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

take care of things on the home front. A teddy bear, from Bart Matthews. Isn’t that cute? Who knew he could be so sentimental? A family picture, nicely framed, with a card—We love you, get well soon, Your kids and grandkids. Oh, look, cards from Iggy and Marianne, and from the Bellonis. And someone named Judy sent the bouquet of white miniature mums. Worse Than a Dirty Diaper? on her card.” He quirked an eyebrow, but I didn’t have the energy to explain “Susan says she’ll bring egg drop soup as soon as you can handle it. And a religious card from a Father Tom.” Both brows shot up. “Nothing from Wukowski. Must be planning to deliver a get-well present in person.”

I grimaced. “Bobbie, hand me a mirror. I need to see how bad I look.” He rummaged in the bedside table and retrieved my purse, then handed me my compact. “Omigod.” The face that looked back at me was not my face. It had a big purple bulge on the forehead and a black eye below it, nicely accented by the pallor of the skin elsewhere. The lips were puffy and chapped. The hair was matted. I set the mirror on the bed and started to cry. It must be the meds, I thought, I never cry like this.

Bobbie patted me on the shoulder and murmured, “Now, Angie, don’t worry, it’ll all be fine in a few days. Nothing’s broken. You’ll look normal before the week is out. Don’t be upset. Everything will be fine.” He kept that up for a while, handing me tissues as I bawled and discarding the used ones as I set them down. He brought me a cup of water and encouraged me to take sips. He was there. He was a friend.

When my crying jag ended, Bobbie asked, “Want me to do something with your hair?”

“Can you?”

He left the room and returned with dry shampoo, which he gently worked through my hair and scalp, using a towel to release the sweat and oil that fear had deposited. Then he wet a comb and carefully ran it through my short locks. There was enough residual styling gel to produce my usual spiky do. He handed me the mirror and I concentrated on the hair, avoiding looking at my face. “Thanks, Bobbie. That looks so much better.”

The nurse came in with a tray. Liquids only—coffee, milk, jello, ice cream, chicken broth. Bobbie charmed her into bringing him a cup of coffee and he coaxed me into eating as he drained his cup. I could barely keep my eyelids open, so he pressed a kiss on my nose. “I’ll leave the newspaper for later. We’re celebrities, Angie! I’ll be back in the morning. Call me if you need anything.”

I dozed. I woke and read the news accounts, which stated that Jane was charged with second degree homicide and John as an accomplice after the fact. Both parents. I felt sorry for the children, but at least they were old enough now to function on their own.

I dozed. Five o’clock. No Wukowski. Another tray arrived. Soft foods—scrambled eggs, white bread, milk, tea. I forced myself to eat, but it stuck in the back of my throat. I couldn’t get it down, not any more than I could swallow the bitterness of Jane Dunwoodie’s senseless act.

I thought about all the people she hurt. Elisa, her life cut short, who would never have the chance to overcome her selfishness and find real love. Mrs. Morano, left alone, now probably deprived of the “insurance” settlement too. I would have to talk to Bart Matthews about that. Maybe he could help. Tony and Gracie Belloni and their children, their family problems exposed to the world. Guy, afraid for his life and in danger of losing his livelihood. Marsha Cantwell, Alan McGuire and Richard Llewellyn, all suspected of the killing and all carrying tainted memories of Elisa. And, of course, me and Bobbie, partners in investigation who almost became victims ourselves.

Why? For what? So a plain Jane could take vengeance on a beauty? So a ‘righteous’ woman could triumph and an adulterer be punished? So a marriage that was already a shambles could be preserved for the sake of religious rules? I dozed and dreamed, of a deep voice resounding from a mountaintop—Vengeance is mine, I will repay. Of a gentle voice, teaching—Forgive, and you will be forgiven. Of a crazy voice—She wasn’t a godly woman.

I woke. Midnight. No visit from Wukowski. Either Bobbie was wrong about the ‘love thing,’ or Wukowski was still too scared to take a chance. I was scared, too, damn it! Scared to be hurt. Scared of rejection. Scared of letting my guard down and getting sucker punched yet again. Scared that he just wasn’t up to the challenge, the struggle, the flat-out denial of oneself for the sake of another which real, deep, lasting love requires. Scared that I wasn’t, either. F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy.” Wukowski and I were headed for tragedy, if the same were true for cowards.

Chapter 30

The main motive for “nonattachment” is a desire to escape from the pain of living, and above all from love, which, sexual or non-sexual, is hard work.

—George Orwell

When an unknown detective showed up in my hospital room the next day to take my statement, I knew what it meant. Finito. Done. Over before we started. At least I have nothing to regret, I told myself. No need to wish anything away because nothing ever happened. Just a few looks, some chemistry, a casual touch, a kiss. Just a sense that a real chance at happiness was running away as fast as it possibly could.

Whoa—way too melodramatic, girl. Way over the top. You’ll be fine. You have a great life. You’ll go back to it, get back in the groove, move on as if nothing ever happened. Because nothing had. Nothing had.

They discharged me on