Page 27 of A Matter of Pedigree
“He looked pretty skinny to me,” observed Carole. “Like he didn’t really care about food.”
“Trust me. He might have lived on a steady diet of English muffins and tea, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t appreciate free food when it was given to him. I brought some doughnut holes from Dunkin’ to my first meeting with the Prospect Place owners, and he ate almost all of them.”
Carole pushed a piece of frisée around her plate. “What about the professor?” she asked. “How was he like Hosea?”
Susan was making steady progress on her meal, chowing down on the steak and frites. “I think Angelique was his one moment of madness,” she said. “His head is in the clouds; at least it was whenever I had any dealings with him. He just sort of nodded along, and I knew he wasn’t really hearing a word I said.” She laughed. “Like Hosea, he lives in an alternate reality. I once saw him on Benefit Street, walking along, reading. Reading a book, while he walked. Can you imagine?”
“Not on Benefit Street,” said Carole. “The paving is so uneven it’s practically impossible to walk there in heels.”
“You said it,” agreed Susan, finally putting down her fork and coming up for air. “This is so good, and it’s so nice to just sit and chat with you like this. I’ve been so”—she paused, searching for the right word—“busy lately.”
“Me, too,” said Carole. “Would you like some coffee or tea? Some dessert?”
When Susan admitted that she wouldn’t mind, Carole asked the waiter for the dessert menu. “Go for the profiteroles,” she urged, when he brought them. “They’re delicious.”
“Want to share?” asked Susan.
“Sure, I’ll have a bite,” she said. “And two coffees,” she told the waiter. “S’il vous plait.”
“You speak French?” asked Susan.
“Tourist French. My mother lives in Paris, so I’ve picked up a little bit.”
“Lucky you,” enthused Susan. “It must be great having family in Paris.”
“Sometimes,” said Carole, noncommittally. “What about those Lonsdales? Frank calls them ‘the skim-milk couple.’ ”
Susan laughed, nodding. “Mark and Celerie? I don’t imagine Hosea had any trouble approving them,” she said. “I don’t know much about them. He’s a banker; she’s got an interior-design business. Somehow I think there might be some trust fund money in their background, but I’m just speculating.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, those units start at well over a million, and even though they’ve got the smallest one, up on the top floor, it seems like a lot of money for a young couple to come up with.”
Carole was inclined to agree. “Some people have it all, don’t they? Rich parents, naturally blond hair, perfect teeth.” Carole sighed. “Of course, she is named after a vegetable.”
“You’re not so badly off yourself,” said Susan, smiling as the dessert and coffee arrived.
“It wasn’t always like this,” said Carole, grinning mischievously. “You know that old commercial? Frank made his money the old-fashioned way—he earned it.”
When Carole left the restaurant, she had to admit to herself that, although she’d enjoyed the meal and Susan’s company, she hadn’t really gotten any incriminating information out of her. And now she was almost three hours late for Poopsie’s eleven o’clock walk. The poor dog hadn’t been out since early morning, about eight hours ago, and that was a long time to expect her to wait. The poor thing was probably frantic.
Carole paid the parking fee and zoomed out onto Angell Street, tapping her foot impatiently at the red light. Damn, damn, damn, she thought. The Wheeler School would be letting out soon and the street would be packed with school buses and kids. And then there was Thayer Street to get through, with the absent-minded professors and the entitled Brown kids wandering this way and that, heedless of traffic. The local streets were a nightmare, but at least she didn’t need to take the highway, which was way worse, nothing more than a nerve-wracking high-stakes game of bumper cars.
Oh, well, she told herself as she crept slowly along in the narrow streets, there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t be where she wasn’t, and she was trying to get home as quickly as she could. Frank had told her to gather as much information as possible, because you never knew exactly which little bit was going to be the final piece of the puzzle. When she looked at it that way, her lunch with Susan hadn’t been a waste. She’d definitely picked up some interesting and possibly valuable background information.
Finally making it through the stop sign by the Hillel Club, Carole broke free of the congestion and accelerated up the hill and through the light at Prospect Street, which was, amazingly, green. She was on the way down the hill, toward the oldest Baptist Church in America, and picking up speed when the light on Benefit Street turned yellow, a clear invitation to speed up. She pressed her foot down on the gas; she could make it, she knew she could, because she’d done it a million times, when suddenly—what the hell?—a ridiculously tiny little mini car pulled out of a parking spot and stopped right in front of her, even though the light was still golden amber.
“Gold means go,” screamed Carole, slamming on the brakes and hanging on to the steering wheel for dear life. It wasn’t like she could avoid a crash; the street was lined with official RISD vehicles on both sides, and the Smart car was directly in her path.
The noise of the impact was horrible—first, the big, loud, hollow bang, followed by the grating crunch of metal tearing, glass smashing, horns honking, tires popping, and radiators hissing.
Carole quickly climbed onto the street, where she saw that, except for some minor scratches, the Cayenne didn’t appear to be seriously damaged. She gasped in horror, how ever, when she saw the damage to the Smart car. It was completely demolished, and she was horrified to see that the driver, a man, was unconscious, face down over the steering wheel. Not dead, please God, she prayed, standing helplessly in the street. Should she try to get him out? What if the little car burst into flame? She started toward the Smart car, but was stopped in her tracks by a RISD security guard, one of several who came running to the accident. They quickly took charge, insisting on leaving the injured man in place until the EMTs arrived. Soon there were police cars and an ambulance and fire trucks, all with lights flashing. The jaws of life were employed to pry the little car open, and the driver was finally extracted. Carole couldn’t watch but turned away, a sick knot in her stomach, as he was rolled away on a stretcher.
“So what happened, Mrs. Capobianco?” demanded one of the cops, after examining her license and registration. “The guy stopped for a yellow light or something?”
“It was worse than that,” said Carole. “The road was clear, but all of a sudden he pulled out of a parking spot right in front of me and stopped. There was nothing I could do. I braked hard, but it was too late.”
“Must be from out of town,” suggested the cop, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “What was he thinking?”
