallway, where they were lined up along the wall, as if waiting for miscreant students to fill them. As he closed the door and we took our seats, I studied the priest.

He wasn’t what I expected. I guess I thought that an advisor to a group like the RCCLU would be an old, crotchety, hidebound iconoclast. This man was about forty-five, tall, dressed in a black cassock. His light brown hair was adorably curly, a halo of short ringlets that encircled his face. It was hair that a woman would love to run her fingers through. What a waste, I thought.

Wukowski explained that he was part of the investigation into the murder of Elisa Morano. Father Tom’s face seemed to relax and he exhaled and smiled slightly. Odd reaction, I thought. Then his words made the reaction clear. “Thank God, I thought it was another abuse case.” The Milwaukee archdiocese had its share.

“Murder is a relief then, Father?” Wukowski asked, no emotion in his tone. But the very question was offensive, and Father Tom snapped to