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

I was, in the past. Not often, though. But now, at least, I could give Papa the answer he wanted to hear. “I love Wukowski and he loves me.” I suppressed a sudden urge to giggle at the still-new words, before sobering. “But we’re not at the stage to talk marriage. Maybe we will be, someday, but not yet. You wouldn’t want me to rush into anything, would you?”

“No, of course not.” His voice softened. “I want what is best for you, Angelina. I want you to be happy.”

“I know that, Papa. And I’m sorry about the news. I hope you won’t let this make our Thanksgiving meal uncomfortable for Wukowski or his mother.”

“I would not dishonor my home by behaving that way to a guest.”

We each said “I love you” and the call ended. I still had to phone my kids and warn them. First, I needed a shower and a hot cup of coffee. I turned off the blasted TV.

***

Neither of my children was shocked or dismayed by the “news” that Wukowski and I spent the night together. David just gave me a “No duh, Mom,” and told me to be happy. He also offered to beat Wukowski up if he hurt me. Sons!

Emma, on the other hand, wanted details of where the relationship was headed. “I don’t really know,” I told her.

“Has the L word been spoken?”

I smiled. “Quite recently, as a matter of fact.”

“Was he the first to say it?”

“He was, although I had it on the tip of my tongue.”

She whooped. “Good sign, Mom, when the guy says ‘I love you’ first. If you say it first and he gives you the ‘Me, too’ routine, you can’t be sure if it was even in his head. Hang on.” I heard a muffled, “Just a sec, sweetie. I’m on the phone with Nonna.” Then she said, “Mom, I’m sorry, but I need to get Angela’s breakfast. The school bus will be here in twenty minutes.”

“Give her a hug from me. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

One more to go. Why, oh why, did I wait to let Aunt Terry know about the extra people I invited to our Thanksgiving meal? I had to call her and she was sure to bombard me with questions and advice, if not outright admonishment.

“Hi, Terry,” I said. Maybe I could do an end run around the issue. “I hope you have a big turkey. I invited some friends who didn’t have anyone to celebrate with. You know Bobbie Russell. His partner, Steve, is out of town on business. He might be back on Thanksgiving Day, but we’re not sure. And Bart Matthews, Papa’s attorney, but he’s waffling. And Lily Marsh, the UWM librarian who helped me with research on the Petrovitch case. Did I overstep?” As soon as the question left my mouth, I told myself, Idiot. That opened the door!

Aunt Terry walked right through it. “Your friends are always welcome, Angelina. There is plenty to eat. And speaking of overstepping, what is this on the news about you and Wukowski?”

“Aunt Terry, Papa already took me to task. I’m sorry for embarrassing the family, but I’m a divorced woman with grown children and grandkids. Is it so terrible that I have a boyfriend?”

“That’s not why I asked, la mia nipotina. I’m not chastising you. I’m just curious about how serious you and Wukowski are. Is it more than…sex?”

Hearing her stumble over the word made me smile. I remembered when we had the birds-and-bees talk. She was red and stammering, but she told me the facts and bravely answered all my questions, assuring me that I could come to her with anything. All these years later, she was still that young woman, struggling with her niece’s sexuality.

“We love each other, Aunt Terry, and we’re not seeing others. I’m not sure if it’s heading toward a more serious commitment yet.”

“I will pray for your wisdom and guidance, Angelina.”

I thanked her and sighed with relief when I hung up, wondering if Wukowski made the same kind of call this morning to his mother. At least he didn’t have to run the gauntlet of father, aunt and children, though I felt a bit sad that he was so alone in the world. If all went well, he might come to enjoy my big crazy family. Or not. It was too soon to know.

I checked in with Bobbie and Adriana. There was no news—and no reporters—on their fronts. I decided to pick up my mail and go into the office for a few hours. I needed to type up my notes on the Petrovitch case and update my expense report for Bart.

The Miata was well known to the press. I didn’t want them following me. It was time to put my taxes to use. I called the police.

“Milwaukee Police District One. Officer Franks.”

“Officer, this is Angelina Bonaparte. I wonder if you’re aware of the news regarding my involvement in the Petrovitch case.” It would be more honest to say “my involvement with Homicide Detective Wukowski,” since it was our relationship that the news sharks were circling, but that would be inappropriate.

“Uh…we’re aware of it, Ms. Bonaparte.”

“Well, I have a problem I hope you can help me with. The news reporters are camping out at my condo building and my neighbors have complained to me about being harassed and having access to the garage area blocked.” It wasn’t true yet, but it was a matter of time before folks in the building got fed up. I thought the police would have more compassion for the innocent bystanders than they would for me. “I know the press has a job to do, but I don’t want my neighbors to suffer for it.”

“One minute.”

A few clicks later, I heard, “Lieutenant Reynolds here. So the newshounds gotcha pinned down, Ms. Bonaparte?”

“That’s right, Lieutenant. Is there something you can do to help?”

“If they’re on building property or blocking the driveway to