Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (surface ebook reader TXT) 📗

needed to make a call from a public place used a pay phone. When a computer with 256K of memory only existed in a sealed corporate computer room and not in one’s briefcase. When all telephones had cords. When papers and whole books were produced on a typewriter, using carbon paper to make duplicate copies. Not for the first time, I longed for the days when people and information were not expected to be constantly, instantly available.

Finishing my report, I composed an email cover letter to Bart, asking for a report of calls made to and from Elisa’s home and cell phones. As Tony’s attorney, he could petition the court to obtain the information from the phone company. I pushed the “Send” key and the letter and report were on their way.

It was three o’clock and I hadn’t eaten since my breakfast bagel and coffee. I felt faintly light-headed and knew I shouldn’t drive, so I walked over to Oriental Drugs and took a seat at the counter. As I waited for my tuna melt, I called Dunwoodie’s on my cell phone. I may rail against instant communication, but I use it.

“Dunwoodie Insurance.” The voice was surprisingly deep. I had to guess whether the receptionist was a male tenor or a female alto.

“I’d like to speak with John, please. Angelina Bonaparte calling.”

“I’m sorry, he’s with a client. Can I make an appointment for you or take a message?”

“I really need to talk to him today. It’s about Elisa Morano.”

I heard a long intake of breath. “Oh, isn’t it awful?”

If she/he wanted to dish, I was prepared to play along. “You have no idea. I’m working for Attorney Bart Matthews as part of the defense team, and I had to see the pictures and everything.”

“Omigod. That must have been terrible.”

“It was. Just terrible.” I paused. Even to further the conversation, there wasn’t much more I could say without jeopardizing the police case and possibly Tony’s defense. “I’m sure you understand that we need to look into Elisa’s life, to find out if there was anyone who might have a motive for the crime. After all, if Mr. Belloni isn’t guilty, and we don’t believe he is, then there’s a murderer walking free. That’s why I need to talk with John Dunwoodie today.”

“I understand. But John’s booked all afternoon with a new client. Maybe Mrs. Dunwoodie could help.”

I recalled Tony’s remarks on the friction between Elisa and Jane Dunwoodie. Perhaps I could use it to my advantage. “That would be great. Does she have time to see me this afternoon?”

“One moment.” I waited on hold, listening to WOKY, a local AM radio station. A few stanzas later, the voice came back on the line. “Mrs. Dunwoodie can see you at three o’clock for thirty minutes. Please arrive promptly as her time is limited.” The voice was strained. I felt pretty sure that Jane Dunwoodie was standing at the desk, listening.

“I’ll be there at three. Thanks for your help. And your name is…?”

“Bobby.”

Was that Bobby like Robert or Bobbie like Roberta? As I said goodbye and hung up, I was betting on Roberta, based on her emotional response to Elisa’s murder. I hoped that the physical appearance would answer the question for me. Androgyny makes me very uncomfortable. There are few things as essential as gender to our understanding of another person. Even sexual preference can be fluid, but gender is an archetypal marker that determines, to a large extent, how we relate to each other.

Chapter 6

Men of all professions affect such an air and appearance as to seem to be what they wish to be believed to be—so that one might say the whole world is made up of nothing but appearances.

—François, Duc De La Rochefoucauld

At ten minutes to three, I walked into Dunwoodie’s. The unattended reception desk featured a single gardenia in a cut-glass vase, a computer and multi-line telephone set, and a wooden plate engraved with the name “Bobbie Russell.” Woman, I congratulated myself. I sat on one of their incredibly uncomfortable visitor chairs, all hard plastic and molded curves that bore no relationship to the curves of an actual human body. A door opened and closed, footsteps sounded in the hallway behind the desk, and around the corner walked an absolutely drop-dead gorgeous young man. He might have been a model for menswear in his charcoal gray Hugo Boss suit, light gray pinstriped Armani shirt and subtly embossed slate blue tie. Very tone-on-tone, very fashion-forward, and very expensive. To top it off, he had the chiseled good looks of a young Rock Hudson, all angular chin and cheeks.

“Hi,” he greeted me. “I’m Bobbie.”

Making a conscious effort to keep my surprise from showing, I rose and extended my hand. “I’m Angelina Bonaparte. Angie. We spoke earlier. I thought I’d arrive a little early, just in case Mrs. Dunwoodie was free.”

His handshake was firm and he looked me square in the eyes. “Sorry, she’s on the phone. Can I get you tea or coffee?”

“No, thanks.” I decided to take a calculated risk. “Great suit. I always wanted my ex to wear Boss, but he’s such a slob.”

“Well, thanks. My friend is in the rag business. He gets it for me wholesale.” He looked me over, subtly. “I like your suit, too, but the hair! Just love it! Is it Kenneth?”

Bingo. Gay, or maybe bi. We talked fashion and beauty for a couple more minutes, then I started to dig a little. “Did you know Elisa?”

“No, they hired me after she left. I met her once, when she came into the office to get her last paycheck.”

“Tell me what you thought of her.”

“Well,” he began, then stopped at the sound of a door opening. “Dragon Lady,” he whispered as he nodded toward the hall. He held up one finger and I stopped speaking as he turned and called, “Ms. Bonaparte is here, Mrs. Dunwoodie.”

“Show her into my office, please. I’ll be with her in a moment.”

As Bobbie started to usher