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

to the counter, the barista called, “The usual, Mr. Dunwoodie?” He nodded and headed my way.

I smiled as he passed my table, and he smiled back. It was not the casual smile of a stranger who wants to acknowledge another, nor was it the smile of a man appreciating a woman. He had full lips, like a young Victor Mature, that curved in a cupid’s bow. Womanly lips. Predatory lips. For the first time since the investigation started, I felt the threat that the letters stated. Watch yourself, Angie, I told myself. There’s a killer on the loose.

Dunwoodie placed his briefcase and newspaper on a table behind me and walked up to the counter to pick up his order. I waited until he settled in to approach him. “John Dunwoodie?” I asked. One eyebrow rose slightly as he looked me up and down. A player, definitely a player.

“Yes, Ms. …”

“Bonaparte, Angelina Bonaparte. I believe you know my father, Pasquale.”

It was like a scene change in a play. One act, you see a bedroom, then the curtain descends and when it rises, you see an office. Suddenly, he was all business. “Pat? Sure, I know Pat well. Done a lot of business with him over the years. How is he?”

“He’s very well, thanks for asking. May I join you for a moment?”

“Please do,” he said, as he placed his briefcase and newspaper on an empty chair.

I took a few moments to sit and arrange my own briefcase, paper, and purse on the floor and to place my latte on the table. His business persona was firmly in place when I spoke. “I’m here professionally, Mr. Dunwoodie.”

“Call me John,” he said, but there was no hint of flirtatiousness in the statement. “If you’re in need of insurance or investment help, Ms. Bonaparte, I’d be happy to make an appointment to meet you at my office. This isn’t the most confidential place to talk.”

“It’s my profession, not yours, that brings me here, John. I’m a private investigator, working for Bart Matthews on the Belloni defense. I tried to see you at your office, but your wife was most insistent that you couldn’t take the time to talk with me.” I smiled a sheepish smile. “I hope you don’t mind this little subterfuge.”

He responded with a just-one-of-the-guys grin. “No, of course not. Jane does tend to guard my time. But I’ll be glad to help you if I can.”

“I need to gather some facts concerning Elisa Morano’s employment with you. She worked for your agency for five months?”

“That’s about right.”

“Would you say she was competent?”

“Yes. I mean, I had no problems with her.”

“But Jane did?”

“Well, Jane has very high standards. She tends to be a perfectionist.”

“So she and Elisa didn’t get along?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There might have been some friction, but after all, when you work together for hours a day, that’s bound to happen. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.”

“How would you characterize your relationship with Elisa?”

“Relationship? She was an employee.”

He took a sip of his coffee and a bite of scone. I didn’t care if he talked with his mouth full, though. This wasn’t an etiquette class. I kept at him, sensing that his was the kind of personality that could be pushed. “Would you say you were friends?”

“No. We never saw each other outside the office.”

“Did she ever ask your advice about men? About Tony?”

“No. I told you, it was a boss-employee relationship, strictly business.”

“Then how do you explain the calls she made to your cell phone and home? Even after she left your employ. Some days, there were four or five calls.” I pulled Bertha’s sheaf of papers from my briefcase and brandished them at him. “That doesn’t seem like a boss-employee relationship, does it? I wonder what we’d find out if we subpoenaed your phone records. Were you calling Elisa as much as she was calling you, John?”

His eyes opened wide and he started to choke. He coughed and sputtered and wiped tears from his eyes, sipping at his coffee and trying to regain his composure. The barista brought a cup of water to the table and stood by, asking, “You all right, Mr. Dunwoodie?” He coughed some more and nodded as he sipped the water.

“Sorry,” he said, “I inhaled a piece of scone.”

Very convenient, I thought. Gave you plenty of time to think up a reason for those calls. I wondered—can a person force themselves to swallow down the wrong tube, as Terry would say.

“You okay, now?” I asked. He nodded. “Then let’s get back to the phone calls, shall we?”

“Look, it’s not what you’re thinking. Elisa had investments that we managed for her. She was calling me about her accounts.” He clasped his hands and leaned toward me, a picture of sincerity. I was sure I was about to hear lies. “My wife, Jane, she’s…kind of jealous. Not that I ever gave her reason, but she just couldn’t handle having such a pretty woman in the office. So when Elisa left, we agreed that it would be best for her to contact me on the cell phone, so Jane wouldn’t know.”

“And the calls at home?”

“Well, I’m not in the office a lot. Jane really runs the business. I do a lot of the PR work—golf, lunches, you know.” I nodded. “So if Elisa wanted to make a change to her account, she’d call me at home sometimes. If Jane answered, she’d either hang up or pretend it was a wrong number.”

“I’ve seen some of her fund statements. She had quite a balance for such a young woman. How much did she start out with?”

“I don’t recall.”

It was the Ronald Reagan defense tactic. I wasn’t having any. “Estimate.”

“I’d say about 50K.”

“And you never asked her how she came by that much?”

“Look, Angie, if I asked those kinds of questions, I wouldn’t have any clients. I never asked your old man where he got his money, either.”

“My papa isn’t the one under discussion here.” He blinked