Blood Kills by Nanci Rathbun (book club reads .TXT) 📗

of threads in the fabric of fate.’ As soon as I saw this shop, I knew I was fated to be in this place.”

“That’s lovely.” I could hear the joy in her tone and decided I could get back to the issue at hand. “Besides the vandalism, what’s concerning you? If it’s your ex, I can easily track him down and find out where he is.”

“I’ll gladly pay you to do that, Angie, but there’s more.” With a sharp intake of breath, she said, “Mick named me his sole beneficiary and executor. I knew you’d find that out when you started checking into things for the Galleria. That probably makes me a suspect, doesn’t it?”

The news shocked me. This wasn’t something to confer on over a phone call. I needed to see her face, to assess her body language when we talked. “Debby, I haven’t had a thing to eat since breakfast, and it’s after one now. Why don’t you join me for lunch? And bring whatever documents you have regarding Mick’s estate and the Galleria. That way, we can figure out next steps.”

“That would be great. I put a CLOSED DUE TO CLUMSINESS sign on the window, like you suggested.”

“Then come over to my condo. There’s no chance of anyone overhearing us and you can see the wall hanging you made for me, in its place of honor. Well, unless you keep kosher. I’m afraid my cupboard isn’t stocked for that.”

“No kosher for me, Angie. I’m not very observant, although I am a woman of faith.”

“Same here,” I said. We agreed to meet in forty-five minutes.

Chapter 18

One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune, one begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business.

Charlotte Brontë

I prepared a simple antipasto salad, replacing the usual salami with homemade meatballs from the deli counter at Glorioso’s Italian Market, and sliced a loaf from Sciortino’s Bakery. As I punched the button for my coffee maker, the intercom rang, and I buzzed Debby inside.

She handed me a bottle of Chianti and said, “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Angie.”

“No problem,” I assured her. “I’ll set this on the table and give you a little tour, if you’d like. First the living room.” I guided her toward my spectacular view of Lake Michigan. Today the whitecaps gently rolled in, but on a stormy day, the Edmund Fitzgerald came to mind.

Debby stood for more than a minute, gazing out the window. Then she sighed. “That’s so beautiful. I bet you can’t wait to see what it looks like every morning.”

“You’re right.” I gestured to the wall to her left.

“Ohhh,” she whispered. “It’s perfect there.”

“It is indeed,” I said. “I love the interplay of fabric, yarn, leather, and metal that you incorporated. Everyone who sees it comments on how lovely it is.”

We wandered through the dining area and past the kitchen, then into the guest bedroom and the master suite. “I’ve been remodeling for a year now,” I told her, “in anticipation of my reunion with Wukowski.” The planning and execution of the new look helped alleviate the sheer torture that being without the man I loved put me through. We’d never get those nine hundred and forty-six days back, but I certainly planned to make all the rest of our days memorable. “I was at Mick’s shop that morning to pick up copper art panels he made.” I gestured to the still-empty wall opposite the foot of my king-sized bed.

Debby nodded and turned to me. “The police will let you have them, won’t they?”

“Once they finish their work in the shop,” I said.

“Was it… bad? They didn’t tell me what happened,” she said. “Please, Angie, I’d like to know. It can’t be worse than what I’ve been imagining.”

Her large blue eyes sought mine, and I sensed a need for reassurance. “From what I saw, Mick must’ve died quickly. He was shot twice,” I said, but I didn’t offer details. “It looked like he tried to defend himself, but the knife in his right hand was no match for a gun.”

She gave a sharp intake of breath and asked, “In his right hand?”

I nodded.

“But… Mick was left-handed. He complained about tools for lefties being much more expensive. Surely he’d use that hand in a knife fight.”

“You’re right,” I mused. “I wonder why he’d be holding the weapon in his other hand. Unless… there was a cut on his left forearm.”

“Oh. I suppose that’s the reason then,” she said.

I decided to change the subject. “Why don’t we eat and you can tell me about Mick’s decision to name you in his will.” I directed her to the dining room, where the table was set and waiting for us. “I’m afraid the Chianti needs to breathe.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize. I’m not much of a drinker. Coffee would be fine, though. Can I help with anything?” Debby asked.

“Nothing left to do,” I told her, bringing my already-prepared carafe to the table. “It’s an Italian lunch today, with food from my favorite markets. I hope you like antipasto and Italian bread.”

“I certainly do.”

We tucked in with gusto, enjoying the crusty warm bread from Milwaukee’s premier Italian bakery and the spicy smells of peppers and meatballs, nicely balanced by creamy fresh mozzarella and salty olives. When Debby pushed back slightly, I followed suit. “Why don’t we take our coffee to the living room?”

***

Time to open the discussion, I thought. “Debby, how did Mick come to select you to take over his estate?”

Her eyes swept across the view before she turned to me. “I’m not sure,” she said. “We weren’t particularly friendly, you know. But Mick was standoffish to everyone, so I didn’t take it personally. Last July, he came into the shop at closing time with a briefcase and said that he needed to talk to me. For a moment I was afraid he planned to evict me or raise the rent. But instead, he pulled out a sheaf of papers