Page 26 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Let’s say it’s my way of making up for the Prospect Place sale,” she said, signaling the waiter. “Please have whatever you want.”
“You don’t need to do this,” said Susan. “It wasn’t your fault; you were certainly well-qualified buyers.”
“I know, but I want to,” insisted Carole, as the waiter approached, and she ordered the two glasses of wine. “I don’t suppose,” she continued to Susan, “now that Hosea is gone, that maybe there’s a chance for us to get that place?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Susan, shrugging. “It all depends on the brother, Jon. From what I gather, he’s some sort of Indiana Jones type, digging away at an archaeological site in Peru. Probably some remote location in the mountains or something. It may be some time before he can get back to Providence. I think that’s why they haven’t announced a funeral yet. I think they’re waiting for him.”
“I was wondering about that,” said Carole, as the wine arrived. She hoisted her glass in a toast, clinking with Susan’s. “Salute!”
They both took a sip of wine and then bent their heads over the menu. Carole ordered a salad, with the dressing on the side, and Susan went for steak frites, which Carole thought indicated either a very high metabolism or the need to fill her stomach on somebody else’s tab. “Do you want to switch to red?” asked Carole, indicating the wine.
“No, no, this is plenty for me. I have to get back to work.”
“I don’t usually drink with lunch,” said Carole. “I’ve had kind of a stressful day.”
“That’s understandable,” sympathized Susan. “Of course, I’m sure Frank is innocent, but even so, it must be a very difficult time for you.”
“You have no idea,” said Carole, twirling the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. “Or maybe you do. It must have been very disappointing for you when Hosea Browne nixed the sale.”
“Not just you guys, but a couple of others, too,” exclaimed Susan. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I had high hopes for one couple, lovely professionals, but Hosea voted no. I’m sure it was because they were Black. He said it was for their own good; they’d be happier someplace else, with their own kind!”
“That’s what he said about us,” said Carole, “but he was right. I am happy at the Esplanade. I love our gorgeous new apartment.”
“But you’re still in the market?” asked Susan, anxiously.
“Sure, if the right place comes along.” Carole took a sip of wine. “Frank hates paying rent. He doesn’t believe in it. And there are so many rules. You know, I can’t even hang a wreath on my apartment door at Christmas!”
“It’s always better to own. I’ll keep you in mind,” promised Susan, as their food arrived. “But you’re still interested in Prospect Place?”
That ship had sailed as far as Carole was concerned, but she didn’t want Susan to know that. “Frank loved it,” she said, with an encouraging smile.
“It’s a fantastic property. Unique, with all that history,” said Susan, with a sigh. “But Hosea’s death has put everything on hold. It’s a great address, and people are lining up to buy in, but I can’t even show the condo until Jon Browne arrives from Peru, whenever that is. And even then, we’ll have to wait for the funeral,” she continued, “and then nobody knows what will happen because it’s part of Hosea’s estate. There’ll be lawyers, bankers, claims, and counter-claims; it could be months before it’s back on the market.”
Susan looked so mournful that Carole reluctantly crossed her off the list of suspects. It seemed clear that she was one of the very few people who would actually prefer that Hosea Browne were still alive and therefore wouldn’t have murdered him. But what about the other Prospect Place residents?
“You know,” she began, spearing a piece of lettuce, “Frank has a theory that somebody at Prospect Place killed Hosea Browne.”
“Really?” Susan’s eyebrows shot up quizzically, and Carole noticed she needed a waxing. “Whyever would one of them do that?”
“Remember how he said that he wouldn’t tolerate any impropriety in his family home? Frank thinks somebody up there has a dirty secret they want to hide.”
“Everybody’s got secrets,” agreed Susan, slicing into her steak. “Believe me, in this business you see a lot! But the Prospect Place bunch all seem pretty respectable to me.”
“What about Millicent Shaw?” asked Carole. “Doesn’t she seem too good to be true?”
Susan shook her head. “She’s a real lady, with those lovely, old-fashioned manners. She’s been nothing but sweet to me; she even sent me a handwritten note of encouragement after Hosea turned you down.”
“What do you know about her?” persisted Carole.
Susan chewed thoughtfully. “She seems to be one of those rare people who always looks for the good in others. One time, I complained to her that we’d never find a buyer who would satisfy Hosea, and she just laughed, said he was a relic from an earlier time. But then she went on and said that wasn’t always such a bad thing, that some of those old-fashioned virtues, like honesty and fair dealing, were in short supply these days, something like that.”
“I’d call it turning a blind eye to bigotry, but then I’m not a Pollyanna like Millicent,” said Carole, softening her declaration with a smile. “What about the Pooles? They seem a bit of an odd couple. She’s quite a bit younger …”
“He’s a fusty old thing, isn’t he? I suspect he’s pretty upset about losing Hosea. They were birds of a feather.”
“Somehow I can’t see Hosea approving of Angelique, though. She’s so French.”
“Are you kidding?” protested Susan. “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and Hosea was no different. All she had to do was cook him a tarte tatin or something and he’d be a goner, head over heels with her.”
