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

I was horrified. “No!” She jumped back a bit in the booth. I gentled my tone. “No, please don’t do that, Augusta. It could be dangerous if you got caught. I may be able to get one through the state licensing bureau. Was he an LPN?”

She gave a genteel snort. “Mrs. Mean would never pay an LPN’s salary at night. Karl was just an aide. Not even a CNA. He told me he was working on his certification, though.”

Thirty-five souls, most ill or in stages of dementia, under the care of one unskilled person, all night. It was criminal, and I intended to file a complaint when I got back to Milwaukee. Meanwhile, I reassured Augusta that I would be able to get a picture of Karl through legal channels. “Please keep our meeting secret and act like you always do at the facility.”

“Snooty and nosy, you mean?” she asked me.

“Who calls you that?”

“Mrs. Rogers.” She smiled. “I’m glad she thinks badly of me, as bad as she is herself. Plus, she stays away from me.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” I said. “By the way, how did you call me?”

“My cellphone, dear.”

“Do you always have it with you?”

“Oh, yes, ever since an aide stole my last one and used it to run up charges. I never leave my cellphone out of my sight.”

“Good. Let’s program my number into it. But don’t put my real name. Mrs. Rogers knows it. Use … Terry. That’s my aunt’s name.”

“Terry.” She took her phone from her purse and set me up in her contacts list.

I chided myself for thinking that she wasn’t competent to do it. Then I assured her that she could call me at any time, day or night. We left the restaurant and I drove her back to the park. I wanted to take her to the front door of Padua Manor, but didn’t want anyone to see her in my car. Something was definitely off at the nursing home. I didn’t want Augusta caught up in it.

Chapter 4

By doubting we are led to question, by questioning we arrive at the truth. — Peter Abelard

Jamieson’s office was a small storefront near the UWSP campus. When I arrived, he was sitting at the secretary’s desk, with the phone to his ear. “Yes, Mr. Carrero, Friday at ten. Be sure to bring the contract with you. Hasta la vista.”

He hung up and approached me. “Angie, good to see you.” He looked me up and down. “Good choice of clothing. Nice, but not fancy.”

I smiled. “That was my intention.”

“My secretary, Alice, is at lunch.” He made a Vanna White sweep of his arm. “Welcome to the legal offices of Frank Jamieson.”

The waiting area was clean, but spare, with wooden chairs lining one wall and a slightly scarred table holding copies of the Wall Street Journal, Stevens Point Journal and Stevens Point City-Times, as well as tattered issues of Field and Stream, Wisconsin Sportsman and the Wisconsin Natural Resources magazine. Apparently, Frank was a news junkie and outdoorsman.

He ushered me into his office, which was decorated with good-quality, but obviously well-used, furniture. Offering me a visitor’s chair, he turned away and opened the door to a small closet. There, he hung up his suitcoat and tie, unfastened the top button of his dress shirt, and pulled on a tan shawl-collared sweater with a big wooden button at the joint of the collar. Very Fred Rogers, low key and non-threatening. Turning to me, he said, “It’s about a ten-minute walk from here. Okay with you?”

“Of course. Uh … maybe I should leave my purse here?” I hated feeling that the shelter clients might steal from me, but people who are down on their luck can be forced into choices they wouldn’t otherwise make. The old dictum, “Better safe than sorry,” sprang into my head and I barely managed to stop myself from speaking it.

Frank nodded to the coat closet. “Probably for the best.”

I extracted my cellphone and put it into my coat pocket, and we headed out into a sunny, cold day.

As we walked, Frank gave me some background on A Place To Lay Your Head. “It’s from Jesus’ statement to the crowd in Matthew 8: ‘Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.’ A local priest decided to open the church for overnight ‘visitors,’ he called them. Some of the parishioners complained, and he reminded them of Jesus and asked if they would refuse him a place to sleep. I guess the congregation took it to heart, because within a year, they purchased a rundown house, rehabbed it and opened the shelter. They have a women’s side and a men’s side, with Mrs. Ramirez, a regular gorgon, guarding the gate at night to be sure there’s no crossover. Not so much to discourage sex as to protect the women.”

“They don’t accept families?” I knew that women with children were one of the fastest growing homeless populations.

“No, they’re not set up for that. But they find places for them through other county services. It’s not perfect, Angie, but it’s a damn good effort.”

“Sounds like it,” I affirmed. From his low-key but passionate defense, I assumed that Frank was personally vested in the facility.

He continued. “The residents leave after breakfast, supposedly to look for work.” He grimaced. “There’s not much out there for them. They return for an evening meal, enforced prayer time, and community time before lights out.”

“Enforced prayer time?”

“I know, it sounds draconian, but the staff says it helps keep the peace. And they rotate among various faith traditions—Catholic, Protestant and Jewish, but also Muslim, Hindi, New Age, pagan—if the practitioner will come, they’re welcome.” He laughed. “The folks at St. Mark’s were a little taken back when Father Al first proposed it. But he wanted it to be a place where anyone would be welcomed, religious or not.