Friedrich Nietzsche
I placed a short call to my son to let him know that I would likely be mentioned on the news as having found a body.
“Another one, Mom? You’re turning into Jessica Fletcher. Bodies everywhere you go.”
“I’m considerably younger than Angela Lansbury, David. And it’s been two years, seven months, and two days since I was involved with a murder investigation.”
“But who’s counting, right?” After a pause, he said, “Mom, is Wukowski on this case?”
“Yep. He drew the short straw. Or rather, he and Iggy were the only two around when the call came in.”
“What does this mean for the two of you?”
“Well, the department decided to shorten our relationship embargo by twelve days, so we can, uh, interact. On the case.”
“Right. On the case.” With a sigh, he added, “I suppose it’s useless to advise you to stay away from him.”
“David! I thought you liked Wukowski.”
“I do like him. But I haven’t liked watching you wait and mope… and yeah, I know you tried to hide it, but you were pretty depressed for a while. What if this case veers into Nonno’s business? Will Wukowski have to cut you off again?”
It was like my son to feel protective of me, and I appreciated his caring. Time to deflect it though. “The murder victim was a metal artist. I doubt he had ties to the Family.” Not like Papa’s Mafia ties, ties that forced Wukowski and me apart.
“Just watch yourself, Mom. Don’t jump in with both feet. The water might be over your head, you know. Hang on a sec.” After a few whispers, David said, “Elaine says it’s been too long since you came to supper. And the boys would love to see you too. The little demons have a new basketball hoop, so dress for some b-ball. They’ll take advantage of being taller than you.”
“Who doesn’t?” I lamented. We set a date for a couple of weeks out, and I assured him that I’d be careful and keep him informed. “Ti amo, figlio,” I said.
“Love you too, Mom.”
***
Unlike David, my daughter Emma harbored no illusions about controlling her mother. When faced with what she termed an “escapade,” she generally chuckled and clucked and got on with things. I liked that she trusted me to manage my own life.
“Omigosh, Mom, that’s awful,” she responded to my explanation of the morning’s events. “And to have it happen at the Galleria. I’ll have to call Debby.” Emma’s friend owned a shop there.
“You might want to hold off. I’m sure the area is crawling with police and everyone is being interviewed.”
“Right. I’ll just text her to let me know if she needs anything.”
***
The last call would be the hardest. I may be an independent woman in her fifties, a business owner, and the proud holder of a master’s degree, but I’m also the daughter of a Sicilian father. Papa doesn’t think my job as a PI is proper work for a woman. Not that he thinks women are incapable, but his only child should not put herself in harm’s way.
It went about as well as expected.
“Angelina, you cannot be involved in another murder case. My heart cannot stand the strain.”
Papa had been using his heart blockage from a year ago to control me, Aunt Terry, David, and Emma with guilt. “Oh dear,” I said, my voice dripping with false alarm, “have you had a bad check-up? You haven’t started smoking your pipe again, have you, Papa?”
“No and no.” I heard his hoarse whisper of “More’s the pity” before he added, “This is about you, not me.”
“I understand your concern, Papa, but we simply happened upon the scene, and we could hardly leave once we saw a body.”
“Humph. And Wukowski is managing the case? At least he understands that a dangerous situation is no place for you. Not again.”
I promised to be careful, thinking there was really no need for me to take special precautions. After all, the killer had no idea any of us were there.
Chapter 10
The habit of eternal vigilance and diligence, rarely fails to bring a substantial reward.
Lewis Howard Latimer
My steam shower called to me and I answered gladly, letting it wash away the taint of the morning—a blood taint which, though it hadn’t touched me, had nevertheless contaminated me. I stepped out feeling clean again and proceeded to follow my post-ablution ritual: creams for face, décolletage, body, hands and feet; mousse for my hair, followed by a blow-out; and then the selection of clothes.
My walk-in closet was a former guest room, remodeled to allow access from the master and to hold my clothes, shoes, bags, and lingerie. It was the last that appealed most, to me and to Wukowski. A lady can look professional on the outside without sacrificing sexiness underneath.
It took me a few minutes to find the right bra and panties for the day and any eventuality after that. I chose an ice-blue set with screaming magenta flat braiding. It echoed my mood—ready to work and, later, to play. I topped it with a muted plaid coatdress over sheer thigh-high stockings, grabbed navy heels and a handwoven red raffia purse, and slung my briefcase over my shoulder.
Forty-five minutes later, coasting along Lake Drive with the Roadster’s top down, I savored the autumn weather. Milwaukee winters are bitter and the springs are almost nonexistent, while the summer heat and humidity can wilt a tri-athlete. But autumn makes up for it with brisk winds and perfect temps, only requiring a jacket in the evening. I loved days like these, with the wind ruffling my hair. I loved the short drive to my office.
When I first set up my business, after a nasty divorce from my cheating husband of twenty-five years, I’d deliberately chosen a building with no lobby security or cameras. People who need a PI don’t always want their actions recorded. My security is top notch, however, thanks to Spider Mulcahey and his ultra-high-tech expertise.
I extracted a magnetic card from my purse and
