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

business to succeed. Not to mention, Susan gives me a break on her accounting services, because I provide her with detailed and accurate data for income and expenses. She shudders at clients who come in with shoeboxes stuffed with receipts, but the extra billable hours needed to straighten out the mess mean she smiles all the way to the bank.

About eleven, the office phone rang. “This is Attorney Frank Jamieson. I understand you represent Mrs. Henry Wagner, Ms. Bonaparte.”

Kudos to his secretary for giving him the correct pronunciation, and to him for using it. “That’s right. Mr. Wagner abandoned his wife and children almost six years ago. I’ve been trying to locate him since then. My assistant came across the obituary yesterday. Naturally, Mrs. Wagner is distraught and wants to understand the circumstances of her husband’s life since he walked out on the family. Did he leave a letter or message for her, Mr. Jamieson?”

“Call me Frank. No, I’m afraid not. I didn’t even realize he was married. This is quite disturbing.”

“What were the circumstances of your business transactions with him?”

“Very odd, Ms. Bonaparte. Very odd.”

My skin began to prickle. “How so?”

“Would it be a huge imposition for you to drive up here? I prefer to talk in person.”

“It’s possible, but I hate to bill my client for work that could be accomplished on the phone. Give me some idea of why the drive is necessary.”

“I do some pro bono work from time to time for folks at the local shelter who get into legal hassles. In November, I went to court on behalf of a woman named Doris, who was charged with vagrancy. Basically, it was harassment. She wasn’t causing any trouble, nor was she a public nuisance, but some good citizen didn’t like the look of her on the street in front of their store. Apparently, she talked me up at the shelter.

“After that, Mr. Wagner tracked me down at my favorite coffee shop and asked for legal help. He gave me his real name, but told me he went by Jim Beltran. When I asked why, he just shrugged and told me it wasn’t illegal to use a pseudonym as long as there was no intent to defraud. So he knew a little about the law. Then he said he was dying and wanted to specifically arrange for an obituary after his funeral, not before. He was quite adamant about that. He told me he had advanced liver failure and didn’t know if he’d make it to New Year’s.” Jamieson paused. “I thought it odd, because he looked healthy. His skin color and eyes were fine and his belly wasn’t distended.”

“You appear to be familiar with the symptoms,” I said.

“Yeah, my dad was an unrepentant alcoholic.” He sighed. “Anyway, Wagner refused to come into the office—he had the obituary wording written on lined notepaper—so I drafted a contract by hand and took a small payment then and there. He said the nursing home would call me when he died, but they’d use the Beltran ID. I ran the obit when Padua Manor notified me of his death. It’s been bothering me ever since. Something doesn’t add up, Ms. Bonaparte, but I’m not an investigator and I don’t have time to dig any deeper. Maybe you do.”

“Call me Angie. And to tell you the truth, this case has been vexing me, too, since the day Marcy came into my office and hired me to find her husband, fifty-eight months ago. Nobody simply disappears off the grid and then reappears in an obit.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s a two and a half hour drive from Milwaukee to Stevens Point. Can we meet this afternoon?”

“How about I buy you supper? Say, five-thirty? There’s a great burger joint not far from the UWSP campus—Marvin’s. Garlic cheeseburgers and Frank’s fries. It’s a cholesterol crash, but worth it.”

“Sounds good.”

He gave me directions and we hung up.

Since I would be making the trip anyway, I called for an appointment at the nursing home where Hank died.

“Padua Manor. This is Mrs. Rogers.” The voice was sweet, almost cloying.

“Good afternoon. My name is Angelina Bonaparte. I represent Mrs. Henry Wagner. Her husband, whom you may know as James Beltran—”

She interrupted me. “You’ll need to contact our attorney.” The sweetness turned sour as she rattled off the name.

“Mrs. Wagner isn’t planning a lawsuit. She just wants to know about her husband’s last days.”

“That is confidential information, Ms. Bonaparte. Call our lawyer.” With a click, the call ended.

Even given the unusual circumstance of a resident with a false name, that was an overreaction! My devious mind mulled over ways to gather information from them.

I walked over to Bobbie’s temporary work space in one corner of our conference room. “Bobbie, the nursing home where Hank Wagner died shut me down when I said I wanted an appointment to talk with them. I need to get in there and look around. I’d like you to call and ask to tour the place. I’ll be in Stevens Point tonight and tomorrow.”

He grinned. “Can I go? I can pose as your husband.”

That was mind-boggling! Bobbie was almost thirty years my junior. “Afraid not,” I told him. “Marcy has a limited budget. While I appreciate all you do on an intern’s stipend, I don’t think it’s fair to have you pay for a room and meals out of your own pocket.”

“Oh, well, I have a kick-ass lesson with Bram tomorrow anyway. I hate to miss that, so it’s for the best.”

“What kind of lesson?”

“Krav Maga, self-defense with some offensive moves. The Israelis teach it to their military personnel.” He shook his head. “Bram is one scary guy, even with a bum knee.”

“I’ll have to call him. I can use a refresher. He might have some moves that are effective for a smaller woman.”

“I can almost guarantee it, Ange.”

“Okay. Back to the Wagner case. Mrs. Rogers, who identified herself as the administrator, might recognize my voice when we meet, if she hears