Page 3 of A Matter of Pedigree
Carole felt as if she’d been slapped across the face, but she was determined not to let it show. She swallowed hard and found her voice. “Of course …” she began, but she was interrupted by Frank.
He was on his feet, fists clenched and jaw set. “Take it personally? You bet I’m taking it personally,” he shouted.
Carole jumped up and grabbed his arm, attempting to lead him out of the room. “Let’s go,” she urged. “We’re not wanted here, and that’s fine. There are plenty of other, nicer places where they won’t expect you to fix the plumbing.”
Frank took a deep breath. “You’re right, babe.” He laughed, a harsh, dismissive sound like a cough. “These people are not worth raising my blood pressure,” he said, heading for the door. He paused by Susan and took her hand. “Sorry we wasted your time, honey.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said, folding the unsigned agreement and stuffing it in her briefcase. “Can you find your way out?”
“No problem,” said Frank, wrapping his arm around Carole’s waist. They stepped together into the hallway and he pulled open the massive six-panel door, carved from a single slab of mahogany over two hundred years ago, fingering the gleaming, handwrought brass knob. “I’d like to kill that, that stuck-up old fossil of a Yankee,” he was heard to say, before the door closed behind them.
Chapter Two
March 2024
Carole wasn’t naturally an early riser, but her little dog was. Poopsie, actually Shady Brook’s Madame Pompadour, was a pedigreed Brittany, which made her one classy dog. Brittanys were bred as bird dogs; they’re the smallest pointers, and they all have docked tails, elegantly feathered legs, and dazzling white coats spotted with either red, black, or liver patches. Poopsie was a redhead, her long, droopy ears covered with soft red hair that frizzed when it rained, and the patches of color spread from her ears to circle her eyes, giving her a mischievous, masked appearance. Her high energy level made her playful, but her sherry-colored, pleading eyes were all spaniel. Carole couldn’t resist those eyes, even though the clock said it was barely six o’clock.
“Okay, Poopsie,” she sighed, throwing back the covers and getting up, leaving Frank snoring on the other side of the king-size bed. “We’ll go out.”
Poopsie bounded through the living room to the front door, furiously wagging her little dishmop tail and waiting anxiously as Carole pulled on a track suit and boots and made her way through the dim apartment, pausing in the entry hall to put on her coat and leash the dog. Minutes later, they were climbing the Holden Street hill to Smith Street, headed for the spacious lawn around the state capitol.
Like all Rhode Islanders, Carole was proud of the enormous white-marble, wedding cake of a building that embodied the great spirit of the tiny state, though she sometimes wondered if the building’s exceptional size was a way of compensating for Little Rhody’s minuscule size. As a young child in school, she’d learned all about the building, how its dome was constructed only of marble blocks, making it the fourth-largest such dome in the world after Saint Peter’s Basilica, the Minnesota State Capitol, and the Taj Mahal. The sculpture on top, newly replaced following restoration was the Independent Man. The statue recalled the state’s founding by freethinker Roger Williams and its status as a colonial sanctuary for Quakers and others fleeing the restrictive and punitive Puritan government of neighboring Massachusetts.
Carole glanced at the building as she walked by on the brick sidewalk, but the thing she liked best about this morning walk was the sight of the sun rising over the East Side hills, dotted with trees and houses. It was chilly and misty, and Poopsie was tugging at the leash, practically pulling her arm off, but the sight of the gray sky giving way to rosy dawn made it all worthwhile.
As she walked down the hill and turned into the path that meandered through the large statehouse lawn, Carole counted her blessings. It was something she tried to do every day; she’d done it even before they got rich, ticking off things like health, the kids’ successes, a roof over her head, food to eat, clothes to wear. It was important to be grateful, she thought, and on this early March morning, the thing she was most grateful for was that the old snob Hosea Browne had nixed their application to buy into Prospect Place. Poopsie spotted a squirrel and darted after it, yanking Carole’s arm, but she hardly noticed. She was thinking about how much she loved her new apartment at the Esplanade, a derelict factory that had been rehabbed into luxurious, loft-style apartments. It was only a rental, sure, and they were still looking for property to invest in, but it was a terrific temporary home. They had one of the best and biggest apartments, high up on the top floor, with eighteen-foot ceilings and enormous windows that wrapped around three sides of the building and gave a gorgeous view of the Woonasquatucket River and the west side of the city, including Federal Hill and the red, neon Coca-Cola sign on top of the nearby bottling plant.
Carole loved that view, and she loved the fresh, clean apartment where everything was in the right place. Until now she’d always lived in older buildings. They’d started in the apartment in Mom and Big Frank’s tenement; then they’d bought a tenement of their own, keeping one of the three apartments for rental income and combining the other two into a big space for their growing family. But even after the remodeling, there were never enough electric sockets, the rooms were small and cramped, and there wasn’t nearly enough closet space for her constantly growing wardrobe.
