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

to see Ms. Neh?” I asked, deliberately making my voice soft and gentle. I eased the door open wider and repeated myself. “Please, come in. Susan will be here in a few minutes, I’m sure.” I smiled reassuringly. She was one of the few adults whom I towered over. She probably stood only four foot six and weighed about eighty pounds. I guessed her age at seventy, but with Asians, it’s hard to be sure. She must be someone’s great-grandmother, I thought. “I’m Susan’s office mate, Angelina Bonaparte. And you are…?”

She stepped into the office and closed the door behind her. Then she looked me up and down, nodded once, and spoke in the purest upper-crust British accent. “Mrs. Marjorie Ellingsworth.”

I managed to stop myself from opening the door and looking for Queen Elizabeth doing a ventriloquist act from the hallway. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Mrs. Ellingsworth? Or coffee?”

“No, thank you, my dear. If I might sit down and wait for Ms. Neh?” She settled herself in one of Susan’s office chairs and placed a canvas carryall, the kind that older women use for groceries, on her lap. From it, she extracted a black quilted satchel purse, which she set on Susan’s desk.

My eyes wanted to pop out on springs, like a cartoon character’s. It had to be a Bally Miss Satchel, priced conservatively at nine hundred dollars. I looked Mrs. Ellingsworth over more carefully, noting her black scoopneck St John knit dress with small cap sleeves and cute pleated detail at the knees, easily worth four hundred. Only her shoes spoiled the picture—they were simple black ballet flats, available at any Famous Footwear for thirty dollars. I should know, I wear them often enough with jeans. The incongruity was explained by the large bulges on the inside of each shoe—bunions, the bane of many a heel-wearing woman’s older life. In all, her clothes and accessories alone were worth almost one-and-a-half thou, and none of it was dowdy. I quickly revised my take on Mrs. Ellingsworth. Wealthy, fashionable widow? Au courant granny? Sex toy for a centenarian?

Just as my goofy fantasies started to explode into giggles, another knock came at the door. Without waiting for my response, the messenger entered the office and handed me an ID. I filled out the paperwork for my delivery to Bart and he left, never saying a word. Mrs. Ellingsworth sat ramrod straight in her chair, with her back to the door, her toes barely touching the floor as her ankles crossed daintily, the picture of ladylike posture. But her head swiveled as far around as possible without moving her torso. Apparently even ladies are curious. I just smiled mysteriously and sat back down at my desk. If the old dame wasn’t going to open up to me, I sure wasn’t going to open up to her. Let her wonder.

At ten-thirty, Susan bustled in, all a-twitter. “Oh, Mrs. Ellingsworth, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. I had an early appointment and the construction on I-94 is just awful.”

“So my chauffer told me, dear. No need to fuss, I’ve only been here a few minutes. Ms. Bonaparte was very gracious.”

It was time to give Susan and her client some privacy. Mentally, I pronounced it like Mrs. Ellingsworth would—prih-vacy. “If you’ll excuse me, Susan, Mrs. Ellingsworth.” I started to shut down my laptop and gather my purse and briefcase. This was one of the drawbacks of sharing space, but my work took me out of the office so much that it was seldom a problem. “I’ll be back around noon, Susan, if you want to get a bite?”

“Sounds good,” she told me.

As I left the office, I saw Mrs. Ellingsworth extract a flash drive and several inches of paper from her canvas bag. I wanted to be that kind of old lady, some day.

***

I returned to the office at noon, used the facilities down the hall and freshened my make-up. After knocking discreetly on the office door, I looked in to see only Susan. Plopping my stuff on my desk, I remarked, “That Mrs. Ellingsworth is quite the woman!”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Susan said. “I’m supposed to revise her estate plan to leave a bequest to her lover, who’s younger than the oldest grandchild.”

“Way to go, Marjorie.”

“Jane Dunwoodie will have a fit,” Susan noted, her mouth a tight line.

“What’s Dunwoodie got to do with it?”

“They handle her insurance and some of her investments. I’ll have to file her change of beneficiary with them and make sure her lawyer gets them a copy of her latest revised will.”

“Latest?”

“Let’s put it this way, Angie. If Mrs. Ellingsworth owned a football team, the second string would be on the field by now.”

“Holy…. What do her kids say about it?”

“She has three grown sons. I’m not sure they know everything. They see Mom out and about on the arms of various much-younger men, but I think they prefer to look the other way and pretend they’re just ‘escorts.’ It’s less embarrassing to the family that way. If they knew that these guys move in and out of the will, they’d have a fit and probably try to have her declared incompetent.” She stopped. “The thing is, I’m pretty sure Mrs. Ellingsworth has all her marbles, but I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing by helping her direct her money that way. I mean, she’s spent a small fortune on some of these guys, even after they parted. She set one of them up in his own sporting goods shop.”

“Hmmm. Well, it’s not much different from Tony putting Elisa up in an apartment and paying her expenses. At least Mrs. Ellingsworth isn’t married.” I paused. “Is she?”

“No, her husband died decades ago. She took over an essentially marginal import business and made it into a multi-billion dollar enterprise. All the kids work for her and some of the grandkids do, too.”

“The family members will get a fair share when she dies?” Susan