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

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This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and organizations portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Second Edition

ISBN: 978-1-9867628-8-5 (Print)

ISBN: 978-0-9987557-3-1 (Digital E-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903142

Rathbun, Nancianne.

Cash Kills / Nanci Rathbun

FICTION: Mystery/Suspense

Cover design by Nathaniel Dasco

http://BookCoverMall.com

Formatting by Polgarus Studio

http://www.polgarusstudio.com

Author photo by Michele Rene Chillook, Dubuque, Iowa

Published by Dark Chocolate Press

http://darkchocolatepress.com

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my daughter Leah and my son Matt. You’ve both made your mother proud. I hope I make you proud, too.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank my critique partners in Waukesha, Wisconsin, where this story began, and the Murfreesboro Writers Group in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, where it came to fruition. A very special thank-you is due to Susan Anthony Michael, beta reader and friend, for helping me cut away the dross so that the heart of the story could shine.

Chapter 1

Don’t put your trust in money, but put your money in trust.

—Oliver Wendell Holmes

My office partner, Susan Neh, walked into our shared conference room, slowly pulled out a chair and, brows furrowed, sat facing me. “Angie, there’s a woman here complaining that her parents had bank accounts worth millions and she doesn’t want the money.” Susan leaned across the table. “Can you imagine?”

“Maybe.” I thought about the illegal ways that my papa probably accumulated wealth and how I would feel if I knew the details of my eventual inheritance. “What’s her story?”

Susan opened her mouth, but abruptly shut it. “I think you should hear it from her directly. She’s agreed to talk to you.”

“I’m not sure that’s legitimate, Susan, unless she wants to retain me.”

“She might. I’m trying to convince her that she shouldn’t ditch the money until she knows more. Come on, Angie, at least listen to her.”

I pulled my five-foot-three frame up and checked myself in the small mirror that hung on the back of the door. A private investigator has to present a professional appearance in order to be hired. The days of tough guy Sam Spade have been replaced by the era of techno-geeks and corporate types. It’s hard for a woman to be taken seriously. Clients expect a man. And for a fifty-something woman like me, it’s twice as hard. So I ran my hands through my short, spiky white hair, checked my teeth for lipstick and straightened my Donna Karan business suit. When we entered our common office, I grabbed a legal pad and pen from my desk and waited.

Susan and I share office space on Prospect Avenue, on Milwaukee’s east side. I’m AB Investigations, she’s Neh Accountants. The “s” on the end of both our firms can be misconstrued. We each run one-person companies.

Susan made the introductions. “Adriana Johnson, this is Angie Bonaparte.”

I smiled at the Sicilian pronunciation coming from my Japanese-American friend’s mouth: Boe-nah-par-tay. I’d taught her well. Don’t get me started on Napoleon. The little general was a French wannabe from Corsica, who ruined the name with his attempt to Gallicize it.

“Adriana, it’s nice to meet you,” I said. “Susan filled me in a little. Before we talk, I need to explain what a private investigator does and how it might affect this conversation. Then if you decide that you’d rather I wasn’t privy to your information, I’ll bow out with no hard feelings.”

I assessed her as she nodded in response. She sat scrunched tight against one side of the client chair, taking up as little space as possible. The only way to describe her was nondescript: brown hair, light brown eyes, slightly olive complexion, slender, dressed head to foot in discount store beige. Bland and quiet. She hadn’t moved or spoken since I entered the room.

I gave her a brief rundown on my services: tracking information and people. I explained that, under Wisconsin law, nothing she told me was private unless I was working for her attorney. In that case, whatever she shared with me would come under attorney-client privilege.

“May I please use your phone?” she said in a surprisingly sultry voice that contrasted sharply with her image. I handed her my cell phone and she placed a call. “Uncle Herman, this is Adriana.” She pronounced it Ah-dreh-yah-nah. “I’m with the accountant you recommended. Yes, Susan Neh. She introduced me to a private investigator, whom I wish you to hire on my behalf. I understand that the investigator would then be covered by attorney-client privilege.” She paused and listened, her face not showing any expression. Then she spoke again. “I mean no disrespect, Uncle Herman, but if you cannot accommodate me in this way, I will find someone who will.”

Hmm, the mouse has teeth, I thought.

Then she handed the phone to me. “Ms. Bonaparte, this is my attorney, Herman Petrovitch. He was a friend of my parents and I’ve always called him Uncle. He’d like to speak with you.”

I knew quite a few lawyers in the city, but I’d never heard of Herman Petrovitch. I took the phone. “Attorney Petrovitch, this is Angelina Bonaparte. I share office space with Susan Neh. She thought I might be able to help Ms. Johnson with her concerns about her inheritance.”

When he spoke, his voice was rich and his accent middle-European. “I wish to retain you, Ms. Bonaparte. Anything which Adriana tells you must be kept confidential. I’m very concerned that when her inheritance is known, she might become the object of the press or even fortune hunters. She is a very good girl, but naïve in the ways of the world. I’ve told her that she can provide you with basic information, but I would like to meet with you personally once you and Adriana have