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

walk from there.” He gave an indelicate snort. “As for Padua Manor, don’t accept any food or drink while you’re there, and wear something that can be sterilized.”

“Really?” Several of the violations in my earlier research were for unsanitary food preparation and failure to follow practices to reduce risk of infection. There were also violations for mishandling patient medications. It sounded like an unsavory place. “It’s that bad?” I asked.

“It has a rep. The residents are mostly on government assistance, without family to be sure they get decent care. There’ve been three cases of suspicious death in the last eight years, but not enough evidence to bring charges.” He shook his head.

“But they’re a licensed hospice?”

“Just in the past few months, from what I understand.” He leaned over the table and spoke in a low voice. “It’s easier to get pain medication prescribed for someone in hospice care. Makes me wonder if that was a motivation for their deciding to set some beds aside for hospice.”

That thought brought me up short. If Dante was right about hell having circles of punishment, I hoped those who preyed on the helpless were in one of the hotter areas.

Chapter 3

A beautiful lady is an accident of nature. A beautiful old lady is a work of art. — Louis Nizer

The B&B was small and cozy—chintzy, in the literal meaning of the word. I unpacked, took a long hot bath, brushed and flossed and gargled to get the taste of garlic out of my mouth, and settled into bed. My call to Wukowski went to voice mail. I told him I was in the Point trying to locate a deadbeat dad and that I expected to be back in Milwaukee tomorrow. I asked if he would be free that night—meaning, how about some steamin’ hot sex?

Absolutely, moja droga! was his reply. Moy-ah drow-ga. Polish for “my dear.” It seemed we were on the same page.

I watched a PBS documentary without really paying attention. When I turned out the light, bits and pieces of the Gaiman audiobook, about a young boy whose father was a mythical monster, kept popping into my head. My father was no monster, but he had a life apart from what I knew. He ran a fruit and vegetable business, but he also held sway in the local Mafia, from which he was now “retired.” I knew no details of his hidden life, even though I chose to use it at times for protection. Only a fool would threaten Pasquale Bonaparte’s daughter! I dreamed of the many-headed Hydra and woke to the smell of coffee, bacon and blueberry muffins. Breakfast was served.

I donned a navy business suit and plain white blouse for the nursing home visit. Downstairs, I enjoyed the muffins and coffee, along with fruit, but skipped the bacon, eggs and waffles. There was still a slight taste of garlic on my tongue. I hoped I didn’t smell of it and longed for my steam shower. Garlic is one spice that can be sweated out.

I asked the young couple who ran the B&B to hold my room until one o’clock. I wanted to return after my visit to Padua Manor and change clothes before I went to the shelter. My professional look might put off the residents.

At nine-thirty, I headed for Padua Manor, circled the block to get a feel for the neighborhood and parked in their back lot, which was punctuated by potholes and crackled blacktop. The building was one-story, L-shaped, with a patio in the shelter of the L at the back of the building. Dilapidated plastic chairs sat in a straight row along the short wall. A woman in scrubs stood smoking at the entry.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m here to see Mrs. Rogers.”

“Ya hafta go around the front and ring the bell for entry.” She made no eye contact.

I carefully walked the uneven concrete path to the front of the building and depressed the bell for admittance.

A stout, motherly woman opened the door. “Ms. Carson?” she asked. I nodded. “Please to come in,” she said, moving aside for me.

The entry hall evoked feelings of wretchedness, with its musty smell of urine, disinfectant and oatmeal combined. As Mrs. Rogers escorted me to her office, I walked past vacant-eyed women parked in wheelchairs in the hallway and heard a man’s moans from a room with a closed door. Mrs. Rogers ignored the sounds, walked to a door and slapped a card to a reader. With a click, the door unlocked.

Her office was a complete contradiction of the rest of the facility: clean, tidy, with citrus overtones that emanated from an infuser plugged into an outlet. She indicated a chair for me and then sat behind her desk. “I understand that you need placement for your uncle.”

I nodded. “Uncle Jake lives near here, on the family farm. My brother and I are his only living relatives.” I spoke in clipped tones, intended to convey my need to hurry up and place the old coot. “He’s been dealing with liver failure and the drugs aren’t working. He can’t live alone anymore, even with the day help I hired. It’s time for hospice care. Bill saw on your website that you provide that?” I let the question hang there.

“Well, we do in certain cases. Some hospice patients need palliative care, like IVs and feeding tubes. We don’t have the skilled nursing staff for that.”

“Oh, Uncle won’t need more than medication to keep him comfortable.” I paused and she waited. “Mrs. Rogers, I am a busy woman. I live in Los Angeles. I need to find appropriate care for my uncle and get back to my job as soon as possible. People rely on me.” I hated the way I sounded, like a woman too wrapped up in herself to give a damn about a dying relative.

“Well, now, of course you do, Ms. Carson. And that’s why we’re here, to help those who need assistance and to relieve their relatives of