Page 18 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Even so.” Mom was shaking her head. “I don’t like it. And what’s going to happen if Frank goes to jail? Paulie can’t run the business by himself. We’ll all be ruined.”
“We’ve just got to have faith, Mom,” said Carole, who was slathering butter on a piece of bread, a sure sign of her distress. “I saw Frank-O,” she said, changing the subject. “He was part of a demonstration; they were marching on Pleasant Vallely Parkway.”
“Such a good boy, trying to save the unborn babies. Or was it the homeless?” asked Mom.
“The artists,” said Carole, as Big Frank added another ladleful of soup to her bowl.
“Bless them,” said Mom. After a moment she added, “Frank-O sure reminds me of his father, when he was younger.”
Carole couldn’t really see the similarity, but before she could follow up on that thought, Big Frank was asking, “So what’s the plan? Has Houlihan come up with a line of defense?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” admitted Carole, raising a spoon full of beans and tomatoes to her lips. “But Frank has some ideas of his own. He thinks it was somebody at Prospect Place who killed the old guy, probably because they have some deep, dark secret. That Browne was a stickler; he insisted he wouldn’t tolerate any impropriety in his family home.” She dipped her spoon into the bowl and swirled it around thoughtfully. “Frank thinks we can investigate ourselves, but I don’t see how. We tried to get some info about Hosea from Connie; he was a Dunne and Willoughby client, but she couldn’t tell us much because of attorney-client privilege.”
“That girl works too hard,” said Ma, lifting her glass. “She’s so conscientious.”
“I know, Mom.” Carole took a sip of water. “I wish she’d find a nice fellow and start a family.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” said Mom, crossing herself. “I think Frank might be on to something. If anybody wanted to kill that old meanie, it was probably his neighbors. After all, they were the ones who had to live with him.”
“The real estate lady, Susan Weaver, had a motive. He nixed every offer she brought him, costing her a hefty commission, which Sonia at Happy Nails says she needs real bad.” Carole polished off the last of her soup and shook her head when Big Frank raised his ladle, offering more. “I’ve invited her to lunch, so I can question her. But how do I get to talk to the others? I can’t just knock on their doors and invite myself in; they’ll tell me to get lost.”
“Especially if they’re guilty,” said Big Frank, pounding away at some veal cutlets with a mallet.
“Hold on,” said Mom, checking her phone. “I got an idea. I saw something when I was looking for casting calls.”
Behind his wife, Big Frank made circles around his ear with his forefinger, indicating his wife was crazy. Carole smiled at him, while Mom scrolled down the screen. She knew Mom was an enthusiastic amateur actress who always had a lead role in the parish musical every year. She’d also snagged a few minor parts at Trinity Rep and frequently got hired as an extra when movie crews filmed in Providence. Her last appearance was as a mourner in a mob funeral scene for a TV pilot that never got picked up.
“Here it is!” she exclaimed. “Help Wanted. Cleaning person for Prospect Place condo. Call Angelique at 401-565-2368.”
“I’m not a cleaning lady; I have a cleaning lady,” said Carole, holding out her hands. “And besides, I just got a manicure.”
“Well, if you think a manicure is more important than your husband’s freedom,” said Big Frank.
“I can lend you my rubber gloves,” added Mom.
“Look at me,” said Carole, framing her face with her hands. “Do I look like a cleaning lady? My dye job alone costs more than I pay my own cleaning lady.”
“You can go in disguise,” said Mom.
“Yeah, but I’m no actress, like you. I couldn’t convince anybody that I know how to clean. It’s been years since I ran a vacuum.”
“I’ll go, too. We’ll be a team. I’ll do the talking; we’ll pretend you don’t speak English.” Mom was warming to her theme. “That will be even better because they’ll talk freely in front of you, thinking you don’t understand.”
“I think that kind of thing only happens in movies and mystery books,” said Carole.
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it? Do you have a better idea?” demanded Mom. “Honestly, sometimes I think you wouldn’t mind if Frank went to jail.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind for a couple of days,” admitted Carole, with a sly smile. “But eventually I’m sure I’d miss him.”
Behind Mom, still at the stove, Frank was heaving with laughter. Mom, however, wasn’t amused. “Oh, you can joke; you didn’t go through labor for forty-eight hours to deliver a ten-pound baby Frank, did you?”
“No, Mom,” admitted Carole, “but I have had to put up with him for longer than you did. He was twenty-one when he got married, and that was twenty-seven years ago this October.”
Mom wasn’t listening; she was already on the phone calling Angelique Poole. In a matter of minutes, they had set up an interview. “Tomorrow, ten o’clock. My partner and I will be there,” she was saying, giving Carole a look as she hung up the receiver. “So be here at nine-thirty and look like your cleaning lady.”
“I can’t, Mom. She’s Black.”
“You know what I mean,” said Mom.
