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

of tea.” The two of us went through the swinging door to the kitchen. I left it open so I could hear the men. Gracie levered herself onto an upholstered bar stool at the huge kitchen island and pointed to the cupboard that contained the tea. I put a kettle on to boil, and set out a tray with carafe, mugs, spoons, napkins, milk and sugar. The tea was in bags, not loose, but it would do. When the kettle blew its cheerful little whistle, I poured the water into the carafe, over the tea bags. Gracie wiped her eyes, blew her nose and preceded me into the dining room, her feet pointed out and her hips rolling from side to side in the pregnancy stroll. The men’s conversation, carried on in undertones, ceased when we re-entered the room. Bart’s mouth was set in a grim line and Tony looked like he’d been steamrollered.

I set the tray on the table and started to pour the tea, asking each if they wanted milk or sugar. Bart took four sugars—yech, syrup, not tea. Tony took his cup, walked to a sideboard, and poured a healthy slug of brandy into it. Then he raised the bottle to us in an unspoken question. We declined.

Tony collapsed into his chair, took a long drink, and looked at Bart. “So you’re saying it’s hopeless? Even though I didn’t do it?”

“It’s not over ‘til it’s over, Tony. All I’m saying is that it looks bad.”

“Well, I ain’t making no deal with the DA. I didn’t do this, Bart. And if they send me up, I got a lotta enemies in prison. I won’t make it out.”

Tony’s street kid origins were busting through his sophisticated businessman persona. As he spoke, Gracie’s mouth opened in a sickening imitation of Munch’s The Scream. I frowned at Bart and rolled my eyes toward Gracie. He got the message. “What Bart hasn’t said,” I interjected, in the hope of raising Gracie’s spirits, “is that I’m looking into other areas of Elisa’s life. There must be a reason for the murder, and if the cops are only looking at Tony, they won’t find it. So I will.” I set my mug on the table.

Gracie leaned over and took my hand. “Oh, Angie, do you think you can?” Tony straightened up and waited for my answer.

“I’ll do my very best. I’ve cleared my calendar of all my other cases. If it’s out there, I can find it.” Maybe, I added mentally. But what else could I say? Gracie was close to her due date, and I could see the strain in her face and hear it in her voice. It was bad enough when she thought her man was cheating on her, but now she was afraid that he’d spend the rest of his—and her—life in prison.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the two men exchange a look. They knew, and I knew, that evidence doesn’t always exist to prove innocence or guilt, and that people do get wrongly convicted from time to time. But like me, they were willing to put up a front to reassure Gracie, so we did the shoulder-punch attagirl go-get-‘em routine and I promised to stay in touch.

As I drove away, I kicked myself mentally for being twenty kinds of a fool. What if I didn’t find anything? What would Gracie do if Tony went to jail? When would I learn to keep my mouth shut?

Chapter 9

Family life itself, that safest, most traditional, most approved of female choices, is not a sanctuary: It is, perpetually, a dangerous place.

—Margaret Drabble

It was almost nine o’clock when I got home. I scanned the collection of junk mail from my ‘public’ box in the building lobby. My personal mail goes to a rented box at a private service center. It’s more secure, and they can sign for packages, so it’s also more convenient. I ran all the unopened envelopes through the shredder, poured myself a tot of Baileys, kicked off my sandals and sank down on the couch. The sun had set and the lake was dark. The streetlights along Lincoln Memorial Drive outlined the shore far below me, like twinkling fairy lights. I took a small sip of Baileys and opened the folder that Bobbie gave me. Was it only four hours ago? I was dead tired, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I’d reviewed the material and decided on the next day’s plans.

I scanned Elisa’s employment records from Dunwoodie. There were some promising leads—her address when hired, her next of kin, two references. The print started to swim on the page, so I tossed the folder on my coffee table and leaned back against the soft leather of the couch. I closed my eyes and tried to relax with some yoga breathing. My brain refused to cooperate, flashing images of Gracie and the kids on visiting day at the prison, then Elisa’s bloody police photos.

The phone rang, releasing me from the grisly scenes. Caller ID showed “Schroeder, K.” It was Kevin. Lovely, sexy, funny Kevin. I wasn’t in the mood to be lovely, sexy or funny back. I picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”

“Hi, Angie. It’s Kevin.” His voice, a pleasant baritone, usually sent a little frisson of pleasure down my spine. Not tonight.

“Hi, Kevin. How are ya?” I knew my voice sounded flat and uninviting, but I just couldn’t make the effort.

“Good.” He paused. “You sound tired.”

“I am. It’s been a bad two days. The Belloni/Morano case. Did you see it on the news?”

“Yeah, I did. What’s your involvement?”

“I’m working for Belloni’s lawyer, Bart Matthews. Trying to prove Tony innocent. At least, innocent of the murder.”

“I didn’t know you did that kind of work, Angie.”

“It’s not my usual assignment. But I know Gracie Belloni, and Bart asked me to help.”

“Is it dangerous?”

The question hung there while I pondered my answer. Was Kevin being protective, or just curious? I decided to