Page 21 of A Matter of Pedigree
“No problem; we got plenty upstairs,” fibbed Carole, handing them over. “But, hon, do me a favor? Return the cart for me?”
“Sure thing,” said Joao. “Want me to put the cooler back in your car?”
“You’re a peach,” said Carole, handing over the keys and scooping up Poopsie, who was about to topple over. Next time, she thought, stepping into the elevator, she’d try giving the dog half a tablet and see how that went.
When Frank got home, she suggested going out for dinner, explaining she’d given all of Big Frank’s food to the building staff so they wouldn’t turn Poopsie in if she started barking again.
“A little insurance?” asked Frank, cocking an eyebrow.
Sounded like a good idea to Carole. “Can you get dog insurance? In case she bites someone?”
“We got a hefty umbrella policy,” said Frank, landing heavily in his La-Z-Boy and clicking on the TV to the sports network. Poopsie, who was starting to come around, made it up to his lap on the third try and settled down, just like she always did, so he could scratch behind her ears. “You know,” he continued, “I could go for one of ’em big, thick burgers they got at Trinity Brewhouse.”
About a gazillion calories, thought Carole, not to mention the mountain of fries they came with. And, of course, the beer. Liquid bread, they called it because it was loaded with carbs. But, hey, anything to keep Frank happy. And they had salads. “Fine with me,” she said.
Neither one of them thought to remember that the pub was right down the street fromThe Providence Journalbuilding, making it a favorite hangout for reporters. The bar was overflowing when they arrived and were seated at a booth.
“IPA for me,” Frank told the waitress. “Chardonnay for you?” he asked Carole.
“Sure,” agreed Carole, who said she had heard Frank’s name mentioned by some guy at the bar.
“What’s going on?” demanded Frank, as Carole opened her menu. “They talkin’ about me?” He was ready to go over and punch somebody.
“Hold your horses,” advised Carole, reaching for his arm. “They’re reporters, and you’ve been in the news lately.”
“I don’ care who they are,” growled Frank. “I don’t like bein’ talked about.”
“You’re news, Frank,” said Carole. “You better get used to it.”
“Well, I’m not,” he said, starting to rise. “Let’s go someplace else.”
Looking across the room, Carole recognized Adrienne Viola, theJournal’s chief investigative reporter, heading for the stairs to the basement restrooms. “I gotta use the ladies’ first,” said Carole.
Frank scowled. “Already? Shoulda gone before you left the house.”
“I did,” snapped Carole. “It’s a woman thing. I had two kids, and I don’t have to account to you for my bladder or my …”
“Nah, nah.” Frank was holding up his hands as if to ward off some witchy spell and backing off. He hated what he called “woman problems,” joking that feminine “plumbing” was a mystery to him and he wanted to keep it that way.
Downstairs, Carole was standing at the sink and patting her expensively highlighted hair when Adrienne came out of a stall.
“Don’t mind me,” said Carole, stepping aside so Adrienne could use the sink. “I’m just freshening up.” She started groping in her bag for her makeup case.
As Carole expected, Adrienne, a petite brunette with a pixie cut, wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this pass. She was a reporter, alone in the ladies’ room with the wife of an accused murderer, a plumbing contractor who was rumored to be connected, but if he wasn’t, which most people thought was unlikely, he certainly knew people who were. There could be a story here. “So how’s Frank holding up?” she asked, turning on the tap.
“He’s fine,” said Carole, sounding like a well-prepped wife. “He knows he’s innocent, and he welcomes the opportunity to prove it.”
Adrienne soaped her hands.
“He’s got nerves of steel,” said Carole, hoping she could get some information out of Adrienne without actually giving her any.
“It’s not just the murder,” continued Adrienne, lathering up. “There’s all that talk about the Factory contracts.”
“You can’t believe everything you hear,” said Carole, unzipping the pouch and pulling out a lipstick. “What exactly are people saying?”
“The usual,” replied Adrienne, rinsing her hands. “Threats, payoffs, that sort of thing.”
Carole sighed. “That’s just because Frank’s Italian …”
