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

“That will be adequate, if I agree to pursue the matter, Attorney Petrovitch.” Actually, it was a bit more than my usual fee, but I wasn’t going to argue with the attorney of a brand new millionaire. “I’ll be in touch once we finish here.” He gave me his address and phone number and rang off. I leaned back in my chair and waited.

Adriana’s story began in the late nineties, in what was then Yugoslavia. She handed me three faded visas, for Jan, Ivona and Adrijana Jovanović. The visas were issued in 1994. Then she handed me citizenship papers for John, Yvonne and Adriana Johnson, issued in 1999. “My parents came to the U.S. near the end of the Bosnian War. I was four.”

That surprised me. I’d taken her for no older than twenty-one.

“They wanted more than anything to be Americans, so we went to classes to learn English and Americanized our names. Uncle Herman settled here about three years earlier. He helped my parents get visas and citizenship by sponsoring us. He even helped Papa with money to start our little hardware store on the south side of Milwaukee. We felt comfortable there, among so many Poles and even some Serbs.”

She paused. “Papa was a carpenter and mason in the old country. He could fix almost anything, even engines. So the store was a good fit for him. Mama helped out when I was in school. They sent me to parochial grade school, but there wasn’t enough money for a Catholic high school, so I went to the public school then.”

She leaned forward. “There was never enough money, Ms. Bonaparte. We rented a two-bedroom bungalow at the back of a two-house lot. My dresses were homemade or from the thrift shop. I didn’t go to prom because it cost too much. Mama cut my hair at home. We never went on vacation. Our big treat was to rent a movie and watch it on our second-hand TV. I never owned a video game or a cell phone. When I graduated from high school and wanted to attend the university, there was no money then, either. So I got a job at a supermarket and helped my parents at the hardware store from time to time.”

As she spoke, she twisted and clenched her hands and her voice got quieter. Then she paused and her gaze fell to her lap. “Last week, my parents died in a botched burglary attempt at the store. There was nothing stolen—the police think the robbers panicked and ran after they shot my parents. I would have been there, too, to help with inventory after closing, but I’d begged to be allowed to spend the weekend with a friend. The police have yet to find the ones responsible. Of course, in our little store, there was no recording equipment, and no one saw or heard a thing that night. A neighbor called the police when she got up to use the bathroom and noticed that the lights were still on in the front of the store. I buried my mother and father two days ago.”

The account was given without emotion, flat, as if she’d recited it so often that it no longer had impact.

“They always told me there wasn’t enough. No matter what I wanted or asked for, there wasn’t enough to have it or do it.” Her jaw firmed. Tension radiated from her. “Yesterday, Uncle Herman showed me their will and their accounts. They had millions, Ms. Bonaparte.” Her voice rose. “Millions. All those years of scrimping. All those years of not enough. I thought they loved me, that they would do anything for me, if they only had enough. And all that time, they did.”

She stood and walked over to the window, her back to me and Susan. Her shoulders tensed and she remained there, stiff and unmoving, for several moments. Then she turned. “I told Uncle Herman that I didn’t want the money, that if they never cared enough to give me the education I longed for and the nice things that others had, I didn’t want their d-damned money!”

The mild profanity was obviously foreign to her. Susan moved forward in her chair, but I motioned her to stay still and let Adriana finish.

“How can I take it? I don’t even know how they got it. We lived simply in the old country. We weren’t rich there, either. And the store never produced that kind of income. I don’t know what to do, but I know that I don’t want ill-gotten money.”

She’d wound down enough that I felt I could approach her without stifling her story. I stood and walked over to her and took her hand in mine. Hers was icy cold and I could feel the small tremors of her body. Her eyes were slightly unfocused. “Adriana—” I deliberately pronounced it the way she had on the phone, not the Americanized way that Susan used when she introduced us—“I think you’re in a mild state of shock right now.” I turned to Susan. “Would you brew us some of your fantastic tea? With plenty of sugar.” She nodded and slipped out. “Susan makes the best tea, Adriana. No tea bags, she brews it from real tea leaves or herbs.” As I soothed her, I led her to the conference room, sat her on an upholstered love seat and covered her legs with a throw. Susan came in with the tea and we watched while Adriana sipped and seemed to relax. When she set the cup down and leaned back, closing her eyes, I motioned to Susan to follow me from the room.

Susan and I met when we both worked for PI Jake Waterman. She conducted his financial investigations and I did his legwork—computer searches, tails, background checks. It didn’t take Susan long to earn her CPA and go out on her own. Wisconsin requires that a person applying for a