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

the center could use it to get folks to and from work or shopping. It ain’t much, but I wouldn’t want ya to think I was hiding nothing. If his wife wants it, it’s hers.” She looked down at the ground.

What else is she holding back, I wondered. “I’m pretty sure Marcy will have no objections. I’ll call her tonight, when she’s home from work, and let you know for sure. Would you want to give me your number, or should I get in touch with Frank instead?”

She assessed me for a long count of three and said, “I guess you’re okay. Come on back downstairs and I’ll give you a card. If you get voice mail, it’s not private, so just say it’s Angie and let me know where to reach you.”

I realized that my business cards were in my bag, back at Frank’s office. “I’ll do that,” I said.

“Could I see the title, please?” Frank asked. “I want to be sure it’s a legal transfer, Doris. For your sake.”

“Hmph. Guess I know about a title transfer, Mr. Lawyer, but come on down to my office.” She turned and clumped back downstairs and led us to a small side room off the dining room.

Frank leaned down and whispered to me, “I want to see what name he used on it.”

“Good idea,” I said.

Doris’ office was a long, narrow room with swinging doors at one end. I suspected it had once been a butler’s pantry. The old glass-fronted cupboards for china and glassware now held office supplies. At the end nearest the window, a kneehole desk boasted an older laptop. Doris sat down in front of it and unlocked a drawer intended to hold silver. Inside were stacks of file folders in slanted trays. She fingered through them and extracted a folder labeled ‘Beltran.’ “Here ya go.” She handed the title to Frank.

He looked it over pretty closely. “I’d like to borrow this for a couple of days, Doris, and take it to the DMV to make sure the vehicle transfer is properly complete. That okay with you?”

“Yeah, I guess. Let me make a copy, though, for our records.” She scanned the title using a small printer that sat on top of one of the lower cupboards and handed the original back to Frank. “Anything else I can help ya with?”

“Do you think we could look over the car, Doris?” I asked.

She sighed as she took a key from her key ring. “Thorough, ain’t ya?”

I laughed. “Some people call me pita.” She quirked a brow. “Pain In The Ass,” I responded to her unasked question.

That got a deep belly laugh from her. “I got that,” she said. “Car’s in the back lot. You’ll know it right away. It has more rust than metal. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done.”

Frank and I went out the back door and down a set of wide wooden stairs to the Honda. It was indeed past its prime. I could see flashes of silver body, but not many. Frank wanted to help me, but I told him, “I’m used to looking for things that are out of place.” I ducked into the front bench seat and examined the dash, the glove box and the floor. Nothing. With great distaste, I insinuated my hands into the juncture of seat back and bottom, longing for latex gloves. As expected, my nails came out gunky. A long soak in antiseptic would be needed ASAP. After repeating the process in the back seat and climbing into the trunk, I said to Frank, “We’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“I think you’re right, Angie. Surely if Hank wanted something to be found, he’d make it easier.”

As Frank started to lock the car, Doris exited the back door and came toward us, holding a plastic zip-lock baggie. “I almost forgot,” she said. “Jim left this, too.” She handed it to Frank.

“What is it?” I asked, as I sidled close to him.

“Fuses,” Doris said. “Jim told me we’d need them, because they were always blowing. Funny, though, we ain’t had to use them.” She shrugged. “But I wanted ya to see them. I wanted to be sure nobody’d come back at me for not telling everything that Jim left.”

“It’s good to be careful, Doris,” Frank said, “but please don’t worry that we’d think you were hiding something.” He put a hand on her big shoulder. “You’re as honest as they come. I know that.”

She sniffed. “Should hope so.” Then she whacked Frank on the back. He lurched forward a bit, but managed to steady himself.

“We’re almost done here, Doris. We just want to take a look under the hood.”

Frank unlocked the car and I climbed into the front seat and popped the hood. He leaned into the open door. “The fuse box is under the dash. You check it out while I pretend to look at the engine.

I located the box and wrestled the cover off. Inside the box, wedged between two rows of fuses, was a piece of stiff paper. I eased it out, replaced the cover and exited the car. Once under the hood with Frank, out of sight of the kitchen windows, I examined the paper. It was long and narrow, thick like manila paper and perforated on one end. It reminded me of the tabs I used to slide into hanging file folders in the days before adhesive printer labels. Carefully printed in block letters was the sequence $x9Y#nOS7PybNCRekUW@S-Mail.com.

At last, a clue! “Marcy gave me his Gmail account when he first disappeared. It’s still open, but it gets nothing except spam,” I told Frank. “I’ve never heard of S-Mail, and there’s no password. And what a strange login!”

Frank peered over my shoulder. “Very strange. Let’s head back to my office and see if we can figure it out.”

I tucked the paper into my pants pocket as Frank released the rod holding the hood open. It fell with a clang. “Careful,” I told Frank. “It might disintegrate.”

We returned