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

“We are, but it’s fun to flirt, right?”

I smiled at that. “It is, indeed. So, did you connect with Margie and Spike?”

“Yep, in the parking lot of the Save-A-Lot grocery. She wouldn’t talk to me unless I gave her fifty bucks to ‘cover her losses’ while she stepped away from her corner. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course. It’s part of the cost of doing business, albeit a little unconventional and a little high. I wouldn’t think she’d make much outside a discount store.”

“She explained a lot about the art of panhandling when we went to a local coffee shop. Seems people on the low end of the economic spectrum are more generous than well-off folks. Margie thinks it’s because the ‘riches,’ as she termed it, were either uncomfortable around the ‘poors,’ or afraid of them.”

“Makes sense,” I had to acknowledge, remembering times when I looked away from a street beggar.

“The waitress knew Margie from some backdoor panhandling. She let Spike slide under the table. He really is a shy dog. He wouldn’t even sniff my hand. Maybe he was abused before Margie adopted him. Anyway, we ordered sandwiches and coffee and talked a bit. Margie knew Willie for years. She said his last name was Parsons. About two years ago, Willie started having what she termed ‘episodes.’ He’d double over from abdominal pain and retch. Late last year, he started to vomit blood and he’d scratch his skin so hard, it bled. Margie tried to get him to go to an ER, but he refused.”

“Poor man. That sounds terrible.”

“Yeah.” Bobbie cleared his throat. “So get this! In late December, just before Christmas, Willie told Margie to stop worrying about him. Said that all his troubles were over, that he had a nice place to spend his last days, with a clean bed, three squares and pills to help ease his pain and the ‘itchies.’ She never saw him again, and when she asked Jim, he told her the same.”

I opened the Padua Manor patient record for Jim Beltran. End-stage Cholestatic Liver Disease was the diagnosis. The chart contained a notation for ‘cholestyramine to relieve severe pruritis.’ I quickly Googled pruritis. It was medicalese for itching. “That matches with the Jim Beltran records from the Manor, Bobbie. I don’t know if we’ll get any closer, unless we catch up with Hank/Jim/Karl and he’s willing to talk.”

“Maybe I’ll get lucky when I look at rentals. Devon put me on to a couple of places. I’ll search online tonight and check the Sunday paper tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t use your real name. And please be careful. If you sense any danger or even feel uncomfortable in your surroundings, leave! That’s an order. And call me before you head back tomorrow. If I don’t hear from you by, say, two o’clock, I’ll call Devon and, if he hasn’t heard from you, I’ll call the police.”

“I’ll be in touch, I promise. And I’ll be careful. And I’ll pay attention to my gut. ’Night, Mom.”

Before I could say more, the call ended. Damned whippersnapper! I finished my wine, poured another glass and resumed P&P.

Chapter 15

A happy family is but an earlier heaven. — George Bernard Shaw

Sunday dawned sunny and cold, too cold to run outdoors. It relieved me of the hated feeling of being constrained by someone else, namely the Bike Trail killer. I slipped into yoga pants and a t-shirt and headed for the building’s gym and the elliptical.

A woman I frequently saw on the lakefront trail last summer was pounding the treadmill when I arrived. She gave me a little nod, then grimaced. “Exercising indoors is getting old, but I’m too chicken to run outside these days. I sure hope the cops catch that bastard soon.”

“Me, too,” I said, realizing how the killings impacted the whole community and especially women. I sent up a silent appeal for a quick resolution. After thirty minutes, I took the elevator back upstairs and checked my cellphone. Bobbie’s text awaited me: on the hunt. I responded: Watch out for bad guys. Then I began preparations for the day.

Sunday Dinner at Papa’s, which was always capitalized in my head, followed the same script each week. Aunt Terry went to Mass at eight, then returned home to ready the dining room and prepare zabaglione, a creamy custard which incorporates Marsala wine. A separate portion, without wine, would be prepared for my grandchildren, who attended with their parents.

Papa started the Bolognese sauce while Terry was at church. With the saucepan simmering, he would take a cup of coffee and the Sunday paper to his den and let the family commotion bubble around him until it was time to eat.

I aimed to arrive at eleven. Although Papa preferred to see a woman in a skirt or dress, I picked dark teal wool trousers and an eggshell sweater. The pants would accommodate playing on the floor with my grandchildren.

Terry greeted me at the back door with a hug and kiss. “Mia cara nipote, how are you?” She peeked around me. “No Wukowski today?”

I shook my head. “No, he’s working all weekend. This case…” I let it trail off. Words came hard for such horror.

“Povero, to deal with such a thing.” She crossed herself. “I pray they find the killer soon.”

I nodded and headed for the den to say hello to Papa. I could barely see the top of his head behind the front section of the Journal Sentinel. “Papa …” I stopped dead.

“MPD Incompetent?” read the headline. “3 Months with No Progress on Bike Trail Murders,” the subhead asserted. My heart beat fast in indignation, knowing how many hours and resources the department was dedicating to the pursuit of the killer. How dare they!

“Angelina.” A gentle hand settled on my forearm. “Are you all right? I called your name twice.”

Papa stood at my side. I glared at him and he stepped back.

“Piccola,” he said, “you’re shaking. What is it?”

“This”—I grabbed the paper from the side table