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

your husband did a great job raising him. I look forward to Thanksgiving.” My hands were sweaty when I replaced the phone in its cradle. If Wukowski was right, that call was not easy for his mother to make. I was glad we connected before the holiday meal and thankful that she didn’t sound as fragile as he made out.

After the call, Bobbie opened a bottle of Riesling and brought up the WISN news report on my smart TV. “Time to see us in action,” he said. He accessed the internet and scrolled to the morning news. We sipped our wine as we watched two idiots trying to outrace a madman by jumping into a truckload of pipes. On the first go-round, we said nothing.

The second time, we commented on the action. “Bobbie, I can’t believe you made that leap so easily. Were you a hurdler in school?” “Good thing it wasn’t windy, Angie, or your assets would have been on film.” “I will never again tuck Aunt Terry’s knitting in the back of the closet. Her scarf saved my neck in more ways than one.”

The third time, we laughed, able to distance ourselves and see it as farce.

Bobbie paused the TV and turned to me. “So, that was Wukowski’s mother on the phone?” I nodded. “What gives?” he asked.

“It’s complicated,” I said.

He waited, silent.

I filled him in. “I’m really surprised that she called tonight. That took courage. And get this, Bobbie—she told me that she hadn’t seen Wukowski so happy in a long time.”

He nodded. “He’s loosened up a lot, since I first met him this summer. And it’s obvious that he cares about you.”

“Cares?”

“Ahh. Nobody’s said the L word yet?”

I shook my head.

“Do you want him to? Do you love him?”

“Lord, Bobbie, I don’t know.” I took a deep breath. “I mean, I know I love him. No question. But do I want him to say it? I’m not sure. Because, if he loves me and I love him, things will change. I don’t know if I want things to change.”

He handed me my glass of wine. “It’s not like you have to go from saying ‘I love you’ to moving in together. Just take it one step at a time. And listen, girlfriend,” he said as he took my free hand, “don’t let fear ruin a good thing.” The gold flecks in his deep brown eyes seemed to glisten for a moment.

“You’re right.” I took a deep breath and smiled. “That’s pretty much the advice I gave my Aunt Terry when she started seeing Fausto. To take it slow, that he had to respect her wishes.” I shook my head. “Who would think that Aunt Terry and I would have the same issues—in totally different circumstances, of course. I’m sure she’s still the oldest living virgin outside the convent.” I set down the wine and reached out to hug Bobbie. “Thanks, friend.”

He retreated. “My back’s a mess. Consider yourself hugged.” Then he pressed Play on the remote. “I have to see that again. We were awesome.”

Chapter 28

Ah Love! could you and I with Fate conspire

To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,

Would not we shatter it to bits—and then

Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!

—Omar Khayyam

I waited all day Sunday to hear from Wukowski. Around five that evening, the phone rang. Caller ID said “Milwaukee Police Department.” Odd, I thought, that he didn’t call from his cell phone. “Hello. Wukowski?” I asked.

A raspy voice responded, “Nah, sorry. It’s Art Penske, from Homicide. Wukowski asked me ta call ya. So, the thing is, there’s still nothin’ we can tell ya, but Ted wants ya ta know that as soon as the DA issues charges, he’ll be in touch.”

“I’m dying here, Art.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I can tell. If it helps, we expect the charges on Monday morning. It’s a helluva case, Angie. Probl’y bigger than ya expect. That’s all I can tell ya. So just sit tight. Ted’ll get to ya as soon as possible.” He took a breath. “I gotta say, I never seen him this tied up in knots. He’s itchin’ ta talk to ya.”

That, at least, was gratifying. “Okay. Thanks, Art. I appreciate the call. Tell Wukowski I’ll be waiting to hear from him.”

“I’ll pass it on. Take care, ya hear?”

Bobbie and I spent the day playing Scrabble (I whipped his butt), Parcheesi (the dice were incredibly kind to him) and cribbage, which I taught him (just beginner’s luck that he fought me to a tie over the course of several games). We foraged from the stocked refrigerator, when the spirit moved us. Since we were off the prescription meds and using Tylenol for pain relief, Bobbie mixed a couple of Tom and Jerries that evening. “Close enough to the holidays for me,” he said, as he handed me the foamy drink.

I inhaled the scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, brandy and rum. “Me, too.” My first sip tasted like heaven, smooth and strong. “Bobbie, have you and Steve finalized your Thanksgiving plans?”

“Not yet. Steve’s got some big New Yawk City thing.” His eyes twinkled as he mauled the pronunciation. “He thinks he’ll be back in time for us to go out for a meal.”

“Ew. Thanksgiving in a restaurant. You should come to Papa’s. If you can stand the family, that is. Steve’s welcome, too.”

Bobbie stared down into his mug for a few seconds. “I haven’t had a family Thanksgiving since I came out.” He took a drink. “I’d really like that, Angie, as long as it won’t cause problems.”

I read between the lines. “I’d be shocked if it did. Besides, you’re my friend, Bobbie, and now we’ll be partners, so even if someone does have a problem, they’ll have to deal with it.” I lifted my T&J and we clinked mugs.

***

Monday morning at nine o’clock, the landline rang. It was Wukowski. “Angie, how are you?”

“Turning green and yellow in the less bruised spots. Still black, blue and red in most places. Enough chit-chat. What is