None of these things were problems at the Esplanade. Their apartment was enormous, with an open floor plan that Carole loved. She could cook in the beautiful kitchen with brand-new, top-of-the-line stainless-steel appliances and Calacatta marble countertops while keeping an eye on the TV and chatting with Frank sitting in his brand-new leather recliner. There were tons of closets; one even had a washer and dryer, which meant no more climbing up and down the cellar stairs, and both bedrooms had roomy en suite bathrooms, lousy with more Calacatta marble. And not only were there plenty of electrical outlets, they also had Wi-Fi in every room.
The truth was, she told herself, as she and Poopsie made the turn around the back of the statehouse and started across the lawn toward Providence Place mall, the new apartment was much nicer than the unit Frank had been so hot to buy at Prospect Place. That apartment was dark and poky and dusty; there was only one bathroom instead of the four she had at the Esplanade, his and hers in the master suite, plus two others, and there was no parking. One of her favorite things about the Esplanade was the adjacent parking garage, which was connected to the residence by a bridge high above Edith Street. That meant you didn’t ever have to hunt for a parking space and could get to your car without facing the weather or ruining your hair.
Carole and Poopsie climbed the steps leading to Francis Street, and Carole paused at the top to take one last look at the gorgeous pink sky, then headed back across the bridge over Route 95 and on toward home, keeping Poopsie on a short leash whenever they passed a pedestrian. Poopsie had been known to nip the ankles of passersby, but if Carole kept up a steady stream of soothing conversation and a tight hold on the leash, she could usually get back home without incident, as long as nobody spoke to her. Problem was, people in Providence tended to be friendly and usually gave you a nod and a “good morning” at a minimum. And Poopsie was so cute that sometimes they’d want to pet her. Not a good idea. Poopsie did not approve of strangers.
This morning, however, Carole made it back to the apartment building without any unfortunate encounters and even walked all the way around to the front entrance to pick up the morning paper. Nobody else was in the vast lobby, and she relaxed her hold on Poopsie’s lead as she walked to the elevator, passing the mailboxes, the 75-foot lap pool, the community room, and a seating area with modern furniture grouped around a gas fireplace. The brick walls were hung with enormous black-and-white photos of people who once worked in the building when it was a factory: women in shirtwaists with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, men bent over lathes and presses. An odd choice of art, thought Carole, who figured that none of these people could ever have afforded to pay the current rent, even allowing for inflation. She pressed the button for the elevator and opened the paper, as she usually did, to check the headlines.
This morning’s headline was a stunner: BLOODYMURDERROCKSEASTSIDE.
The elevator arrived, the doors slid open, but Carole didn’t move. She stood there, her eyes flying over the black print, and the doors closed. Poopsie yipped, expressing her displeasure at this unreasonable delay, and she pushed the button again. She could hardly believe what she was reading. Hosea Browne was dead, apparently bashed on the head, possibly with a pipe or other blunt instrument. His bloody corpse had been found at a construction site on the Woonasquatucket River, not far from the Esplanade.
This time, Carole got in when the elevator arrived, checking first to make sure it was empty. Poopsie didn’t like to share her personal space. Reaching the fifth floor without encountering anyone, she hurried down the carpeted hall to the apartment. Frank was up, standing in the kitchen in his robe and slippers, pouring himself a mug of coffee.
“You won’t believe this!” she declared, excitedly. “Hosea Browne is dead! Blunt injury trauma or something like that.”
Frank took the news in stride. He didn’t spill a drop but continued pouring until he’d filled his king-size mug, then replaced the carafe on the coffee maker. He added some cream and sugar to his mug, stirred, then took a swallow. It was only then that he spoke. “Serves the old bastard right,” he said, taking the paper and shuffling over to the breakfast area in his slippers. “You didn’t happen to notice, did ya, whether the Sox beat the Phillies down in Florida?”
While Frank read the sports section, Carole cooked breakfast. Frank liked three eggs, sunny-side up, bacon or sausage, and toast with lots of butter. Thank God, he was faithful about taking his Lipitor. Carole made herself a whole-wheat English muffin, lightly buttered, and accompanied it with a 80-calorie pot of yogurt. While they ate, she peppered Frank with questions.
“What was Hosea Browne doing at the Factory?” she asked, naming the construction site where his body was found. She knew that Capobianco and Sons had the plumbing contract for the huge riverfront development that was going to combine residential and commercial space in a garden setting.
“He was one of the backers,” said Frank, shoveling in a forkful of egg.
“I didn’t know that,” said Carole, feeling a bit uneasy.
“Yeah,” said Frank, his mouth full of toast. “He’s a venture capitalist.”
“I didn’t know you had any contact with him, except for the condo,” said Carole.
