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

“Why is Bisnonno’s picture there, too?” asked Angela.

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” I responded. “You see, when he was a young man, Bisnonno had some friends who were part of a gang, and one of the new gang members is suspected of murdering a woman. Bisnonno had nothing to do with this, but they decided that his picture might make the story more interesting.”

Although I was careful to avoid any mention of it, Donny broke in with his usual precocious understanding. “You mean the Mafia, right? Like in The Sopranos?”

“Have you seen that show, Donny?”

“No, Mom and Dad say it’s too violent.”

“Well, they’re right about that. But you’re right that some people think that Bisnonno was part of the Mafia. That’s why they dug out his picture and put it in the paper, even though he had nothing to do with the story they wrote about. It’s called sensationalism—they just want to create a sensation so people will buy the paper.” The three serious faces of my grandchildren looked at me, waiting. “So I wanted you to know why Nonna and Bisnonno were in the papers today. Just in case someone at your school says anything to you about it. Okay?”

They nodded in unison.

“Any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“Okay, then. Who wants to play kickball in the back yard?”

“Me.”

“I do.”

Emma waggled her finger at me. “Mom, you’re incorrigible. And wonderful. Don’t wreck your clothes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I responded, as we both laughed at our role reversal. I gathered David and his Elaine, and Emma’s John, and we all headed outside with the children to play. Emma, ever the lady, waved us on. I played on the children’s side. We beat the adults soundly and ate a hearty meal afterwards in Papa’s formal dining room.

Then, while the men snoozed in the living room and the kids watched Shrek in the den, we women cleaned up the kitchen and dining room and gossiped. Of course, our talk turned to men. To Terry’s Fausto. To my Kevin. We both played it cagey, deflecting Emma’s and Elaine’s questions and comments and keeping our thoughts to ourselves.

Chapter 12

Anyone who has obeyed nature by transmitting a piece of gossip experiences the explosive relief that accompanies the satisfying of a primary need.

—Primo T. Levi

It was only four when the family party broke up at Papa’s. I decided to make a few calls in Elisa’s old neighborhood, but first I had to change clothes. The smell of onions and garlic from Papa’s embrace was apparent, even to me. I drove home, showered and dressed in a plain linen shift and sandals, and then set out to the address Elisa gave when she was hired at Dunwoodie’s. It was in the village of West Milwaukee, a one-mile square area squeezed between Milwaukee and West Allis, in a lower middle class neighborhood that was one step up from the barrio of Milwaukee’s south side. Maybe some of Elisa’s old neighbors would furnish me with an alternate murder suspect.

Milwaukee bungalows lined both sides of the street, most with side drives and detached one-car garages, some well-maintained, but many showing signs of neglect. The owner versus renter mentality was obvious. In the fifties, these houses would have been shaded by towering elms whose canopies met in the sky above the street pavement. Dutch Elm Disease hit hard in the late fifties and early sixties, decimating the elm population in most of southeast Wisconsin. I missed the stately old trees.

I parked on the street in front of Elisa’s former house, one of the rentals. Tobacco-spit brown paint peeled from the clapboards, the roof was patched with mismatched shingles, and the steps up to the front porch looked none too sturdy. I pressed the doorbell, not confident that it would work, but heard the ding-dong of an old-style ringer sound within the house, followed by footsteps. I took a couple of steps back, not wanting to seem threatening to whomever would answer. The door creaked open and a middle-aged man, wearing a sleeveless tee shirt and khaki pants, stood behind the screen door. “Yeah?” His expression was sullen.

“Good afternoon,” I greeted him. “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m trying to locate someone who knew Elisa Morano when she lived at this address.”

He studied me in silence for a few seconds. “Why?” The question was direct but his voice was non-confrontational.

“I’m a private investigator.” As I spoke, I extracted a business card from my purse and offered it to him. “Did you move in here after Elisa left?”

He eased the screen door open, took my card and studied it for a moment. “You the one in the papers this morning?”

“That’s right.” I waited, wondering if the newspaper article would be a help or a hindrance.

“Well, I didn’t know her. I moved in here after her old roommate left. Marsha.”

“Can you tell me Marsha’s last name and new address?” I had my Cross pen poised over an open steno book.

“Her last name is Cantwell. I accidentally opened a bill addressed to her here, after she moved out. Don’t know where she moved to. I sent the bill to the landlord.”

“And how might I get in touch with him?”

“You might call him.” He was mocking me now, but I kept my temper under wraps, held the pen over the paper and waited. “Ben Sobczak, 555-8703,” he said.

“Thanks. If you think of any other information that might help, please give me a call.”

He flicked my card against his thumbnail and responded, “Yeah, right,” as he closed and latched the door.

Back in the car, I got a voice recording and left my cell phone number and a request that Ben call me at his earliest convenience. I added that it had to do with locating a former tenant. Landlords get all kinds of repair calls and tend to avoid answering the phone directly. I was hoping he would call me back right away, but after five