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

“We were thinking that some food might get your blood sugar back to normal.”

Suddenly, I realized how hungry I was. “Excellent idea. But nothing heavy.”

“There’s chicken soup,” Adriana said. “My mama thought it was a remedy for everything.”

I smiled. “My Aunt Terry thinks the same. Chicken soup sounds perfect.” We sat together at the table, where I told them about the library and the attack, between spoons of soup and bites of bread sopped in the broth.

Bobbie drew me a bath in his two-person whirlpool, scented it with lavender bath salts, and placed a cup of chamomile tea within reach. “They’ll help you sleep,” he told me as he turned me over to Adriana, who assisted me into the bathroom. She giggled and pointed. “One of Bobbie’s pajama tops. He told me he never wears the tops! It’s black silk.” I eyed the panties that lay on top of the shirt. White cotton. Blech. “Those are mine, of course. I thought Bobbie’s boxers would be way too big. Now, I’ll be right outside the door, so if you need help, call me. Okay?”

I assured her that I would and gently pushed her out the door. After shucking my clothes, which didn’t seem any the worse for wear, I gingerly used a new toothbrush that Bobbie provided. Then I sank into the scented water and closed my eyes. There was something I needed to ask Adriana, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think what it was.

I was drifting off when Adriana called, “Still okay?” I assured her that I was fine, dried off and put on the makeshift nightclothes. As promised, Adriana perched outside the door. “Point me to the bed,” I told her. “I’m about ready to pass out on my feet.”

She and Bobbie tucked me in. Bobbie asked me how many fingers he was holding up and checked my pupils and pronounced them even, but warned he’d be waking me every two hours to be sure I didn’t succumb to concussion. He interrupted my protests with uncharacteristic firmness. “That’s the price for not getting checked by a doctor.” I could see there was no arguing with him, so I snuggled down under the covers and went to sleep.

Bobbie did indeed wake me during the night, peering at my eyes with a flashlight and doing the fingers test. I passed and went right back to sleep. When the sun woke me, I was surprised at the time. Ten-twenty. Good grief!

Since the Belloni case, I agreed to let Susan know if I would be late to work, so that she could contact Bart Matthews if I didn’t show up within twenty-four hours. Sure enough, I had two voicemails from Susan on my cell phone, asking where I was and if I was all right. I called back and left a message that I’d had an encounter with a mugger and was now at Bobbie’s, safe and sound.

When I sat up, there was no dizziness. Good, I thought. I’ll be okay to drive. There was considerable tenderness where the assailant clocked me and the headache was certainly still present. I figured that a steady routine of Tylenol would handle both until the effects of the attack wore off naturally.

Bobbie was at the kitchen stove, flipping pancakes, and Adriana sat at the counter on a stool. I could smell coffee and made my way to the cupboard where Bobbie kept the cups. “You—” he pointed at me with the pancake turner “—sit.”

“I’m not a dog, Bobbie.”

“Sorry.” He waggled the pancake turner. “You worried me, girlfriend.”

“Thanks for worrying and taking care of me. But I think I’ll survive with nothing worse than a headache for a couple of days. And I’m in serious need of coffee.”

Adriana popped up, settled me at the counter and brought me a cup of Bobbie’s fabulous Joe. Coffee is a sacrament to him—ordering special beans from a grower, freezing them until needed, grinding them fresh every day, brewing them in his French press coffeemaker. I’d heard him talk about it ad nauseum—but I sure appreciated the result!

Two cups and some pancakes later, I felt almost human. Bobbie and I took our mugs into the living room and Adriana joined us with orange juice. I suddenly remembered what I wanted to ask Adriana. “What does Herman Petrovitch look like, Adriana?”

“Uncle Herman? Well, he’s older, gray hair, about five-eight, average weight. There’s nothing very special about him.”

Gray hair, I thought. Was it was he who bashed me? “How does he dress? Outside the office, I mean.”

“It’s funny,” she said, “my mama always teased him that he would dress in a suit and tie to fill up the gas tank. Why do you ask?”

“My assailant had gray or white hair and wore an overcoat of wool or cashmere, well-tailored, and shiny leather shoes.”

“Oh, no. Not Uncle Herman.” One hand lay over her heart, as if it hurt. “He couldn’t…he just couldn’t kill my parents and Dragana.” She shook her head, as if that would negate the reality.

“We don’t know if he was the one who hit me, Adriana. And even if he did, we don’t know that he was involved in the shootings. It might be more than one person.” But as I said it, my mind asked, What are the odds that more than one person is involved?

After I redressed in yesterday’s clothing, going commando because my panties were no longer fresh and I refused to wear Adriana’s granny panties, Bobbie drove me to my car. He was uncharacteristically quiet on the way. When we reached the campus, he double-parked and turned to me. “Ange, this case is a lot bigger than the Belloni case. You know I admire you—hell, I want to be you when I grow up—but this is seriously freaking me out. Three deaths and now an attack on you. Maybe it’s time to rethink this one.”

“I had that discussion with myself already, Bobbie. But while last night was nasty,