Page 38 of A Matter of Pedigree
“A couple of months,” said Carole, pushing the elevator button. She was suddenly exhausted and leaned against the wall. “Thanks for helping us,” she told Will, with a wan smile.
“No problem, Mrs. Capobianco.” He waited until they’d gotten in the elevator and then pushed the cart in after them. “There have been some complaints about your dog this morning.”
“My son’s in the hospital,” said Carole.
“I didn’t realize,” he apologized. “You know I’d be happy to walk her for you.”
If only, thought Carole, thinking of the one time she’d attempted to hire a dog walker. The poor kid had quit, giving up dog walking to take a job as an exotic dancer at the Foxy Lady. “Not a good idea,” she said. “Poopsie doesn’t like changes in her routine.”
And Poopsie didn’t like the cart coming into the apartment, or Will, either, but as soon as she caught sight of Polly, she went into a gleeful frenzy of jumping and barking and rolling on her back, until she finally subsided at Polly’s feet and gazed up at her in blatant doggy adoration. Polly returned the favor, dropping gracefully to her knees and scratching beneath the little dog’s rhinestone collar, sending her into ecstatic wiggles. “Tu es gentille, n’est-ce pas?” crooned Polly. “Quel bel chiot!”
Poopsie couldn’t agree more about being a sweet dog and a pretty puppy and followed close on Polly’s heels as Carole showed her around the apartment.
“Who was your decorator?” she asked, staring at Frank’s enormous La-Z-Boy with a horrified expression.
“A friend of Connie’s from school came over, but I didn’t really like her ideas,” confessed Carole. “We kind of compromised on the sofa and the dining set, but she wanted to cover the windows with elaborate swagged and fringed curtains, so we parted ways.”
Polly studied the huge windows, which were at least twelve feet high. “They’refantastique,” she declared. “So much light, and the view!Formidable!”
“The windows are the same in every room,” said Carole. “Come see the guest room—your room,” she quickly corrected herself.
Carole was especially proud of the guest room, which she’d done in pale blue raw silk with Matouk linens and a pale beige mink throw, genuine fur—not faux—across the foot of the bed. The windows there overlooked the river and the trees that grew along its banks.
“This is nice,” admitted Polly. “Very luxurious, but I really think you should do something with the windows.”
Carole studied the narrow silver blinds that came with the apartment; they were serviceable and attractive, in a basic way, but she agreed.
“Do you know another designer?” asked Polly.
Wheels began to turn. “I do,” said Carole, thinking of Celerie Lonsdale. She liked the idea so much that she gave her mother a big hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek. “You arefantastique,” she declared, thinking that hiring Celerie would be a lot better approach to gathering information for the investigation than pretending to be a cleaning lady. And she wouldn’t have to wear this horrible housecoat.
“I’m going to change and go over to the hospital,” she told Polly. “You can get settled here or come with me, whichever you want.”
“But of course I will come with you,” declared Polly. “But first I want some fresh air.Allons-y¸ Madame Pompadour,” she called, and Poopsie obediently sat at her feet while she fastened the leash and calmly trotted out the door at her heel.
An hour later, Carole looked like herself again. Her blond hair with buttery highlights flowed down to her shoulders, her face was freshly made up, and she was wearing a coral cashmere wrap sweater, skinny jeans, and ankle boots with stiletto heels. She tossed on a short fur jacket, and they left the apartment.
The morning paper was lying on the floor, just outside the door, most likely thanks to Will, who must have brought it up. Carole stooped and snatched it up, wondering if there was anything about the fire.
There was, she discovered, as she unfolded the paper. A huge picture of the flames erupting from the building and the firemen carrying Frank-O took up most of the top half of the front page.
“Sacre bleu!” declared Polly, reading over Carole’s shoulder. “He’s lucky to be alive.”
“I know,” said Carole, wondering for the first time if perhaps the fire wasn’t an accident but had been deliberately set. She wasn’t alone. According to the paper, the state fire marshal had declared the fire suspicious and was conducting an investigation.
Chapter Thirteen
Frank-O was awake when they got to the hospital, but he didn’t look at all good. He wasn’t sitting up but was lying with his head slightly elevated, and he could only muster a whispered “Hi” for his mother and grandmother. His color wasn’t good, he had blue circles under his eyes, and his breathing was ragged despite the oxygen tube taped to his nose.
He also wasn’t alone. A guy in a blue fireman’s jacket with brass buttons and a cap was sitting by the bed, a laptop computer open in his lap. Another guy, in jeans and a sweater, was holding a cell phone, recording.
“What’s going on?” demanded Carole, ready to defend her baby from all intruders. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“I’m Assistant Deputy Fire Marshal Brian Salvati,” said the guy in uniform, belatedly removing his cap. “I’m just asking a few questions about the fire.”
“And videotaping the answers?” Carole was furious. “Has my son been informed of his rights? How come there’s no lawyer here?”
“He was informed of his rights and waived them,” said Salvati.
