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

residence. A small note protruded from the phone pocket of my briefcase, reminding me to call Adriana’s friend, Jennifer. I left my name and number on her voicemail, with a message that Adriana was fine, but her attorney was keeping her under wraps for the time being. Then I headed out.

Adriana’s family home was in an area of Milwaukee’s south side known as Polonia, rated “social and gritty” by MapQuest Vibe. Most of the “social” spots were on the north and west, with a local McDonalds the only restaurant in walking distance of the Johnson home. I could see the “gritty” as I drove—big areas of land devoted to railroad usage and I-94. The Johnson home was a small back house on the two-house lot, with a tiny yard and no garage.

The Miata clock showed 9:34. I sat in my car for a quarter hour, watching. All was quiet, almost eerily so. No kids playing outside, no dog walkers, no cars passing by. I extracted Adriana’s key ring from my briefcase, leaving it open so that the gun holster was easily accessible, exited and locked the Miata.

The lot was fenced by chain link. I rattled the sidewalk gate, to see if any dogs would come at me. Nothing. I opened the gate and followed the concrete walk to the back house, shivering. Despite my warm winter attire, the wind from nearby Lake Michigan, damp and chilly, penetrated to my bones. Maybe it was time to pull out the silk thermal undies. Nah, too soon for that. If I give in now, what will keep me warm when it really gets cold?

I approached the small bungalow. Having already identified the keys for the hardware store, it was only a matter of seconds to unlock the residence’s front door and enter. I located the alarm panel inside the coat closet and punched in the code. When it flashed “disabled,” I locked the door behind me and pulled my handgun from its holster. I sensed no real danger, but felt edgy. Something was not right here, my intuition told me. I draped my coat, hat and gloves over a chair back as I entered the living room, set my briefcase on the floor, and took out a small, but powerful, flashlight. Then I stood, silent, waiting and listening.

Nothing. Not even the sound of the refrigerator cycling or the furnace kicking in. The house had that singular musty smell of being shut up for days. I walked further into the room, scanning, gun in my right hand, pointing toward the floor.

The furniture was yard sale quality—couch and overstuffed chair in a dreadful blue plaid, tan vinyl-covered recliner, lamps with stiff ruffled shades, a tube-model TV. On the walls were school photos of Adriana, a crucifix, and a yellowed print of Mary and Child. I ached for Adriana, being raised in this environment, when, all along, a better world was readily available. The dining room and kitchen were more of the same—outdated furniture and fittings.

I crossed the short hallway that ran down the middle of the first floor and entered the bathroom. The roller shade on the small window darkened the room. I set the flashlight on ‘spot,’ to avoid lighting areas that would be seen outside. The room was spectacularly neat, even though there was no counter or cabinet space, just an old porcelain sink, toilet and tub. I opened the mirrored medicine cabinet. Its shelves contained over-the-counter headache and heartburn remedies, an assortment of adhesive bandages and a tube of antibiotic cream.

A small linen closet held bathroom towels and washcloths, and three plastic bins, neatly labeled—Tata, Mama, Adriana. Each bin had a toothbrush and toothpaste, hair care products, combs, brushes, deodorant, and, in Adriana’s case, a blow dryer, barrettes and headbands. A bag of sanitary napkins and a box of tampons were pushed far to the back, behind the women’s bins. I remembered my daughter’s high-school jumble of curling irons and hair straighteners, her collection of eye and lip makeup. This room was sterile in comparison.

Adriana’s bedroom was tucked at the back of the house, behind the bathroom. It was a typical room for an older teen—ruffled bedspread and curtains, cheap white twin bed and dresser, stuffed animals, a poster of the Jonas Brothers and another of Ashton Kutcher—but I had to remind myself that she was twenty-four.

The parents’ bedroom was small and very dark, due to thick shades and heavy draperies. Setting the flashlight to ‘wide,’ I scanned the room. It was crammed with oversized furniture. But what furniture! The bed and side tables were mahogany, carved and gilded. The headboard was upholstered in cream-colored silk, in a fanned-out pattern that complemented the arch of the wooden frame. The counterpane—to call it a bedspread would be a desecration—was a hand-embroidered pattern of birds and flowers on a cream linen background. The huge armoire, taller than me, left barely enough room to navigate around the foot of the bed. It would be difficult to change the sheets, given the space constraints. But that wouldn’t matter, if one could sleep in that beautiful bed, in that exquisite room—in that ghastly house.

Where did this bedroom suite come from? I wondered. Even if it was the one precious thing they brought from their homeland, it was massive and would be costly to ship. Did they have the cash in hiding, even then? I ran my hand lightly over the carved wooden footboard. It was authentic and it was antique. I knew it.

As I turned to leave the room, my eyes fell on a small area in the corner, next to the armoire. There was an exquisitely carved half-moon table, on which rested a framed oil-on-wood painting of Mary and the baby Jesus, but not the typical Italian master’s Mother and Child scene. In this one, both persons had dark complexions, and the sad-eyed Mother gazed at the baby in her arms, who resembled a diminutive man, with proportions all wrong for a child. Next to it