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

is real, it is an important work by an important Bosnian poet of the sixteenth century.” She handed the papers back to me. “Angie”—she pronounced it On-gee, which I found charming—“how did you come across this book?”

“It was among some other items in an attic trunk, in the home of a client whose parents are recently deceased. She hired me to look into her parents’ assets.”

“Were her parents Bosnians?”

If she caught me in a lie, there was no way she’d trust me again. I had to tell the truth and hope it didn’t spook her. “Serbian. They emigrated to the U.S. in 1995 and became citizens in 1999.”

“Their names?”

I watched her closely, looking for a reaction as I spoke. “Originally, Jan, Ivona and Adrijana Jovanović. They Americanized to John, Yvonne and Adriana Johnson. John and Yvonne were the parents. Adriana is my client.” If she knew of the Johnsons, there was no sign of it.

“Why would she hire a private investigator to look into assets? Wouldn’t an attorney or an accountant be more suitable for that?”

She was far too insightful. I couldn’t gloss over this. “Her attorney sent her to the accountant who shares office space with me. Susan brought me into the equation when she found out that Adriana inherited a large amount of money and had no idea where it came from. Her family always lived simply. Her parents led her to believe that they were among the working poor. Adriana didn’t want a bequest that might be tainted.”

“You said that both her parents are recently deceased. Did they die in an accident? Or were they old and one gave up when the other passed?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, Rua. They were murdered while working at their little South Side hardware store.”

She gave a sharp intake of breath. “Murdered! How?”

“Shot in the back of the head.”

She stared out at the common area on the other side of the windows. The large wall clock ticked mechanically as its second hand snapped from point to point. Then she spoke. “I cannot determine with certainty what this book is, even if you bring it to me. You need to seek an expert.” She reached for her briefcase and began to rise.

“Rua, there is more,” I said. “Would you look at pictures of some female clothing and jewels that were also in the attic?”

“Why?”

“If you can identify them as belonging to a particular cultural group, perhaps it will help us understand where the money came from and why the Johnsons were killed.” I offered her the pictures. My outstretched arm waited. She took them and resumed her seat.

When she viewed the first picture, her body hunched over, taking shallow breaths. Her hands shook. She stacked these pictures, too, and placed them before her on the table. Then she crossed her arms, with her palms on her forearms, as if hugging herself. It was a classic anxiety reaction.

“The dress, hat and shoes are for a Bosniak woman’s wedding. A Bosnian Muslim, you understand?” Her voice was steady, but she didn’t look up as she spoke. I sensed her struggle to remain calm. “The jewelry, too, especially the headdress. It would be worn at a wedding. It was often a woman’s only financial security, the headdress.” She looked at me. “No Bosniak woman would surrender these items willingly. Are you sure the Johnsons were not Muslim?”

“They attended St. Sava Serbian Church and were active in a group that wanted to locate and restore looted Serbian artifacts after the war ended.”

“This makes no sense. Why would they have these items?”

“We’re not sure. Adriana says they were friends with Muslim families in Bosnia. Maybe someone gave them as a gift?”

“So unlikely as to be impossible. A Bosniak would have to be in extremis to give up these things.”

“Many were, I understand.” I was teetering on the brink. She would either withdraw completely or finally open up. I waited, my body tense and my back aching, not daring to move.

Finally, she broke the silence. “You have no idea, Angie. Lily has heard some little part of the story of my family’s existence in Sarajevo during the siege. It was four years of hell. Snipers, shelling, no water, no electricity, no schools, no civilization. My husband went out to get water one day and was killed by the Serbian snipers who sat on the hills outside the city, shooting at anything that moved. When we took his body to the cemetery, they shot at the mourners. Our three-year old son died at his father’s graveside. We had to leave their bodies until nightfall. Then my uncle pried open the coffin and we put the little one into his father’s arms and buried them both. We were fortunate. Eventually all the wood was used for fires to stay warm and no more coffins could be made.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she spoke, but her face remained stoic. It was like watching a statue cry.

I choked back my own tears and rose to sit beside her, taking one of her hands in mine. Across the table, Lily wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Rua, I’m so sorry for your loss. There are no words for what you endured.”

“No,” she said. “None.” Then she turned to me and covered our clasped hands with her free hand. “There was much looting, much death. The Johnsons had these things, and much money, from what you say, and they wanted to conceal it. My heart tells me they were involved in the destruction of my people. How can I help your investigation?”

“There are other pictures. Uniforms that were in the attic. A local American, Colonel Lewis, looked at them, but could not identify them for sure. I know this will be hard, but would you see if they mean something to you?”

She nodded. “He is a good man, Angie. He was part of the team that built a bridge over the Sava River so that U.S. troops could enter