Page 28 of A Matter of Pedigree
They both watched as the stretcher was slid into the ambulance, the doors slammed, and it took off with siren screaming and lights flashing.
“Was he hurt real bad?” asked Carole.
The cop shrugged. “Them little cars is nothing more than sardine cans,” he said.
“I feel terrible,” said Carole.
“Nothin’ you could’ve done,” said the cop, consoling her. “’Course, I’m gonna have to charge you with something since you did rear-end him.”
Carole braced herself. What would it be? Vehicular homicide? Manslaughter? Speeding or, at the very least, failure to use caution. Would she have to go to court?
“Illegal parking,” said the cop, handing her the summons and the accident report. “Fifty-dollar fine.”
“Illegal parking?” she asked incredulously, as the Smart car was cranked up onto a wrecking truck and driven off.
“Lady, you’re parked in the middle of the road. You can’t do that.”
“Right,” said Carole, taking the papers. “I’ll move my car right away.”
“You do that,” said the cop, with a dismissive nod.
Still shaken by the accident, Carole drove home slowly and carefully, to a steady chorus of outraged honks. The other drivers didn’t seem to appreciate her cautious approach as she switched on her signal indicator and braked to make a slow turn onto Holden Street and repeated the process at Edith Street. “Get a rocking chair, Granny,” yelled one guy, zooming past her in a Range Rover.
“Get one yourself,” she yelled back, using the brake the whole way down the hill and turning into the garage. There she flipped on her headlights, just to be on the safe side, and circled slowly up the ramp until she got to her favorite spot and found it vacant.
Grateful for small mercies, she carefully checked that everything was off before turning off the engine, which gave a hiccup before falling silent. That had never happened before, and she wondered if the collision had broken something in the engine. She decided she’d better have the car inspected before she drove it again and made a call to Johnny D’s Auto Care. She spoke to Aaron, her favorite mechanic, and after sympathizing with her about the accident and making sure she was okay, he promised to pick the car up right up away. Then, suddenly remembering Poopsie’s predicament, she hopped out, hurried across the bridge, and pounded the elevator button. It seemed to take forever, but it finally did arrive, and she got up to the fifth floor, where she hurried down the long hallway to her apartment at the end; she was fumbling with the key, and she could hear Poopsie whining and jumping, scratching at the other side of the door. Finally, it opened, and she scooped up Poopsie, grabbed the leash, hooked it on the dog’s rhinestone collar, and set her down in the hallway for the dash to the stairs.
Chapter Ten
Whew! What a day, Carole thought, as Poopsie dragged her down the four long flights. When the ceilings are eighteen feet high, the stairs are twice as long. Then, after taking her paranoid peek through the glass window in the lobby door, she ran across the polished concrete floor, Poopsie making silly little swimming motions as she struggled to get her footing on the slick surface, and they made it outside.
Carole let out a long, relieved sigh, and Poopsie squatted just outside the door. Not the best spot, since they were right in the path of a rather distinguished-looking, sixtyish gentleman in a topcoat carrying a briefcase. Carole gave him an apologetic grin; he gave her a disapproving glance and made a slight detour downhill from Poopsie. A tactical mistake, since the yellow stream headed straight for his lovely, polished brogues. Carole gave the leash a yank, but Poopsie was not about to cooperate. She didn’t like this man; she could apparently sense his disapproval and was determined to let him know it by nipping at his ankles as he danced past.
The gentleman was spryer than he looked; he not only avoided the nip but gave Poopsie a sharp little kick as Carole dragged her up the street, legs stiffly splayed out in resistance. It wasn’t until they reached Holden Street that the dog gave in and trotted along, stopping now and then to sniff something that caught her interest.
As she reached the corner of West Park, Carole suddenly realized she didn’t need to walk the dog any farther in this darkening drizzle; she had already done all her business. She could go home and recuperate from the day’s stresses with a nice cup of tea and a TV soap, maybe catch the last few minutes of Jennifer Hudson. She needed some downtime, a chance to process the crash and to sort through the information she’d gathered from Angelique and Susan. But when she got back to the apartment, she discovered Frank had come home early and had found the accident report she had dropped on the console table by the door.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded, waving the paper in her face.
“No big deal,” said Carole, soothingly. “I rear-ended this little car that popped out in front of me on a hill, when I was trying to make the light.”
“I’ve told you, time and time again, you drive like a maniac.”
“I do not. Even the cop thought it was tough luck. He gave me a parking ticket.”
Frank wasn’t buying it. “You smash into somebody’s car and you get a parking ticket?”
“’Cause I was blocking the road. He told me to get out of there, and I did.” She was hanging up her jacket. “The car’s fine, hardly a scratch; the airbags didn’t even deploy. And I’m okay, too,” she added, turning to face him. “Not that you bothered to ask!”
If Carole had hoped that Frank was going to suddenly realize the error of his ways and engulf her in a loving and forgiving hug, offering apologies for being such a callous brute when she was actually an accident victim deserving tea and sympathy, she was about to be disappointed.
“And the other guy?” he demanded, waving the report in her face.
“Uh, well,” confessed Carole, “it was a very little car, and they had to take him to the hospital.”
“Minor injuries?”
“He was unconscious, and they had to use the jaws of life …”
