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

next statement, hadn’t even heard it. All I heard was my heartbeat pounding in my ears. My world narrowed down to the feel of Wukowski’s suit coat on my bare arm, his breath on my cheek. I gulped, gave Wukowski a little push, and stood up. “Hold on a minute, Bobbie,” I said into the phone, then held it to my side. “Give a girl a little room, would you, Wukowski?” He just grinned in response and gave me a one-handed wave, as if to say, “Be my guest.” Cheeky, I thought. But adorable. Damn it.

“Sorry, Bobbie, bad reception. What was that you said?”

“I said, I went into the office today and gave Jane my two weeks’ notice, just like I planned. The little bitch told me to pack up and leave. And she stood there and watched every single thing I put in my box of stuff to bring home. Can you believe it?”

“Gosh, Bobbie, I forgot that you told me you were giving notice on Friday. I hope she at least promised you a severance check in lieu of pay. You’re entitled, you know.”

“Don’t worry, I called John on his cell phone and he promised to take care of it. But I ask you, what is that woman thinking? Who’s going to answer the phone and brew the coffee and run the reports and make copies and mail stuff out? Not Mrs. Dunwoodie, you can bet your sweet little ass!”

I smiled at his description of his job duties. Shades of the fifties female secretary. “Well, whoever they get to fill in, at least you’ll be better off.” I asked if Wukowski and I could drop by to talk with Guy. Wukowski started to protest, but I turned my back on him and got directions to Bobbie’s place, near the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. Then I hung up and informed Wukowski that unless he wanted to question Guy at the police station—and good luck getting any information from Guy if he did—I would be there. He glared at me, got into his Jeep and followed me as I drove off in the Miata.

Bobbie lived in a converted carriage house at the back of a large mansion on Lake Drive. He was on the patio, sipping a cup of tea and reading the Journal Sentinel, when we arrived. He laid the paper on the patio table and rose to greet us, dressed in a tank top and cut-offs that were way too short. I hoped to God he was wearing underwear, because if he was going commando, I’d see a lot more of Bobbie than I wanted to when he sat down.

I kept my gaze determinedly at eye level while Bobbie shook hands with Wukowski, then gave me a big bear hug, and gestured us to padded chairs. I sat with my back to the sun, forcing Wukowksi to face it and squint, despite his sunglasses.

“Well, boys and girls,” Bobbie said, “I’m now officially free of Dunwoodie’s, and believe me when I say, I’m a happy camper.” He poured us each a cuppa from a ceramic carafe, then lifted his in a toast. “To freedom,” he said.

“To freedom,” Wukowski and I solemnly intoned, and we took a sip.

“Mr. Russell,” Wukowski began, but Bobbie interrupted him.

“Call me Bobbie,” he said.

“Bobbie, I need to talk with Guy, um.” He thumbed his notebook pages. “I don’t think I have his last name.”

“It’s Daly, D-A-L-Y.” He started to chuckle. “When we got home last night, I offered him a drink. I’m afraid he had a little too much. He told me his name is Irish, and it means ‘assembles frequently.’ Then he told me just how frequently. Right before he passed out.” Bobbie sipped his tea. “Ahh, the don’t-give-a-damn days of my youth. Being a man of greater maturity and in a settled relationship, I, of course, escaped the morning-after megrims. But Guy is having a long shower.”

Bobbie gave us a tour and short lecture on the history of the main house, once the province of a brewery king’s son and family. The stone “cottage” that Bobbie rented was originally a stables for eight horses, then a six-car garage, with sleeping rooms for the groom/chauffer up above. Today, it housed three cars, one Bobbie’s, with ample room for the paraphernalia that a large estate requires—riding mower and snowblower, snowplow blade, work bench, cupboards.

Upstairs, we viewed a totally renovated kitchen, all gleaming stainless and granite; a living room filled with the kind of soft, squishy leather furniture that you sink into and can’t get back out of; and two bedrooms, one decidedly sybaritic, with a large en suite bathroom that contained a double occupancy whirlpool tub. A picture flashed through my mind of Wukowski and me in that tub, covered in bubbles, hands sliding across wet bodies.

Damn it to hell! I turned and walked back into the living room, calling over my shoulder, “Really great place, Bobbie.” Seconds later, the door to the other bathroom opened, and Guy emerged.

To say he looked rough would be an understatement. His eyes practically glowed red in a complexion of sickly yellow. He hadn’t shaved. I glanced at his hands. Too shaky, I supposed, for even a safety razor. Bobbie’s borrowed short-sleeved polo shirt and khaki shorts hung on Guy. We made a little parade through the living room and into the kitchen—Guy, me, Wukowski and Bobbie. Wukowski started to introduce himself, but Guy cut him off with a raised hand and a “Just a minute. Please.” while he poured himself a cup of coffee and topped it with a large slug of brandy. He stirred it and downed the entire cup in a long series of swallows, never stopping for air. Then he set the cup on the kitchen counter, placed his palms flat on either side, closed his eyes and waited. Presently, a long “Ahhhh,” emerged, his eyes opened, and he looked at us. “You were saying?” he asked Wukowski.

“Bad case of the jim-jams?” Wukowski responded, his voice