Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) 📖

sights on a geek someday—as long as he’s attractive, like her uncle.

“Mom, you know I love Dad, but I’m not blind. I see his faults, especially about women.” He blew out a breath. “I decided when I got married to ask myself, ‘What would Dad do?’—and then do the opposite.”

I grinned. “It seems to be working out well. You’re a great husband and father.”

David colored at the compliment. “Thanks, that means a lot to me. But here’s the thing, Mom. There are lots of good guys in the world. Maybe you should open up to the idea of marriage again. Find a man you respect and enjoy being with.”

“David, I happen to enjoy Wukowski.” Now it was my turn to blush. “I mean, I enjoy his company. And I certainly respect him. Give him a chance, okay?”

“Okay.” He stooped down and kissed me on the cheek. “You’re still pretty hot, Mom. If he’s not the one, don’t wait forever. Move on.”

How does a mother respond to her son telling her she’s hot and advising her to find a man? “I’ll think about it,” I mumbled, and made a dash to the kitchen.

Aunt Terry and Emma were enjoying a helping of tiramisu, while Elaine sipped coffee. “Any more dessert?” I asked.

“Plenty.” Emma proceeded to fill a small dish for me. “More?”

“No, thanks. I’m saving calories for Thanksgiving.” As soon as the words came out, I knew I’d made a tactical error.

“So, Mom,” Emma said, “tell us some more about Ted.” Aunt Terry and Emma waited, spoons poised over their own dessert cups, as I took a small bite and swallowed.

“Well, he’s an MPD detective. Homicide. I met him on the Belloni case.”

“We know that, Mom.” Emma made a gimme gesture. “What’s he look like? How old is he? Is he romantic? Good in bed?”

“Emma Teresa!” They waited. Okay, here goes, I thought. “He’s six feet tall and well-built, dark hair, reminds me of Dana Andrews in Laura.” They both sighed and Elaine let out a woo-hoo. We’d watched the movie together several times. “He’s a few years younger than I am.” Six, to be exact. “He’s not much of a romantic—too practical for that, I guess. But he treats me nicely.” Most of the time.

“And?” Emma waited for a response to her final question.

What the heck! Emma was thirty-two and a mother herself. “Incredibile,” I said.

Emma pumped her arm. “Way to go, Mom!”

Aunt Terry’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, my,” I heard her whisper.

Elaine simply grinned. “Is it serious?” she asked.

“I just had this talk with your brother.”

“You told David that Ted is good in bed?” Emma’s brows arched high.

“Of course not! We talked about whether Wukowski and I are serious and I told him that we’re seeing each other exclusively, but we’re not making long-term plans.” I scooped up the last of my tiramisu while they pondered that, and set my dish on the counter. “I have some work to do, so I’ll go say my good-byes to everyone and head for home.” I hugged Aunt Terry first.

“Be careful, Angelina,” she whispered in my ear. She was the only one in the family at eye level with me.

“I will, Aunt Terry.”

Emma’s advice was the opposite. “Go for it, Mom.”

“We’ll see, piccola.”

Elaine gave me a Mona Lisa smile and said, “It’s about time.”

And so it went as I bade the men goodbye. With David’s hug, came caution. With John’s, encouragement. Papa had nothing to say on the subject. He already knew it would be wasted air. I’d proved to him many times over the years that I would make my own decisions, right or wrong.

As I bade Patrick, Donald and Angela goodbye, I promised that on the Friday after Thanksgiving, we’d go to the Betty Brinn children’s museum, where they could touch and interact with the exhibits, followed by lunch out with Nonna. I’d already cleared it with the parents, who would spend the day either shopping or watching football.

Chapter 13

I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.

—Jorge Luis Borges

It was only seven o’clock. I could put in some time on the artifacts from the Johnsons’ attic. The Milwaukee Public Library was closed, but UW-Milwaukee’s Golda Meir Library was open until eleven p.m. My librarian’s heart quickened.

Being a Sunday night, there was actually street parking available close by. I never park in ramps. There are too many places where someone can jump out at you and no one likely to be around to help or make a call.

The librarian on duty at the information desk had a scowl on her face, as she rapidly typed on the keyboard. I waited until she deigned to look up. “Yes?” she said.

I didn’t think I should appeal to her as a former librarian. She’d probably hate me for getting out. Maybe authority would work. I showed her my PI license and the printed pictures of the Johnson’s items and asked if the library had any material that might help me identify the uniforms, clothing or books.

“Hmm. We don’t support the general public unless they have university business or a referral from another library.” She paused and glanced around. “But it’s pretty quiet tonight and I’m bored to tears. And I’ve never met a PI in person.” She stood up…and up and up. At least six-two, I thought, as she peered down at me. “You’re pretty small for an investigator.”

“You’re pretty tall for a librarian.” I smiled to indicate I was joking. “And being a PI doesn’t take muscle. Most of the time, I outsmart them.”

Returning my smile, she said, “I’m Lily March.”

“Angie Bonaparte.”

She cast her gaze to a table where some students were eating and others slept. Then she put a small sign on the desk: Librarian will return in 15 minutes. “Tell me about your case and I’ll show you what we’ve got,” she said.

I explained that I found the items at the home of two murder victims, who were killed