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

don’t get the connection between auctions and finding her old man. Is he an auctioneer?”

“No, he’s a guy with a collectible fetish. It’s a little hard to explain on the phone. Would you be willing to meet me and talk about it?”

“Is there any cash in this deal for me?”

“Probably not. My client is pretty strapped since he cleaned out their accounts. But I could buy you a lunch while we talked.”

“Lady, I’m running this place pretty much single-handed right now. I don’t have time to ‘do lunch.’” The sarcasm was heavy. I waited out his silence. “Okay,” he said in a resigned tone of voice, “I’ll give you twenty minutes before I open tomorrow morning, if you bring the coffee. Six-thirty, sharp.”

“Starbucks?”

“What else?”

“You got it. And thanks, Larry.”

He hung up and I printed two copies of the material on the Mego game. I filed one copy in the Wagner folder and put another in my briefcase for the morning.

***

At five-fifteen, I shut down my laptop, tidied my desk and locked my files. After setting the motion detectors and the new door locks, I went down the hall to the women’s bathroom, a remnant from times gone by, with an old-fashioned anteroom that boasted a vanity area. I plopped my purse and briefcase down and surveyed myself in the mirror. Of course, my hair didn’t need any attention, but the subdued makeup I’d applied that morning to meet John Dunwoodie would look pretty washed out in bar light. I added a line of coppery eye shadow next to my eyelashes, smudged it with a Q-tip, and freshened my blush and lipstick. Then I stood to give myself a final once-over. Professional woman, I thought. Successful. Not bad looking, either. It would have to do.

Ed’s Tap is a neighborhood bar that serves homemade soup, sandwiches and pizza. Marlene, a.k.a. Mrs. Ed, was behind the bar when I entered. All three-hundred-plus pounds of her. Ed weighs about one-fifty. I’m sure they’ve heard every Jack Spratt joke going, but they just smile and carry on running the bar. Ed cooks and Marlene bartends and serves the food. It seems to work for them.

I spotted Wukowski at a table in the back corner, but I stopped at the bar first. “Hey, Marlene, how’s it going? I’ll take a glass of wine back to the table with me. Save you a trip.”

She extracted a bottle from the bar refrigerator. “Grab a geezer?”

I nodded. It was our personal nickname for Gewurztraminer, a mellow, fruity white wine. Marlene had busted my chops the first time I asked for it—“Ya think this is some fancy joint, lady? I got white and red, take your pick.”—but the next time I stopped in, she flourished a bottle and served it as if she wore a wine steward’s chain on her ample chest.

“He says he’s waiting for you.” She pointed at Wukowski with her chin and whispered as she poured. “Friend of yours?”

“Business associate.”

“He’s a cop, right?”

“Right. Just out of curiosity, Marlene, how did you know that?”

“I can spot a cop a mile away.” She shook her head. “Don’t ask. Just don’t make it a habit to bring him in here, okay? It scares away my clientele.”

I looked around the room as I walked to the back, wine glass in hand. A middle-aged couple occupied a table, drinking beers and ignoring each other. Another couple sat on stools at the middle of the bar, the man angled toward the woman, who looked straight ahead in an attempt to ignore him. Pick-up or argument? I wondered. At the far end of the bar, a fellow in work pants and steel-toed boots tucked into one of Ed’s greasy burgers. The Tap didn’t seem like a place where anyone would fear the police.

“Evening, Angie,” Wukowski greeted me. “Iggy couldn’t make it. He forgot about his daughter’s piano recital. Marianne said she’d kill him if he missed another one.”

“That would not be good.” I sat across from Wukowski with my back to the room, which always makes me edgy. I noted that his back was to the wall.

Wukowski leaned across the table and asked, “Why’d she tell you to grab a geezer? I hope she didn’t mean me.”

“You’ve got ears like a bat, Wukowski.” Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to use his “first” name. I explained the joke, but he didn’t seem to get it. Then, just to tease him a little, I asked, “Were you more worried about her labeling you a geezer or about me grabbing you?”

“I’ll take the fifth on that,” he answered, but he smiled.

Damn, the man was stunning when he smiled. Just like at Rick’s, I felt myself start to blush. Thank God the bar was dark. Time to change the subject. “Okay, let’s move on. You said on the phone that you had some ideas to run by me. Shoot.”

He cleared his throat and I thought, disconcerting question or statement about to be made. “Angie, we talked to Elisa’s mother about an hour after you were there.” He stared at me. I stared back, glad I’d taken the time to redo my make-up.

Wukowski’s voice took on an accusatory note. “She didn’t want to talk to us. Said that she’d already told you the story and that it was too painful to go over again. Of course, when we told her that we needed a statement and that we could do it downtown, she relented. It seems Mrs. Morano liked you.”

“How nice.” I smiled and sipped my wine.

“This is serious, Angie.” He was back to the Joe Friday persona. “We’re trying to catch a murderer.”

“I know full well that it’s serious. I’m trying to keep an innocent man from going to prison.”

“Innocent?” Wukowski asked.

“Well, innocent of killing Elisa, at least. None of us is entirely innocent.”

His eyelids lowered and his lips thinned. “No argument there. But that isn’t getting us any closer to closing this case, is it?”

“You’re right. You called this meeting. So why are we here?”

With a deep