Page 34 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you,” said Frank, laughing.
“How you can laugh at a time like this …” protested Carole, until she caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror and began to laugh, too. “You’re right, my mother would die if she saw me like this,” she admitted, thinking it was a good thing her mother lived far away, in Paris. She reached for Poopsie’s leash and handed it to Frank. “I’m late,” she said, grabbing the reusable grocery bag she’d hidden her Prada bag in and reached for the doorknob. “You’ll have to walk the dog.”
Mom was just pulling up in a beat-up old Corolla when Carole stepped outside. Frank was across the street, studying the sky and refusing to acknowledge what the dog was doing beside him.
“Where’d you get the car?” she asked, struggling to open the stiff, creaky door.
“I borrowed it from Christina Fornisanti ’cause Big Frank needed the truck,” said Mom, beginning a slow chug up the hill while Carole battled with the seat belt. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? I don’t like this, leaving Frank-O all alone at the hospital.”
“Frank’s going,” said Carole, finally snapping the belt.
“So’s Big Frank,” admitted Mom, “but still …”
“It might be our only chance to investigate at Prospect Place,” said Carole. “At least, that’s what Frank says.” She paused, thinking, as they slowly rolled past the statehouse. “It’s easy to forget, now that he’s out on bail, but this thing hasn’t gone away. Frank’s still under indictment, and the DA is busy building a case against him. We can’t relax; we’ve got to find the real murderer, or Frank could go to jail for life.”
“It’s like some wickedstregaput a hex on us,” said Mom, braking hard as the Corolla began rolling down the hill, picking up speed. “First Frank and now poor Frank-O. What next?” she asked, as the car shuddered to a stop at the light.
“You can’t think like that, Mom,” protested Carole. “We’ve got to stay positive.”
“I hope I’ve got a green light on the hill,” said Mom, making the turn onto College Street and beginning the steep climb. “I don’t think the brakes will hold if we don’t.”
But it wasn’t stopping that was a problem on the hill; it was getting up it. The aged Corolla inched along; somebody behind them honked, and Carole was wondering if she should get out and walk to lighten the load on the car. Mom wondered about an alternate route, but finally, through sheer persistence and the power of positive thinking, they made it to Benefit Street, the halfway point. The hill was even steeper on the other side of Benefit, so Mom made an executive decision and turned right, creeping past the RISD Faculty Club and art museum to George Street, where the hill leveled out. That meant circling around the Brown campus, and they were running late when they finally got back to Prospect Street.
“What are we going to do?” asked Mom. The street was packed solid with parked cars in every legal space.
Carole looked at her Cartier Tank watch and saw it was already ten past eight. Angelique had specifically warned them not to be late.
“Park in front of the old armory,” said Carole.
“It’s posted.”
“We don’t have any choice. We could drive around for hours and not find anything legal.”
“What if it gets towed? Christina needs the car this after noon …”
“Look, we’ll get started on the job, and as soon as Angelique leaves, you can come out and move the car, right? Take the space.”
“Okay,” agreed Mom, sliding into the illegal spot and braking. She looked upward, apparently having a word with the man upstairs, or perhaps calling on her guardian angel, then wrestled the door open and began hauling cleaning supplies out of the trunk. They hurried down the street, making a fine picture in their thrift-shop outfits and bristling with mops and brooms, finally hauling themselves up those forbidding gray stone steps to the front door.
Angelique was waiting for them in the hall. “Finally!” she fumed, tapping her foot, shod in a running shoe. “It’s about time you got here. I have commitments, you know. My students expect class to begin at exactly nine.”
“We’re very sorry,” said Mom, momentarily forgetting her accent.
“Pukking,” hissed Carole, breaking her vow of silence. “Pukking.”
“Ahhh,” exclaimed Mom, getting the message. “No pukking shpot for car,” she said, adopting her accent. “Verrrr shorry.”
“I know it’s difficult,” acknowledged Angelique, “but in future you’ll have to allow extra time.” She paused. “Now, about the payment …”
Mom couldn’t help it; she had to haggle. “One hundert dollah fifdy, sheventy-five for herrr, sheventy-five forrr moi.”
Angelique took a deep breath. “We agreed in our phone conversation that the payment would be sixty-five each, one hundred thirty total.”
Mom gave a shrug.
“I left a check for you on the hall table.”
“Shek no goot,” declared Mom. “Kash.”
