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

“That is a puzzle,” Papa said. Then he gave me a sharp look. “You also spoke with me, in vague terms. If I had wanted to search out possibilities, I would likely have uncovered Severson.” His hand went to his heart. “But I assure you, I did not.”

I gave a silent thanks. “I believe you, Papa. But I’m still stuck with the question, so I come to you for help. Can you uncover the person, through your Family connections? I cannot rest, thinking that someone close to me has done this. After all, he or she might divulge my business again, in the future.” I played the ace. “It could place me in danger again.”

“That is so,” he said. “But this could all be avoided if you ceased engaging in the detective business. You know how I feel about my daughter being entangled in such unsavory things. Not to mention the possibility of harm.” Before I could speak, he sighed and said, “But I know that is not an action you would consider. So I will do some investigation of my own.”

“My heartfelt thanks,” I said.

“So, now shall we eat?”

I dug in, happy that my stomach could handle food, now that Papa and I were back in sympathy with one another.

Chapter 30

Be still my heart; thou hast known worse than this. — Homer

The condo smelled stale and lifeless as I entered and put my stuff in the front closet. Too bad I already cleaned, I thought. A good bout of housework could help take the edge off my anxiety. I resolutely marched barefoot into the kitchen, grabbed a paper bag, and headed for the bedroom.

Wukowski’s things occupied a drawer in my dresser, a corner in the big walk-in closet, and a shelf in the bathroom. He wasn’t one to make himself thoroughly at home, any more than I did at his house. We both needed our space.

Space. I’d have plenty of it for the next two years, seven months and three days. And time. Lots of time. Alone time.

Damn it! Damn him for breaking through my wall. Damn me for letting him. Damn the MPD for forcing us into this damn separation.

I crumpled the bag and drop-kicked it into the hallway. Then I burst into tears, not sure if they emanated more from rage or heartbreak, and sat down hard on the carpeted floor, resting against the side of the big, solitary, king size bed.

I might have sat there for a long time, letting the tears run down my cheeks and the snot drip from my nose, too miserable to get the box of tissue from my nightstand, but the landline rang. I wiped my eyes, blew my nose and headed for the kitchen.

An 800 number appeared on the display. I ignored it and let it go to voicemail. Almost immediately, a 414 number with a downtown prefix buzzed the phone. I answered with a cautious, “Yes?”

“Ms. Bonaparte, this is Amy Gleason from WITI-TV. I’d like to interview you concerning the death of Tommaso Severson.”

Crap! The newshounds are on the story and they know I’m involved. “I have nothing to say, Ms. Gleason,” I told her, remembering her snide on-air comments about a “personal relationship” between me and Wukowski after the Johnson case broke.

“If you give me an exclusive, I assure you that I will handle it with the utmost respect, Ms.—”

I hung up and disconnected the phone, knowing from experience that the calls would not cease until the story died. They’d be dogging Wukowski, too. At least last time, we had each other to turn to. Blasted reporters!

The cellphone ringtone signifying an unknown caller startled me. Surely reporters didn’t have that number. I answered with silence.

“Angie? You there? It’s Iggy.”

“Hi, Iggy. Sorry about that. The newshounds are on the story.”

“Yeah, the department’s PR just issued a statement. I’ll have a copy for you. Which brings me to the point. Okay if I come over in an hour? I figured I’d pick up stuff at your condo and then meet Ted after work, maybe take him out for a drink. He looks like he can use one.”

A selfish little corner of my heart was glad to know that Wukowski shared my misery, but I hated for him to be unhappy. “Sure. I’ll be here.”

I disconnected and went back to the master bath to wash my face. To hell with makeup. Iggy won’t care. Feeling a little restored, I headed for the hallway and the abused paper bag. It would do for recyclables, but not for Wukowski’s personal belongings.

A freebie gym bag from Rick’s lay folded flat in the corner of the closet, with Wukowski’s trainers on top. I put the shoes in a plastic bag and then inside the duffle. His toiletries would stay in my bathroom, as he asked. From the drawer allocated to him, I took out a pair of gym shorts, a couple of tee shirts, jeans and socks, reserving one of each. I would keep the sleep pants, although he hadn’t asked me to. Or maybe not. In two years, seven months and three days, it would be the end of August. He wouldn’t need flannels then. Even if the weather was chilly, I’d keep him warm. Thoughts of a hot reunion, regardless of the temperature, brought a saucy smile to my lips.

I carefully folded his two dress shirts, rolled the corresponding ties, and placed them on top of the contents of the duffle. The suit would stay on its hanger, with a plastic covering for carrying. After a last check to be sure I hadn’t overlooked anything, I turned to zip the bag, which lay on the bed.

A picture of Wukowski and me, captured by my BFF Judy when she and her husband met us for drinks, stood in its frame on my side of the bed. My side? When did I concede that Wukowski had a side of his own?

I picked up the