Blood Kills by Nanci Rathbun (book club reads .TXT) 📗

I don’t lose track.” From her purse, she extracted a small spiral notepad and pencil. “Okay, first contact Emma about the yarn.” She wrote the number two underneath that item. “I think I’ll stick with the person who’s taken care of my accounts and taxes since I opened, Angie. She knows the business inside and out, so I don’t have to explain much to her.” She noted, “Call Jen re: taxes,” then added a three below that line. With a sigh, she said, “But Mick is another story. I don’t even know who handled his business affairs.”

“Why not get back in touch with the Wales treasurer’s office and ask for an extension? That will give you some breathing space.”

She made the note and her eyes met mine in a long look. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. It’s so obvious.”

I shook my head and reached over to gently pat the back of her hand. “Nothing’s obvious when you’re under a lot of stress.”

“That’s for sure,” she agreed. “So, we’ve sorted out the yarn order and Mick’s business and personal taxes. I feel much better.”

“Good,” I told her, pushing my plate back. “The rest of this is going home with me. They certainly don’t stint on serving sizes.” I leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “But they make a delicious dark chocolate torte with rum sabayon sauce. Want to split one?”

She grinned. “You temptress! I’ll have two bites, one for each hip. Stab me with your fork if you see me go for a third.”

“The host already thinks I’m a meanie, thanks to Tim refusing to join us. He’ll call the cops on me!”

Sated, I set my dessert fork down and said, “Bart can help you make the transition to a permanent legal representative. For my part, I want him to hire me to work on your case, which affords me attorney-client privilege. It means I can’t be forced to disclose anything I know about matters relating to Mick, as far as they involve you.”

Her eyes widened. “And you think that’s necessary?”

“I honestly don’t know. But I do think it’s advisable. Plus Bart led me to believe that he has information about Mick. Maybe… well, maybe from organized crime connections. Bart does a fair amount of work for the Milwaukee mob, but that may be an asset, given Mick’s supposed connections to Bratva.”

“You know, I still can’t believe that. I mean, I know it’s true, but it’s just too hard to imagine. Still, the DNA evidence doesn’t leave room for doubt, right?”

“Afraid not,” I said. “So, shall we head over there and find out what Bart knows about Mick Swanson?”

Chapter 41

If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.

George Orwell

As we entered the lobby of Bart’s building, I said to Debby, “Bart smokes like the proverbial chimney, even in the office. He had a special extractor installed to vent the smoke outside, but the smell… It’s so bad that in the winter I leave my coat in the hallway. Saves me from a cleaning bill.”

“Ew.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s gross.”

“Especially considering his weight. Ever see the Nero Wolfe TV series? That’s Bart. Over three hundred. A heart attack or stroke waiting to happen.”

We approached the lobby desk, where an unknown guard sat. “Angelina Bonaparte and Deborah Hill to see Bartholomew Matthews,” I told him.

He checked the computer and waved us onward.

“Three stories,” I told Debby, “but these historic iron work buildings are a nightmare to retrofit. No elevators in this one.”

“Poor Bart,” she said as we made for the concave marble steps, worn down by over a hundred years of feet.

When we entered the anteroom, a petite, perky brunette rose and came around to greet us. “Ms. Bonaparte, I’m Melinda. It’s so lovely to meet you.”

I took her outstretched hand, noticing as I did so that at least this area of the law offices wasn’t polluted by the smell of stale cigarette smoke, as it had been when Bertha Conti filled the position of office administrator. “Let me introduce Debby Hill,” I told her. “She’s involved in the matter at hand.”

“Please go in. He’s waiting for you.”

I took a last breath of clean air and opened the door.

My eyebrows lifted into my hairline when a redesigned Bart Matthews, resplendent in a suit that didn’t come from the big-and-tall-man’s department, approached to greet me. He put his hands on my shoulders, said, “Angie, my dear, it’s been too long,” and pressed his cheek to mine. No belly intervened.

“B-Bart,” I said, “you look fabulous.” I sniffed. “And no smoke odor. Have I crossed into an alternate universe?”

His rarely heard guffaw, still deep and from the stomach, burst forth. “Remember my old motto? ‘Eat healthy, exercise, die anyway.’ Well, about a year ago, it almost came to pass.” He patted his now-flat abdomen and added, “I decided I liked living a little longer more than I liked fatty food and cigarettes. You see before you the new, slimmer version of my old self. I now have a personal trainer and a chef who prepares my meals for a week.”

“I’m so very happy you made it through that crisis and are taking the right steps to stay healthy,” I told him, and I meant every word of it. Bart had helped me out of some bad situations, but I didn’t simply appreciate his legal skills. Over the years, we’d developed a friendship, despite my uneasiness about his mob affiliation. Unless my interests conflicted with those of his primary clients, he had my back, and he frequently offered me the kind of advice that a big brother would.

“Well, enough of that.” He turned to Debby. “Ms. Hill, I take it?”

“That’s right,” she said, “but call me Debby.”

“Then you must call me Bart.” He gestured at the client chairs as he turned back to his mahogany desk. “Please, ladies, take a seat.” A new, sleek executive chair now held pride of place where the old one,