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

nodded and I started to tick off points on my fingers. “One, she’s single and available. Two, she built up the family business herself. Three, she employs those in the family who want to work for her. Four, she hasn’t disinherited any of the family. Five, she enjoys the good things in life, like nice clothes and young men.” I leaned towards Susan, all five digits on my counting hand upraised. “What’s wrong with that picture?”

She started to shake her head. “You don’t understand the Asian philosophy, Angie. An older woman, a widow, should remain quietly at home and allow the men of the family to run things and take care of her. She should never draw attention to herself.”

I sighed. “Is that the kind of older woman you want to be some day, Susan?”

“Of course not.”

“Then let’s cut Mrs. Ellingsworth some slack. She isn’t hurting anyone, unless you count a dent in her sons’ dignity.”

“True. But Jane Dunwoodie is a right little witch about stuff like this. She always makes me feel like I’m a pimp and Mrs. Ellingsworth is a low-class hooker. She’d probably tell the oldest son herself, if losing the Ellingsworth account wouldn’t hurt her pocketbook so badly.”

Interesting, I thought. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“Don’t you know the Dunwoodie story?” I shook my head. “Let’s get a glass of wine and some pasta, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Albanese’s wasn’t crowded. We got a booth in the back, where we could talk with some privacy. After ordering, we sipped our Lambrusco and dipped the world’s best crusty Italian bread, from Sciortino’s bakery, into herbed olive oil. I leaned forward. “Okay, give. I’m dying to hear.”

“It started when Jane had their third baby. They already had a four-year-old son and a two-year-old daughter. I guess Jane believed in spacing them out every two years. Anyway, the last baby, a girl, Lily, was born with cerebral palsy. Jane went into supermom meltdown. She couldn’t accept that there was nothing anyone could do to make the child better. It wasn’t so bad when she was just a baby, they’re all pretty helpless then. It’s not such a big deal if your kid doesn’t sit up and crawl right on schedule. She’s still your baby. But when Lily was about four, the seizures started. John told me they went to every top-level clinic in the U.S. and a few in Europe. The prognosis was always the same—increasingly frequent and severe seizures, leading to brain death.”

For a moment, the room seemed to fade away, the sounds of cutlery and dishes silenced, and I remembered rocking my sweet babies and wondering what they’d be when they grew up. What if I’d been told they’d never grow up, never go to school, never have babies of their own?

Susan continued. “They tried everything—surgery, medications, behavior modification. For a while, it seemed like the house itself was a clinic. Then one morning, they found her in her crib, dead. She was only five years old.”

I swallowed hard. “Was Lily the girl in the photo with the cocker spaniel? The one on Jane’s desk?”

Susan nodded. “They called the dog Coco, because that’s all Lily could say when they told her it was a cocker. I guess Lily loved that dog like some kids love their stuffed animals or blankies. And Coco was just as devoted to Lily. If a seizure started when Lily was in her room, John said Coco would bark like crazy and run in circles until someone came to check on her.” She sniffled. “It’s so sad. And I guess it explains Jane’s attitude, but it doesn’t make her any easier to get along with.”

“Attitude?” I asked.

“That woman is so anti-everything that she puts the Pope to shame. I mean, radical. Anti-abortion, of course. But also anti-gay, anti-same sex marriage, anti-birth control, anti-morning after pill. She’s even anti-organ donation, because they sometimes pull the plug to ‘harvest’ the organs. You name it, if it doesn’t involve chastity until marriage, a man and a woman and all the kids they can have, and making every attempt to extend life no matter the quality, it’s just wrong in her eyes.”

“The hard part is, she’s been through it herself,” I observed. “You can’t fault her for not understanding the issues, that’s for sure. But heaven save us from those who think they personally know God’s will and have to enforce it for the rest of us.”

“That’s for sure,” Susan agreed. Nevertheless, we lifted our glasses in a salute to Jane’s commitment to her dead child.

When the pasta came, we both tucked in with gusto. Appetite seems to improve after sadness for a tragedy that’s a few steps removed. Susan wrapped her pasta around her fork like a real Italian. Of course, the Chinese invented noodles, and the Japanese co-opted them, but their etiquette allows one to put the bowl near the chin and scoop with the chopsticks. Even that’s an improvement over those who cut their pasta into pieces like clods. I’d taught Susan the right way to eat pasta when we both worked for Waterman, with a big spoon and a fork, and she was a pro.

Replete with carbs and wine, we sipped our espressos. “You know, Angie, Jane Dunwoodie’s been acting even stranger than usual lately.”

“How so?” I asked.

“It’s almost like she doesn’t trust me anymore, like she’s checking up on me. She came to the office last week and demanded detailed copies of one of my audits, even though I’d already provided her with the usual accounting statements. And remember the day the locksmith came? I was late because Jane called me out on an emergency, claiming I’d misstated a client’s fund allocation and demanding that I meet her at her office. Of course, when we sat down and went over everything, it was okay, no problems. She apologized and laughed it off. But I can’t help wondering why she’s double-checking my work. I must handle half a dozen of her