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

your promise to call me every week and meet me for lunch at least once a month. No, twice. Once is too infrequent.”

“I promise,” I assured her.

“And you.” She pointed at Bobbie. “I expect you to keep Angie away from all these dangerous cases.”

“I promise to do my best,” he echoed me.

Susan broke the melancholy of the moment with a sudden twist toward me. “What’s all this on the news about you getting shot at and the press going after you and Wukowski again?”

When I told her the story of Holy Hill and my forced estrangement from Wukowski, she blanched. “No way! No darned way!” A ‘darn’ was as close as Susan generally came to cursing. “They can’t do that! Keep two people in love apart for …”

“Two years, seven months and two days,” I intoned. “I’m afraid they can, since he needs to get to retirement eligibility.”

“Well, that just stinks.”

“It sure does.” I sighed. “But I’ll get through it. It’s not forever.” Seems like forever, my brain insisted.

The movers took a little over an hour to load the truck. With hugs and a few tears, Susan headed out to a new chapter in her work life. Our office cleaner would be in tonight, but I went down to the super’s office to retrieve a broom and dustpan, and swept up the dustballs, paper detritus and assorted other debris left behind. “Bobbie,” I called, “come give me your considered opinion.”

“What’s up?” he asked, stepping out of the conference room.

“It looks dreary in here, but I’m not sure if that’s my mood or reality.”

Standing in the middle of the office, he slowly spun around and came to rest facing me. “Could use a little freshening up. Paint. Some splashes of color.”

“What palette are you imagining?”

We spent the next hour online, happily considering color schemes that would project soothing professionalism, since the nature of my clients’ concerns naturally raised their anxiety levels. People only hire a PI when they have a problem they can’t solve themselves and they’re willing to pay for the solution.

We decided that Bobbie would pick up paint samples for a grayish-green wall, with pops of brick red in accents around the room. I gave him a budget for furniture and we agreed that he would select something harmonious with mine, but not necessarily identical.

Next, I rang Bart’s office. When I asked Bertha for ten minutes of Bart’s time, to update him on a Family matter that he and I already discussed, she shocked me by categorically refusing to put me through to him. “He is far too busy at the present time, Ms. Bonaparte, and will be for the foreseeable future.”

I knew Bertha didn’t like me, but for her to act so unprofessionally was very far out of character. “Perhaps you could simply slip him a note with my name on it? I know he’ll want to hear what I have to tell him.”

“No.” After a few beats, she unbent enough to add, “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Then she hung up on me.

I sat in stunned silence, office phone dangling from my hand. What the hell! Gathering my winter paraphernalia, I called out to Bobbie. “I’m heading over to Bart’s office.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call the restaurant after the lunch hour winds down and see if the owner can meet me off premises. Don’t want to raise suspicions among the staff.”

“That’s why you’re a natural at this, Bobbie. You think several steps ahead.” With that, I headed for the Third Ward and Bart’s office.

***

A rent-a-cop whom I’d never met manned the lobby security desk. “Who are you here to see?” he asked.

“Bart Matthews.”

“And you are?”

“Angelina Bonaparte.”

He picked up the phone and called upstairs. No eye contact, no small talk. After announcing me, he listened for a moment and then replaced the handset in the cradle. “Mr. Matthews is unavailable. You’ll need to call for an appointment.”

Glancing at his name tag, I said, “I already did that, Mr. Carlson.”

He shrugged. “Can’t help you.”

“Then I’ll help myself,” I said, and bustled past him for the stairs.

“Hold on,” he yelled. “You can’t go up.”

“Call Bertha. Tell her I’m on the way and if she wants you to call the cops, fine with me. That will at least get Bart’s attention.” I paused outside the office door to fold my coat and lay it on the floor before turning the doorknob.

Bertha rose from behind her desk as I entered and moved to stand in front of the door to the inner office. “You think Bart must drop whatever he’s working on to see you?” She pointed her finger at me in accusation. “Spoiled, that’s what you are,” she hissed.

“I think no such thing, Mrs. Conti.” I let my voice rise. “But I’m damned sure that Bart will not appreciate knowing that you refused to even book a future appointment for me. Perhaps if my papa were to call …”

“That’s what I mean.” By now, she was shouting. “You use the very organization that put bread on your table and clothes on your back, that paid for your education, that sends you clients, that arranges perks for you, that protects you.” She heaved in a deep breath and then fairly spat the next words at me. “But do you support that organization? No, you revile it, you turn your back on it, you—”

Bart’s door flung open. “What in God’s name is going on out here?” He peered from me to Bertha, frowning.

Before Bertha could continue her tirade, I spoke. “Mrs. Conti refused to allow me to speak with you earlier, nor would she book an appointment for me. And she told the lobby guard to deny me admittance.”

With a dazed expression, he turned to her. “Bertha, what’s wrong?” His voice was gentle, questioning. “Come, sit down in my office, both of you, and let’s talk.” He placed a hand under her elbow and guided her into one of the client chairs. “Now, tell me what the problem is with getting Angie in to see me,”