Page 35 of A Matter of Pedigree
Angelique tapped her foot. “I’m afraid I don’t have that much cash on hand, so take the check this week, and I’ll have cash for you next week.”
“No!” Mom shook her head stubbornly. “No bank, shek no goot.”
Angelique glanced at her watch, clearly at a loss what to do.
Mom made a big show of relenting. “Iss okay,” she purred. “Yoo pay kash nex week. Tree hundert total, yess?”
Angelique surrendered. “Yes,” she moaned, grabbing the coat and briefcase she had ready on a hall chair. “Cash next week,” she promised, hurrying out the door.
“Watch where she goes,” hissed Mom. “We’ll grab her parking spot.”
Carole obliged, first peering out the sidelight beside the door and then, as Angelique proceeded out of view, opening the door and watching from the stoop. But Angelique didn’t get in a car; she began jogging, then running down the street as Carole watched, amazed. The woman was going to run all the way across town to Johnson and Wales!
Chapter Twelve
“So?” said Mom, when she stepped back inside. “You want the keys?”
“She didn’t take a car,” said Carole.
Mom’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
Carole shrugged. “She runs to work.” After a moment, she added, “I guess that’s how she stays so thin.”
“That’s un-American!” exclaimed Mom.
“Well, she is French,” said Carole, picking up the duster.
It wasn’t even eight-thirty yet, and she figured the professionals who lived in Prospect Place didn’t keep plumber’s hours and were probably still home, finishing up their breakfasts. With that in mind, she and Mom began dusting and vacuuming the front hall and stairs. Good thing, too, because first Mark Lonsdale came down the stairs, carrying a briefcase, only to be followed a few minutes later by his wife, Celerie, who was toting a couple of big wallpaper sample books. Neither one took any notice of Carole and Mom beyond a little nod and a “good morning.”
Professor Poole appeared soon after, carrying an old-fashioned, accordion-style briefcase that was full to bursting with books and papers that threatened to spill out. He made it halfway down the stairs, saw them, and immediately turned around and went back up. Reappearing, he smiled apologetically and tapped his forehead to indicate that he had forgotten something, before making his wordless exit. That left the building empty except for Millicent Shaw, who had the garden-level apartment, actually the basement. Carole knew she didn’t work and was afraid she might pop up with an offer of tea and cookies, but she left the house shortly after the professor, carrying an armful of Whole Foods grocery bags.
“We’ve got at least an hour,” said Mom. “Where should we start?”
“Hosea Browne’s apartment,” said Carole, reaching for the knob and finding the door locked. “Darn,” she said, checking out the mechanism. “It’s one of those old ones with the bar that slides across. A credit card won’t work.”
“I thought of that,” said Mom, producing a thin knitting needle and poking it through the large keyhole. A jiggle here, a jiggle there, a firm push, and the door creaked open.
“Spooky.” Carole giggled nervously, following Mom into the dimly lit apartment.
“Yeah,” agreed Mom, busily switching on lights. “This place is like a mausoleum. And how come, if he was so rich, everything looks like it’s falling apart?” She pointed to the threadbare Oriental rug. “I mean, even the Salvation Army wouldn’t take that.”
Carole was looking around, studying the dusty old drapes, the gilt bull’s-eye mirror topped with a ferocious eagle, the enormous highboy atop spindly legs, and wondering where to begin. “Be careful,” she warned Mom. “I bet a lot of this stuff is very valuable.”
“You kidding?”
“No, Mom. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that decorator friend of Connie’s wanted me to buy. Antiques, she said, but it all looked old and dingy to me. She said it was the responsible thing to do, you know, good for the planet.”
“I don’t mind antiques,” said Mom, “as long as they look new.”
“Me, too,” said Carole, pausing to study a dark oil painting of a sailing ship that hung on the wall between the two tall windows. “TheOrion,” she said, reading the blackened brass plate on the frame. “It looks like it’s going down in a storm.”
Mom pointed to some dark figures in the water. “Looks like a bunch of folks are drowning,” she said, shuddering. “Why would you have a gloomy picture like that when you could have a nice Thomas Kinkade with that pretty glowing light?”
“Dunno, Mom,” said Carole, standing in the middle of the room with her hands at her side. “What are we supposed to look for?”
“Evidence,” said Mom, heading for the kitchen. “Like maybe a blackmail letter, something like that.”
“I don’t think he’d hang something like that on the fridge with a souvenir magnet,” said Carole, going in the opposite direction and looking for a study, or at least a desk. She found it in the next room, a musty-smelling gentleman’s retreat with leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and a huge mahogany desk.
