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

had a goofy grin on his face, like he’d done something spectacularly wonderful. You dolt, I thought. My body was humming like an electrical circuit about to overload.

I told him how embarrassed I’d be if the police came back to talk further and found him with me. I said I had a very early appointment. I confessed that I snored. In fifteen minutes, he was out the door. I sat in the steam shower for an hour, guzzling a snifter full of B&B and mourning my lost illusions. Then I changed the sheets and fell asleep.

Chapter 17

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go,

and doesn’t suit me,

And I shall spend my pension on brandy

and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say

we’ve no money for butter.

—Jenny Joseph

Tuesday morning. Only six days since Elisa’s murder, assuming that it happened before midnight on Thursday. As I ran that morning, I pondered the fact that I was no closer to a solution to the puzzle of who had killed Elisa Morano. I certainly knew much more about her and about her interactions with others, which would help Bart in his defense, but I had no more clue now about who’d done the deed than I did when Iggy and Wukowski first woke me out of a sound sleep in the early morning hours of Friday.

I planned to meet John Dunwoodie for coffee at his favorite Starbucks, the one that Bobbie Russell told me Dunwoodie frequented every day at ten o’clock. If his wife, Jane, really did resent Elisa Morano because of her sex appeal, I wanted to appear as unsexy as possible while still looking professional, so I showered and dressed in a plain white pantsuit and light blue blouse.

First, though, I called Bertha and let her know where I was headed. She mentioned that Bart had finally gotten the requested records for Elisa’s home and cell phones and would have copies ready for me to pick up. Since it was eight-thirty, I figured that I’d have time to swing by Bart’s office before intercepting John Dunwoodie.

Milwaukee’s Third Ward is the Little Italy of the city, populated in the 1880s by Italian immigrants when the Irish moved up and out. Today, it’s a haven for art galleries and cafes, as well as upscale restaurants and clubs. But scattered throughout, one can still see the old ironwork buildings, most no more than three stories high due to the lack of elevators. Bart’s offices are in one of those buildings, on Plankinton Avenue. I parked and entered the building.

The security system was supplemented by round-the-clock guards, consisting of college students who needed additional income. A Family consortium owned the building and paid top dollar to assure they got the best from the local engineering school, MSOE. The daytime guards were mostly female, the nighttime guards were all male. It might be sexist, but Bart told me that it worked better that way, since the women tended to deal better with clients, who were there during business hours, and the neighborhood at night demanded more physical presence than most women could provide. Except for Mighty Mary, a former bouncer, who could take just about any average-sized man. I always wondered if Mary was a guy on hormones or a woman on steroids. But I never had the nerve to ask.

Was the lobby desk unstaffed today? No, as I approached, I could barely make out the head of a very diminutive young woman, dwarfed by the bank of security monitors which showed her the access points to the building and displayed any activity in the newly retrofitted one-person elevator and each hallway and stairwell.

“Angelina Bonaparte to see Bertha Conti,” I told her.

She stood and looked me up and down. “ID, please,” she said in a surprisingly authoritative voice. I handed it over and she examined it thoroughly. “Is Mrs. Conti expecting you, Ms. Bonaparte?” She scored points for using the proper address for Bertha, who was always “Mrs. Conti,” never “Ms.”

“No, I’m working on one of Bart’s defense cases. Bertha called me this morning to tell me that some records we subpoenaed were in. I decided to pick them up on my way to another appointment.”

“One moment, please.” She punched a button on her console, spoke quietly into the phone, and then nodded at me. “Go on up.” As I climbed the old marble stairs to Bart’s second-floor office, I couldn’t help feeling that she was watching my butt. I tugged the short jacket of my pantsuit down slightly.

When I opened the public door to Bart’s office, Bertha looked up. “Ms. Bonaparte,” she intoned throatily. She might be close to eighty, but Bertha’s a tall woman still, one of those older Germans who maintains height and bone density. She wore a short-sleeved white blouse and navy skirt, and her glasses hung from a chain around her neck. “No nonsense,” her clothes proclaimed.

“Good morning, Mrs. Conti. You have the phone records for me?”

She handed a sheaf of papers to me. A quick scan told me that, like most of us, Elisa called the same numbers repeatedly. Bertha had already anticipated my next question. “I started reverse lookups on the most frequently-called numbers.” She handed me a typed list. Not surprisingly, Tony Belloni’s cell phone was at the top. More surprisingly, John Dunwoodie’s cell phone and residence were also on the list.

“How far back did we request the records?” I asked her.

“Just the last three months.”

“Odd. Elisa hadn’t worked for Dunwoodie since May, but she called him or his home repeatedly since she left their employment.”

“That is odd,” Bertha responded.

***

I got to Starbucks at about nine forty-five, ordered a latte, and settled with my morning paper at a table close to the counter. At ten, the door opened and a stunningly good-looking man walked in. About forty, with thick wavy hair, graying at the temples. Six-one, one-ninety. Wearing a gray Armani suit, light yellow shirt, blue tie. Very put-together.

As he stepped