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

Bobbie hugged. It was the most body contact the office ever witnessed, at least in my tenure.

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end, Seneca wrote. His words captured the bittersweet moment.

Susan left to meet a client, and Bobbie and I returned to the outer office and our discussion of his upcoming trip. “When you see Augusta, make sure she and her sister Myrna are okay, and assess whether our nocturnal activities were noticed.”

He nodded as he copied Augusta’s contact information from my cellphone into his. “I will.”

“Do you need some petty cash for gas and the meal?” I asked. “This might be an overnighter.” I gave him the name of the B&B from my initial trip.

Holding up a debit card, he told me, “I’m good.”

“Then don’t forget to document your expenses for reimbursement.” Bobbie wasn’t fond of the paperwork aspects of the business, but I knew the necessity of keeping good records for the client and the IRS.

With a wave, he was gone, leaving me in the empty office. I wanted to get back to the condo in time to make a decent meal and enjoy some quality time with Wukowski. Our communication had degenerated since the advent of the Bike Trail killings. We were usually pretty good at talking about both the deep and the inconsequential. Maybe tonight would re-ignite that.

Chapter 12

Dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire. — George Bernard Shaw

It was dark when I got home. We need comfort food, I decided. I assembled a meatloaf and slid it and baking potatoes in the oven. When Wukowski arrived, I would start the veggies.

After pouring a glass of Charles & Charles rosé, I ran a bubble bath and settled in for a good soak. The citrusy aroma perked me up and the creamy lather soothed me. I sipped my wine, settled my head back on a towel, closed my eyes and fell into a semi-meditative state.

The sound of the front door closing pulled me back to the present. I decided to let Wukowski find me in the bubbles. Hmm. I rearranged a few with my hands and waited.

“Angie?”

“Back here.”

He walked through the bedroom and stopped in the bathroom doorway. His usual erect posture had returned. I wasn’t sure if anything else was erect, until he took off his suit coat and tossed it behind him. He was more careful with his shoulder holster and gun, setting them on the top shelf of the linen closet. I raised an eyebrow as he began to strip. “This isn’t a two-person tub, Wukowski.”

“We’ll make do,” he said.

We did.

***

The meatloaf was a bit crispy on top, but we enjoyed it anyway. After supper, with me in a nightgown and robe and Wukowski in flannel sleep pants and a t-shirt, we settled on the couch with small glasses of B&B over ice. I hated to break the mood, but it was better to bring the subject up now, while Wukowski was relaxed. “Any news on the latest victim?”

He tensed. “She’s improving. They don’t know yet when we’ll be able to interview her.” He tightened his arms around me. “We might have caught a small break. A hair. Just one. We don’t know for sure if it’s from the assailant, but we’re proceeding as if it is.”

“Can you get DNA from it?”

“No follicle, just the shaft, so the conventional means won’t work. But the FBI labs are using something called mitochondrial DNA to give us answers. For now, we wait.”

I snuggled closer. “I got some news today. Susan’s vacating her share of the office.” I explained the situation and added, “Bobbie can’t wait to get his own desk.”

Wukowski gave a gentle snort. “That guy’s gonna need some reining in, Angie.”

“I know. In fact, I do rein him in. But he surprises me.”

A moment of silence hung in the air. Then he lifted me so that we were facing each other. “I have a great idea.”

I nipped his ear lobe. “Really?”

“Not that,” he said, with a little swat on my derrière. He rose and rifled through my CD collection, putting several in the changer and programming the selections. Jimmy Dorsey’s “Helena Polka” began to play. He pulled me up from the couch and into a lively circle of the room.

Every Milwaukee wedding—even the Italian and Sicilian ones—features a polka set. I learned the vivacious dance as a young girl. Wukowski told me that his mother insisted that he take dance lessons in his early teens, because he was klutzy during his many growth spurts and she thought it would help his coordination. And, he said, the girls loved it.

I sure did. We didn’t just hop from side to side—that’s not a real polka! We moved forward and back together, did the sideways moves and twirled. From there, we swung into a cha-cha to “It’s In His Kiss,” which I always referred to by its subtitle, “The Shoop-Shoop Song.” Then the selections slowed—“When a Man Loves a Woman,” “Faithfully,” “Lady in Red,” and “In Your Eyes.”

When Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” started to play, Wukowski bent down and whispered, “Shall we?”

“Oh, yes,” I said.

We danced down the hall to the bedroom.

Chapter 13

One good thing about Internet dating: you’re guaranteed to click with whomever you meet. — Anonymous

Over coffee the next morning, Wukowski let me know that he would be tied up all weekend and wouldn’t make it to the Sunday afternoon spaghetti Bolognese fest at Papa’s. “Sorry, moja droga. Too much on my plate right now. No pun intended”

I mentally breathed a small sigh of relief. There was no denying the tension between Wukowski and Papa. Both were extremely polite, yet guarded, with each other. I put it down to father-lover tension.

After Wukowski left, I checked the weather report. Ten degrees above zero, with a wind chill of negative five. Brrr. I donned silk long johns and tank top over my silk charmeuse half-cup bra and panties. At some point, sexiness has to make way for practicality,