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

the milk. Mo was an artist. I like to watch people who do things right.

“Nah, you’re still a woman of mystery,” he tossed over his shoulder. “It’s just that most folks eat the same thing for breakfast. I wonder why that is.”

“No idea. But thanks, Mo. You made my day.” At the little table, I took a bite from the scone and munched contentedly as I extracted my rolled-up Journal Sentinel from its plastic sleeve. Sunday papers feel so substantial, until you take out the employment section, the automotive section and all the ads and coupons. Then you’re down to about twenty pages of news. I glanced up and noticed that Mo was leaning on the counter, watching me intently. Geez, I sure hoped he wasn’t getting a real crush on me. I liked the old guy and didn’t want to change coffee shops.

Snapping the paper open, I was greeted by individual head shots of Elisa, Tony, Bart and myself. The headline read “Mob Murder?” Crap. Papa would have a fit, in his restrained way. Bart would go ballistic, and there was nothing restrained about that. Over the top of the paper, I saw Mo, grinning broadly and shaking his head.

They’d pulled together the current story of Tony and Elisa, and some old Mafia history. It labeled Papa “Don Pasquale Bonaparte” and me a P.I with “connections,” implying that I worked for the Family. It called Bart a “mouthpiece.” I was pretty sure that the reporter would get a piece of Bart’s mouth today, and maybe some other parts, too. I read the entire story, looking for inconsistencies and new bits of information. A good crime reporter will usually have a friend in the police department. It’s not only the Washington administration that leaks. But the story told me nothing I didn’t already know.

I shoved the parts of the paper that I wanted to read later back into the sleeve, then tossed the rest into a recycle bin as I waved to Mo and left the shop. Time to get to work.

The first person I wanted to interview today was Elisa’s mother, Janet Morano. She was listed on Elisa’s Dunwoodie application as next of kin. I decided to show up at her home without calling first—a blatant violation of social rules, but this wasn’t a social occasion. My small stature, white hair and non-threatening sympathy might get me entrance that a phone call wouldn’t.

Mrs. Morano lived on Oklahoma Avenue, in a four-family building on the Polish south side. There was no security, so I just walked in and knocked on her door. She had enough sense to open it with the chain still on. “Yes?” she asked me.

“Mrs. Morano, I’d like to extend my sympathy and talk to you for a few minutes. I’m working on the investigation of your daughter’s death.” I deliberately didn’t tell her that I was a private investigator. Let her think I was with the police department, until I was inside the apartment.

She slid the chain off the door and motioned me inside. I stepped into a typical two-bedroom, one bath, living room and kitchen apartment. The “front room” was dark, its roller shade pulled down and the drapes pulled almost-but-not-quite closed. I extended my hand to Mrs. Morano. “Angelina Bonaparte,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “You’re the one in the paper. You’re not the police.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Morano. I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to find out who really killed Elisa. I’m sure that’s what you want, too. Please hear me out.”

She hesitated for a moment, then indicated a chair. I sat, my legs primly crossed at the ankles, radiating respectability. The room was cooled by a standing rotating fan. I was pretty sure that she’d bought the furniture as a “suite,” consisting of couch, chair, coffee table, end table and lamps. The scratchy upholstery of the chair rasped against the silk of my slacks. Although I tried to sit completely still, I expected to be in static electricity hell when I left.

“Coffee?” Mrs. Morano asked.

“Only if it’s prepared. Don’t go to any bother.”

“I have a pot on the burner. Sugar or cream?”

“Cream, please.” I usually drank it black, but the “burner” phrase warned me. She returned with a cup of sludge, which I dutifully sipped as she settled herself on the couch.

In her youth, Janet Morano must have been beautiful. I guessed her to be around my age now, in her fifties, but life had not been kind to her. Her dyed-auburn hair, dull and thin, hung limp to her shoulders. Her eyes were red, the eyelids droopy, giving her a tired look. Smoker, I thought, noticing the faint odor of cigarettes and the fine network of wrinkles that radiated from her lips. Her small frame carried no extra weight, but she didn’t seem healthy-thin. More like dieting-to-excess thin. With make-up and the right clothes, she would probably still turn some older guy’s head. But today, she was just a tired, sad woman.

“You don’t think Tony did it?”

She was direct, at least. “No, I don’t. I wouldn’t work on this case if I thought he was guilty, I promise you.” I put my hand on my heart. “I’m a mother, too, Mrs. Morano.” I hesitated. “Are you aware of anyone who might hold a grudge against Elisa? Or be angry enough to…?” I let it hang there. You don’t use the phrase “murder your child” to a mother.

She looked me in the eyes, her gaze flinty. This was no shrinking violet, even if she had been crying. “Elisa was beautiful,” she said. I nodded. “Other women, they were jealous. They resented that she could get the things they wanted.”

“Things?” I waited.

“You know, jewelry, furs, the apartment. I told her, get it while you’re young. It won’t last forever.”

Aha. The light dawned. My distaste must have shown on my face, because Janet started to justify herself.

“After all, a woman’s only pretty for a little while. And men only want pretty women. They use you up