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

Elisa gave her. Then, about Easter, she musta found out the truth. It was like the light went right outta her. She moped around the whole month of April, and in May, Elisa moved out. Marsha cou’nt handle the rent all on her own, so she moved, too.”

“Do you know where?”

“Yeah, I wrote down her address while I was getting’ the tea. I heard you talking to the dupa across the street.” She reached into the big square pocket of the cotton housedress and removed a slip of paper. “My number’s on there, too. When you see her, tell her to call me. I worry about that girl. She’s missin’ a layer a skin, ya know? Like everything is just a little too much for her, like she’s got no defenses. Maybe I shun’ta told her.”

“Mabel, I appreciate your help.” I handed her a card. “If you think of anything else, especially anyone who might have a grudge against Elisa, will you call me?”

“Sure. Yeah.” She smiled. “Come on back and visit sometime. Let me know the details, okay?”

“I will.” I gave her a conspiratorial grin and waved as I drove away.

Chapter 13

A threat is basically a means for establishing a bargaining position by inducing fear in the subject. When a threat is used, it should always be implied that the subject himself is to blame by using words such as "You leave me no other choice but to…”

—CIA Manual

Monday mornings are my organization time. I hate the feeling that I might be overlooking something important, so I always start the week with a clean slate by taking care of paperwork. I arrived at the office, latte in hand, at seven forty-five. Centered on my desk blotter was a legal-size envelope with “Bonaparte” block lettered in black marker.

I get my share of threats as a result of doing divorce investigation. Most arrive via phone. A few are via U.S. mail. I make it a point to trace them and have Bart or my client’s attorney send legal notice that the police will be notified should anything untoward happen to me. I can’t afford to take these things with a grain of salt, even though I know they’re usually just the release of pent-up frustration.

As I donned latex gloves, I mentally reviewed what I knew of letter bombs. Most of them don’t make it to their destination, due to postal handling. This one had been hand-delivered, sometime over the weekend. I sniffed it—no odor. I dusted the envelope for prints—none present. I gently lifted it by the corners and held it to a strong light. Inside, I could see what looked like a sheet of paper with cut out letters. Should I call the bomb squad and risk looking like a fool? This didn’t feel like a bomb to me. I slit the envelope and eased out the contents.

It was only a piece of paper. Sighing with relief, I unfolded it and read “Elisa Morano got what she deserved. Drop the case or the same could happen to you.” It looked like the writer had run a glue stick across the page and then stuck magazine and newspaper cut-outs down to form the message. “Elisa Morano” was one piece, apparently cut from a local headline. Again, I tested the contents for fingerprints, but no luck. I reinserted the page into the original envelope, put it all into a plastic evidence baggie, and peeled the gloves from my hands.

The letdown that comes after an adrenaline rush suddenly overwhelmed me. I sat down, uncapped my latte and poured it into my office mug. Sipping, I considered my options. My run-of-the-mill threats are of the vulgar name-calling variety, unpleasant but not logical or specific. This letter seemed less emotional and more serious to me. It didn’t attack me personally, it didn’t vent about Elisa, it simply stated what the writer considered to be the facts—Elisa Morano was guilty (of something), she was tried, sentenced and executed, and the same would happen to me if I didn’t back off. I have to admit I was a little shook up. I rose and locked the office door.

At eight thirty, I heard the rattling of the doorknob. “Angie, you in there?” It was Susan, my office mate. “Angie, I can’t find my key. You there?”

“Coming,” I called as I rose to open the door.

“What’s up?” she asked. “You don’t usually lock yourself in. I thought I’d have to track down the super.” She settled her briefcase and purse on her desk and hung up her suit jacket. Her blue-black hair, cut in a plain pageboy style, lay in a heavy curtain across her cheeks as she peered at me.

“Susan, somebody left a threatening letter on my desk. I’m trying to figure out how they got in. Would you check your bag for your office key?”

Like most people, she had several rings clipped together onto one bigger bundle. “The office key must’ve gotten detached somehow. Let’s see,” she said, as she started to remove the contents of her purse and place them on her desk, one item at a time. From one compartment, she withdrew wallet, checkbook, credit card case, business card case, black ink pen, blue ink pen. From another, lipstick, comb, small mirror, purse-size package of tissues. From the outside zippered pocket, cell phone. Susan was nothing if not organized. She turned her purse upside down and shook it. A single wrapped mint fell out. “That’s really odd,” she said, “I was sure it would be at the bottom.”

“Susan, when I got here this morning, the envelope was on my desk, just my name on it, no postage or other address. It contained a letter warning me off the Belloni case.”

Her eyes opened wider and her mouth formed an “O.”

“Were you in over the weekend?”

She shook her head.

“Then unless the super let someone in, I think we can assume that the person used your key.”

“But, Angie, how could someone get my key? The key