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

Thank God they didn’t film my butt from one of those odd angles that make you look like a pear. The newscaster pronounced in serious tones that ‘alleged suspect Anthony Belloni confers with his attorney, Bartholomew Matthews, and local investigator, Angelina Bonaparte.’ Of course, she mispronounced my surname. She also managed to imply that it was all a Mafia conspiracy, with ‘mob ties’ being pursued by the DA’s office. Bart will have her hide, I thought. I clicked off the tube and started to dress.

When Kevin rang the buzzer at seven, I was gowned, made up, bejeweled and as ready as I’d ever be. I opened the door and, for a few seconds, he just stood there, looking gorgeous in his rental tux. Then he stepped back and said, “Whoa,” placing his right hand over his heart.

I smiled. “I hope that’s approval,” I said as I motioned him in.

“Nothing but,” he replied. Then he closed the door and kissed me. No tongue, no heavy breathing, just a sweet, soft, appreciative kiss. “Mmmm,” he murmured as he held me for a moment.

“Mmmm?” I questioned.

“You smell good. Why is it that girls smell so good?”

“Must be the bathing. And maybe the lack of testosterone.”

“Yeah, I bet you’re right.”

It was silly banter, the kind that women and men exchange when they’re pleased with each other. I handed Kevin my silk stole and he carefully wrapped it around my shoulders and offered his arm.

“Kevin, I did tell you that my family will be there? That my dad bought the whole table?” Of course I told him, but I wanted reassurance.

“Duly noted and warned, Angie. I promise to be on my best behavior. Feel free to poke me with one of those extremely sexy shoes if I say or do anything inappropriate.”

“Deal,” I said as we headed for the elevator.

The air was balmy, one of those starry August nights where the humidity drops while the temperature hovers in the eighties, and the city wants to stay up late. We drove in Kevin’s Camry and chatted of inconsequentials—the Brewers home stand, the weather, State Fair. At a red light, a block from the Italian Community Center, he took my hand and kissed my palm. My heart did a little back flip of enjoyment, then another of concern. Would he pull a stunt like that in front of Papa?

“Don’t worry,” he said in an ironic tone, apparently reading my mind, “I know—no PDA allowed when we get there.” He grinned, the light changed, and we drove on.

I handed Kevin the tickets before we got out of the car. I had no wish to challenge the man-as-host tradition. The Pompeii ballroom was decorated in white—white napery on the large round tables, floating white water lily centerpieces, shimmery white draperies along the walls. There was no way to miss my red dress against that background. I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders and smiled, on the principle of ‘act like you wish you feel.’ Sometimes it works.

We stood near the door for a moment, looking for our table. Aunt Terry spotted us and waved. I waved back to let her know I’d seen her. People were milling around the room, talking and looking for their places, so I couldn’t see who else was with her. “Looks like we’re at the other side of the room, Kevin.” I pointed to Terry, her hand still in the air. “That’s my Aunt Teresa, my surrogate mom.”

“Let’s beard the lion in his den, shall we?” He took my arm and we crossed the room, our progress interrupted several times by couples or singles who knew Kevin. Each time, he introduced me simply as ‘Angelina Bonaparte,’ with no further explanation. I liked that. I also liked that he placed his hand lightly on the small of my back, making it clear that we were not just business acquaintances or, heaven forbid, relatives.

When we got to our table, Papa rose and came around to give me a hug. At five-ten, he towered above me, even in my heels. His vintage fifties tuxedo still fit, its satin-trimmed lapels soft against my cheek. “Bella, Angelina,” he whispered in my ear. Then he turned to Kevin.

“Papa,” I said, “I’d like to introduce Kevin Schroeder. Kevin, this is my papa, Pasquale Bonaparte.”

“Sir,” Kevin said formally.

Papa looked him up and down as they shook hands. He’d always told me that a man’s handshake was an important indicator of character. Kevin must have passed the test, because as they shook, Papa slapped Kevin’s right arm with his left hand and said, “Call me Pat.”

Papa went back to his chair and Kevin and I sat. By the time I introduced Kevin to Terry, then Emma and her John, and finally David and his Elaine, I was starting to relax. Then I noticed the empty chair between Papa and Terry. Kidding, I asked her, “Where’s your date?”

“Oh, he’ll be here in a minute. He went to the men’s room.”

Clunk. My chin hit the floor. I just stared at Terry. I couldn’t think of a word to say. The waitstaff broke the silence when they started to fill water glasses and ask folks to take their seats. Then the man I saw with Terry at Blu sat down next to her and she introduced him. “Fausto Pirelli, this is my niece Angelina and her friend, Kevin Schroeder.”

Aunt Terry was only seventeen when she entered the convent, and eighteen when Mama died and she left it to care for me. That made her ten years older than me, a slightly frumpy 60-something. She’d made an effort tonight, dressed in a black (what else?) chiffon number that, unfortunately, did nothing to conceal her extra pounds. Her hair was plainly styled, as always, but she wore small clip-on gold earrings.

Fausto looked about seventy-five. His handshake was okay, not slimy or soft, but his hair hung over the collar of his ill-fitting dinner jacket. He needed some fashion direction. But then, so did Terry. I mumbled the polite