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

Oh, Lord. Angelina Sofia Margherita. If he threw in Bonaparte, I might as well run away. I turned to Lily. “Thanks for coming.”

“My pleasure. I actually wanted to talk with you about Josif Zupan. Remember that I promised to check him out with the bricklayer’s union? He’s a member in good standing of the local, but they wouldn’t tell me more. However, the UWM maintenance chief put me in touch with a guy who does a lot of tile and brick work in Milwaukee County. This Dave told me that he knew Zupan, but not well. ‘Keeps to himself,’ he said, ‘but there’s a couple of other Serbians in the union you could talk to.’ So I called their homes.” She leaned forward, tense with excitement. “Angie, they’re both at police headquarters! So is Josif. What do you think that means? Maybe they’re part of a bigger conspiracy, with Petrovitch at the center.”

“It could be. It seems the MPD has some ‘cooperative witnesses.’ That’s all they’ll tell me at present.”

Bobbie’s bedroom door opened and he emerged in sweats, yawning and scratching his chest with one hand. He stopped when he realized we weren’t alone. “Um, hi, Terry, Lily.”

Aunt Terry bustled over, asking him how he felt and offering tea and cookies. It wasn’t too long before the intercom rang to announce Meal Mobile. Aunt Terry went down to the lobby and brought back a huge shopping bag of prepared meals from various Milwaukee restaurants, courtesy of the Bellonis. I wouldn’t need to worry about cooking for at least a week.

I couldn’t hold back my yawns. Once Aunt Terry and Lily left, I lay down for a nap. I dreamed about a trio of masons bricking me up inside a big concrete pipe, while Edgar Allen Poe offered me a glass of Amontillado. I awoke in a sweat.

Chapter 27

Friendship…has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.

—C. S. Lewis

That evening, after Bobbie and I shared a Thai meal from the Bellonis’ largesse, my landline phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Wukowski. Finally, news! “I’ve been waiting all day,” I said. “What gives?”

“Uh, Ms. Bonaparte? This is Lena Wukowski, Ted’s mother.”

Good grief! Wukowski’s mom. I needed to tread carefully. “Mrs. Wukowski, I’m so sorry. When I saw the caller ID, I assumed it was your son.”

“He hasn’t called you? Tsk. I will speak to him. That is not the way to treat a lady.”

“Well, in his defense, I understand that he and his partner are tied up at headquarters on a really big case.”

“Yes. I saw it on the morning news and again tonight. I was worried, so I called Marianne Ignowski and asked for your number. You are all right?” Her voice was soft and gentle, with a slight accent. I found it charming.

“Yes, I’m fine. My partner and I are a bit banged up from the unexpected truck ride, but no real damage was done.”

“Bogu niech będą dzięki. I mean, thanks be to God.” She paused. “So, my son tells me that we are invited to your family home for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Yes, we’d love to have you. I should warn you that it’s a big family and we can get a bit boisterous.”

“That’s nice, to have a big family. I always wanted more children, but it was not to be.”

I thought of Celestyna and the grief of her death. Would Lena be able to handle us, or would she withdraw, as Wukowski worried she would? “I have two grown children and three beautiful grade-school age grandchildren. Plus, my papa and my aunt, who raised me when my mother died young. Oh, and my aunt’s, um, beau, will be there.” I didn’t mention Bart, since he hadn’t confirmed.

“Lovely. I will enjoy. So, what can I bring to the celebration?”

This was going almost too well. Was Wukowski mistaken about his mother’s mental state? Or was she hiding her fears? Best to find out now. “We have the traditional meal—turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, rolls, pumpkin pie. But we’re Sicilian-American, so we also include pasta, Italian bread and zabaglione—that’s sort of like mousse. Maybe you could bring a traditional Polish dish for us to share.”

After a moment of silence, she spoke. “Sicilian-American?”

“Yes, that’s right. Papa immigrated as a young man. Times were tough in Sicily and he sought a better life in the U.S. Eventually, he moved to Milwaukee and opened up a fruit-and-vegetable business.”

“I see.” I heard a deep intake of breath. “Well, perhaps I could bring kielbasa and sauerkraut, if you think your family would enjoy it.”

She didn’t plan to back out. That was a small victory. And now she had time to adjust to the idea of our being Sicilian-American. “I’ve had your pierogi and mizeria, Mrs. Wukowski. They were delicious. I know my family would love anything you bring.”

“I am so glad you liked the meal, Angie. I may call you Angie?”

“Please.”

“And you must call me Lena.” She pronounced it leh-na. “Now, tomorrow, I plan to bring you gulasz—stew flavored with paprika, like Hungarian, but better—and kopytka—potato dumplings. We will meet and talk.”

I quickly ran down options. “That would be lovely, but I’m concerned for your safety, Lena. My friend and partner, Bobbie Russell, is staying here temporarily. We’re under a twenty-four hour security watch until the Petrovitch case is closed. I don’t think Wu…Ted would approve of your being in the path of danger, however small.”

“Hmm. Yes, you are probably right. He is very protective of me. Well, that is too bad, that we cannot meet before Thanksgiving. You will take care? Be cautious?”

“I will, I promise. I’ve had all the excitement I need for quite a while.”

“I imagine so. I am very glad to talk with you, Angie. My Ted is much happier since he met you. That pleases a mother.”

Her words touched me and I got a little choked up. “Thank you for saying that, Lena. He is a wonderful man and you and