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

from my agent on Monday. I’ve auditioned for them a couple of times, but nothing ever came through before. Seems the director saw me in that bit part I did for Broadway Baby last year, and he thought I’d be perfect for their production of Night Must Fall. I read for them on Monday, and they called me yesterday to sign the contract. I’m going to play the old lady’s nurse.” She hugged herself and then waggled her long, expressive fingers at me. “It’s only a few lines, Angie, but it’s THE REP!”

I poured us each a glass of Reisling, handed one to Lela, and raised mine in a toast. “To Lela, on the occasion of the first of many parts with the Milwaukee Repertory Theater.” We clinked glasses and sipped. “After this, who knows? Chicago, New York, Los Angeles.”

Lela laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Let’s not get carried away, girl. They don’t pay enough to make the rent. I’ll still be cleaning for you, just earlier in the week.”

“The artist’s life is not an easy one,” I commiserated. “But I’m glad you’ll still be here, even if it is selfish of me.”

She leaned across the counter, a wicked gleam in her eye, and demanded, “Tell Lela ‘bout Saturday and ole Kevin.”

I gave her the unvarnished story of the beautiful Saturday night—“You sent him home alone? You crazy, girl!”—and how Kevin had appeared on Monday—“Now you talkin’. ‘Bout time you get something goin’, Angie.”—followed by the fizzle of the fireworks that night—“Good Lord Almighty, what that man thinkin’? He need some lessons, for sure.”

“For sure,” I agreed. “But not from me.” I sighed. “He keeps calling, but I see the caller ID and I don’t answer. I wait until the next day, when I know he’s at work, and leave him a voice mail at home telling him how busy I am with the Belloni case and how sorry I am to keep missing him. I know it’s cowardly, Lela, but I don’t know how to tell a guy he’s bad in bed. I’m trying to think of other excuses to let him down.”

“Angie, the man needs help and he doesn’t even know it! Why not tell him the truth? You might be the one to save him from himself. And to save a sister from his fumbling.”

“Yeah. Well, exactly how would you phrase it, Lela?”

She rested her chin in her hand, her index finger tapping her cheek, her eyes lifted to the ceiling for inspiration. “Hmmm. Let’s see. How about—Kevin, you bad in bed. You think you a stud, but you a dud that just went thud. You ain’t the man, you a flash in the pan. Honey, you not hot, you can’t find the spot. Baby, you out of luck when it comes to…”

“Stop,” I begged, holding my sides. We were laughing so hard that both of us grabbed napkins to wipe the tears away. I was dabbing at my face when the doorbell rang. “Oh, no, it’s Iggy and Wukowski. They’re early.”

“Iggy and Wukowski?”

“The police detectives assigned to the Morano murder case.”

“’Scuse me, I’ll just finish cleaning the master bath and then I’m outta here.”

I opened the door, still dabbing at my eyes with the napkin, and motioned the two men inside. “I’m not quite ready, I got into a conversation with my cleaner, Lela. But it won’t take too long. Come on through to the kitchen.”

Iggy gave me a serious look. “You crying over Elisa, Angie?”

“No, of course not.” I examined myself in the hallway mirror. My mascara was smudged around my lower lids and a little had run down my right cheek, leaving a brownish trail. Very attractive. “The raccoon look is in, didn’t you know?” I teased them as I wet the napkin with saliva (a mother’s handiest cleaning tool) and rubbed at the marks. “Lela and I were just being silly. Laughing too hard. You know.” Iggy nodded, but Wukowski simply stared, impassive.

As we reached the kitchen, I asked, “Coffee? Wine? Soft drink?” They both opted for coffee, so I left them to it as I gathered salad fixings from the fridge. “It won’t take long to toss a salad.”

Wukowski set his coffee cup down and took the large wooden salad bowl from my hands. “I’ll make the salad, you set the table.” He washed his hands, then split a clove of garlic and rubbed it on the bowl. Watching him rip lettuce into manageable pieces, I decided he was competent, so I did as he suggested and laid the table in the dining room. Soon, we were seated and crunching the very tasty salad that Wukowski had assembled. I didn’t remember putting oranges or walnuts out, but they certainly combined nicely with the lettuce and onions, all topped by his vinegar-and-oil dressing. Yummy.

Before our conversation could start, Lela appeared in the doorway. “I’m off, Angie. I’ll call you about next week.”

Wukowski grabbed the napkin from his lap and rose. Shades of Papa, I thought. Iggy took a moment, then followed suit.

“Lela, this is Detective Ignowski and Detective Wukowski. Gentlemen, this is Lela Jones, my friend and sometime cleaner, soon to be a star with the Milwaukee Rep.”

“The Rep? Big time,” Wukowski noted.

“Well, Angie exaggerates just a little. I got a small part in the next production. But who knows?” she responded.

“Who knows, indeed?” he answered.

Nice of him, I thought.

I walked around the table and hugged Lela. “Call me, let me know how rehearsals are going.”

“Rehearsals. With the Rep,” she whispered in my ear. I could feel her tiny shiver of excitement. How sweet that first taste of success is. Then she whispered, “That Woo-man, he’s pretty cute. You know what the nuns say, when God closes a door, He opens a window. Go, girl.” She gave me a wolfish grin and waved as she left the room.

We sat back down. “So, how did things go at the gravesite?” I asked.

“Typical,” Wukowski answered. “The priest prayed, her mother cried.”

Iggy gave him a