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

he was a lousy lover and I’d been avoiding him ever since the night we had sex. But now it was too late. He’d only think it was spite. “I don’t think we have anything else to say, do we?”

“I guess not. But I want you to know, this isn’t about you—”

“—it’s about me,” I interrupted. That chestnut is used by men the world over to deflate the anger balloon that their actions have blown up. Couldn’t he come up with a more original line? I covered the phone so he wouldn’t hear me breathe deeply. I didn’t want him to think I was about to cry. “Look,I guess I should thank you for calling and telling me. At least we both know where we stand.”

“Right. That’s what I thought, too.”

We wished each other well and ended the conversation. I must have looked like a maniac, pacing in my living room, fists clenched, muttering and occasionally bursting into crazy laughter at the irony of life. How dare he break up with me before I could break up with him? How dare he get his words in before I could say mine? Arghh! I needed to go to the gym and pound something.

Chapter 23

The true fulfillment of reason as a faculty is found when it can embrace the truth simply and without labor in the light of single intuition.

—Thomas Merton

I slept well that night, a result of the combined effects of the gym, my steam shower and resignation to the inevitable fact that life makes fools of all of us at times. At least I no longer had to fret over Kevin. As Darcy said to Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice, “That chapter is definitely closed.”

Thursday dawned bright and sunny. I dressed in a sleeveless black silk-blend shift that enhanced my curves with artfully placed seaming, and topped it off with a scarf of red poppies on a black background, fastened at the neckline. A hint of red toenails peeked through my black open-toed pumps. Perfect ensemble for a lunch at La Scala with a gorgeous man, I thought, as I assessed myself in the mirror. But first, I would meet with Iggy and Wukowski. I added a little more mascara, grabbed my black clutch and briefcase, and headed for the Miata and the office.

The detectives arrived promptly at ten. I’d already done my email and had one voice mail, from Marcy Wagner. She left a message that she’d met with Larry at AAAA Auctioneers and they agreed to a temporary work assignment, part-time for now and full-time after the beginning of the school year. “What a scarecrow!” she said on the message. “But he seems nice and he sure needs the help. And he’s offering me enough that I can quit my other two jobs and spend more time with the kids.” I hoped it would work out for her. She sure needed the help, too.

Iggy accepted a cup of the coffee that I offered. Wukowski surprised me by brewing a cup of Susan’s herbal tea from her stock next to the coffee pot. I sipped at my Starbucks skim latte and glanced at the means-motive-opportunity worksheet that I’d been reviewing when they arrived.

Wukowski gave me a sardonic grin. “Table of suspects?” he asked.

“Smile if you want to, Wukowski,” I said. “I’m the kind of person who makes lists. It helps keep me on track.”

“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

I handed copies to both men and waited as they perused them. I felt slightly smug about my entries in the Means and Motives columns. Their copies did not include the Belloni family, per Bart’s instructions. They did include my notes on the various gun registrations and the Dunwoodies’ meetings on the night of the murder.

Wukowski finished reading first and sipped his tea while he waited for Iggy.

“Not bad, Angie,” Iggy noted after a few minutes. “Not bad at all.”

I looked at Wukowski. “I don’t see Tony or Gracie on this list,” he noted, his tone flat.

“I’m starting with the premise that they’re not guilty of the murder. Tony’s involvement with Elisa looks bad, but there’s no real evidence that places him at the scene that night. Right?” I waited, hoping they would agree, hoping that no one had seen Tony in the parking lot.

“Right,” Iggy said.

“Besides,” I continued, “the only way I could get Bart to agree to this exchange was to promise to keep the Belloni information confidential. I’m sure you understand.”

“This is the damnedest thing I’ve ever done in my career,” Wukowski shook his head, “spilling our guts to the defense lawyer’s investigator. I hope the captain never finds out.”

“Don’t worry, Ted,” said Iggy, “I’ll never tell. And neither will Angie.”

I wanted to get their information before Wukowski could raise any further objections. “I’ve talked to a lot of the people who knew Elisa. I even interviewed her former boyfriend, who now lives in Texas, via phone. The chart only shows you the ones I think are possibilities, based on access or motive.” Wukowski started to argue, but I cut him off. “Excluding Tony and Gracie. That’s not open to discussion.” He clamped his lips shut. “It’s interesting that these four—John and Jane Dunwoodie, Marsha Cantwell and Alan McGuire—are all either registered for handguns or have access to them. I know, because I own one, that a 9mm is not too much for even a small woman to handle, with a little practice.” Iggy nodded. Wukowski raised one eyebrow. “Yes, Wukowski, I own a registered handgun, a 9mm Beretta 92FS. And I know how to use it.”

“Shooting at a target is a lot different from shooting at a person, Angie.” His voice was low, just above a whisper.

“Of course,” I acknowledged. “All I’m saying is that I can handle a gun under controlled circumstances. As far as real danger goes, I agree that I’m untested. But that’s not the point here. The point I’m making is that any of these people might have the means and