Page 11 of A Matter of Pedigree
“I been thinking about this. He did, and he’s not, I mean he wasn’t, the kind of guy who just throws words around. So that there is the motive. Somebody there at the condo has something they want to keep hidden, and the old bastard must’ve figured it out.”
“Do you mean to say you think one of the other residents at Prospect Place killed Hosea Browne?” she asked, incredulously.
“Yeah.”
Carole’s eyebrows rose again. “And you think we can figure out this secret, a secret that this person is so desperate to hide that they killed Hosea? How exactly are we going to do that?”
“We’re gonna investigate,” he said, reaching for his phone. “We’re gonna start with Connie over there at that fancy law firm. I’ll do the questioning, you can take notes.” He began dialing. “Go on, get something to write with.”
Carole hopped up and grabbed the pad and pencil she kept handy for grocery lists. When she was back at the table, Frank switched to speaker phone, and Connie’s voice suddenly reverberated through the apartment. Frank, being Frank, had the volume up to max. Poopsie, who had been snoozing on the couch, sat up and pricked up her ears.
“So, honey, I bet Hosea Browne had Dunne and Willoughby on retainer, right? I need some info about him and the rest of that bunch at Prospect Place …”
“Sorry, Dad, but there’s this thing called client confidentiality. I’ll get in big trouble …”
“This is your father making a simple request,” said Frank, laying down the law. “Do you want to get in trouble with me?”
“Uh, no, Dad …”
“Now that’s settled. What’s the poop on this Hosea character?”
Hearing something like her name, Poopsie jumped down off the couch and crossed the living area, joining them at the dining table. She sat on the floor next to Frank, ears lifted and listening to every word.
“Well, he’s a big shot. Comes from an old Yankee family; Brown University is named after one of them, but without the e. He’s got, I mean he had, a finger in just about everything in Rhode Island: banking, real estate, politics, you name it.”
Poopsie was hanging on every word. She adored Connie.
“What about his brother?” asked Frank. “I got the feeling old Hosea didn’t think much of him, seemed to think he’s irresponsible or something when it comes to money.”
“Jonathan? I don’t know about that. He’s quite a bit younger than Hosea, maybe in his late fifties. He’s an archaeologist, he was working at a dig in Peru, but he’s coming home for the funeral and to take care of Hosea’s affairs.”
“Is he the heir?” asked Frank, as Poopsie began to scoot around the apartment, tracking Carole, who’d disappeared into the bedroom.
“I can’t say,” said Connie, putting up a weak resistance.
“You know how I feel about that word,” growled Frank. “There’s no such word as can’t.”
“Yeah, he’s the heir.”
“And what about the others? That old bat, Millie something?”
“I don’t know, Dad. Look, I gotta go. Somebody’s coming.”
“Okay. But do me a big favor. Keep your eyes and ears open. You hear anything interesting, let me know.”
“Sure, Dad,” said Connie, as Poopsie circled the table and lifted one forepaw, making a perfect point right at the phone.
“Look at that,” said Carole, proudly. “She figured out that Connie’s voice came from the phone.”
“The dog’s a genius,” said Frank, sarcastically. “Maybe she can solve the murder.”
Still pointing, Poopsie barked at the phone.
“I think she wants to hear Connie’s voice again.”
The phone rang, and Frank snatched it up. “Maybe she’ll get her chance,” he said, but it wasn’t Connie. It was Paulie, and he sounded upset.
“Frank, I just want to let you know the cops are here, so mebbe you don’t want to rush into the office this morning.”
