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

and then they go looking for a younger model. You better have something put aside when that happens. Look at me.” She stopped and made a Vanna White gesture, arm flowing gracefully to the apartment and finally resting on her chest. “Married for fifteen years, Elisa only nine, when the bastard walked out and sold the house right out from under us. He claimed he had no money and had to sell it in order to pay our debts.”

“Did you hire an attorney, try to track his assets?”

“Honey, I never worked until the divorce, then I had to get a minimum wage receptionist job. Those snotty little girls right outta high school lookin’ down their noses at me ‘cause I don’t know stuff like Excel and Word. I didn’t need computer skills to get married and keep house and raise a baby, right? But after my husband left, I had nothin.’ Nothin’ to fight him with.”

I shook my head sadly. It was a story I’d heard many times.

“So,” she continued, “I made sure Elisa knew to take the money and put it away where only she could get it. Used to be, marriage meant security for a woman. If he wanted to play, he had to pay. Now, with community property, he just walks away scot free.”

God, I thought, am I as bitter as she is? I didn’t want to be Janet Morano, not in reality and especially not in spirit. I needed to get the interview back on track. “When was the last time you heard from Elisa, Mrs. Morano?”

“Oh, maybe last May. Yeah, that’s right, she called to give me her new address and phone number when she moved into the apartment.”

I looked down and wrote in my notebook, trying to conceal my surprise and pity. Her daughter hadn’t called or even met her for lunch in three months? I don’t live in my children’s pockets and they don’t live in mine, but that level of disassociation amazed me.

“Did you know about her relationship with Anthony Belloni?” I asked.

“Yeah, she told me. I figure, if he wants to support her, why not?”

“Maybe because he’s married?” I responded.

“Listen, honey, he woulda been humpin’ somebody. Elisa might as well get something for it. He treated her nice, at least. Bought her nice stuff.”

“Did they ever fight? Did he ever touch her in anger?”

“Nah, she knew how to keep him happy.” I raised an eyebrow. “Not just the sex stuff. She would make him a nice meal, let him talk about his business, build him up a little, you know? Men like to be treated like little kings, right? He had no complaints.”

“Did she ever mention a fight with anyone else? Someone who might have a grudge, who might want to do her harm?”

“Nah. I mean, she and that Jane Dimwitty—” she sniggered— “Elisa called her that as a joke. Well, they didn’t see eye to eye, ’cause that Jane thought she was so much better than Elisa. But she didn’t have any contact with Jane after she left the job. She got her last check from John, not Jane.”

“Any old boyfriends who might be carrying a torch? Someone she broke up with, who maybe still hoped to get back with her?”

“Not that I know about. Well, there was this guy she dated in design school, Richard Llewellyn. They went out for about six months. But he moved to Dallas after graduation. I remember Elisa thinking he might ask her to go with him, but he didn’t. So I guess he wasn’t too broke up about leavin’ her.”

“Would you have his address or phone number?”

“No. But it must be in her book. Or in that little electronic thing she always carried.”

“The police couldn’t locate her address book or PDA, Mrs. Morano. They’re assuming that the killer took them.”

“No kidding? Well, sorry I can’t help you there, but Elisa didn’t share that with me. We weren’t real buddy-buddy, ya know? Sometimes I thought she mighta been embarrassed by me, once she started to move up in the world.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong about that, Mrs. Morano. What daughter wouldn’t admire a mother who could go out into the world, work to support herself, make a nice house with nice things, and keep her looks? I’ll bet you were her role model.” It was lies, all lies, but I couldn’t leave her thinking that her selfish grasping daughter was ashamed of her, even if she’d been the one to teach the child to be selfish and grasping. She shouldn’t have to live with that.

A tear rolled down her cheek and she reached into a pocket for a tissue and dabbed at it. “You think so?” she asked.

“I’m sure of it.” I handed her a card. “Please call me if you think of anything else, or if you come across Mr. Llewellyn’s contact information.” As I stood, I noted that the silk of my slacks was clinging to my legs and I had that high-water effect working. I stood in the building hallway after the door closed, shaking my legs one at-a-time and trying to get the static electricity to discharge. A little girl and her mother came through the outside door and the child started to giggle and point, “Look at the lady dancing, Mommy.” Some days, life is determined to make a fool of you.

Chapter 11

The central struggle of parenthood is to let our hopes for our children outweigh our fears.

—Ellen Goodman

Sunday afternoon. Lunch at Papa’s, with Aunt Terry, my kids, their kids, any friends that anyone cares to bring along. Your basic Italian family get-together. As I stepped into the back door of the Bay View Foursquare home of my girlhood, my upbringing slammed into me, full force. Papa stood at the kitchen counter, chopping onions and garlic for his masterful spaghetti Bolognese. Aunt Terry rinsed salad greens at the sink. Emma was setting the dining room table, and David stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining