Page 4 of A Matter of Pedigree
Frank shrugged. “He came around once or twice; it’s no biggy. Business is business. I haven’t had any problems with him on the job. We do good work, always have. What’s he gonna say, anyway?” Frank finished off his coffee. “Guys like him don’t know squat about plumbing.”
After breakfast, as she loaded the dishwasher, Carole tried to put to rest the niggling little worry that was growing in her mind. Frank would never, it was out of the question. But he did know people; everybody in Providence knew somebody who would, if you asked. But would Frank ask, or maybe just drop a hint? If he did say something in passing, about what a jerk Hosea was, for instance, somebody might take it the wrong way, depending on how much the guy owed Frank. Plenty of people owed Frank; he was a generous guy. If you were having a tough time and needed rent or a car payment, he was quick to pull out the fat roll of hundreds he kept in his pocket and peel off a few. “No problem,” he’d say with a shrug. “Pay me back when you got it. No rush.” And sometimes payback came in the form of favors: a free car repair, a dinner at one of the restaurants on Federal Hill, a pair of shoes or a new suit, a couple of cases of wine.
It wasn’t that Frank was connected, no way. It was just the way things were in Providence. She figured the stuff he occasionally brought home was just the guy version of the favors she traded with her girlfriends, like babysitting, when the kids were little, or dropping off a tray of lasagna or manicotti when somebody died, or buying a case of cookies you didn’t need and wouldn’t eat from some cousin’s little Girl Scout.
Sure, Providence had a bit of a reputation, but the days when Raymond Patriarca sat outside his Coin-O-Matic storefront and collected tribute from anyone who wanted to do business on Federal Hill were long gone. Things were different now, she reminded herself, and there was no sense in letting her mind run away with itself. Shame on her for even thinking for one moment that Frank could ever possibly be involved in a murder. She knew her husband inside and out, and while he might seem a little rough on the outside, she knew he was a big softy on the inside. She’d go crazy if she kept thinking like this, she told herself as she changed into her workout clothes. Better instead to work it off in the gym, on the elliptical, then finish up with some laps in the pool. And by the time she was back in the apartment, taking a shower, she was already thinking ahead to the rest of the day and trying to decide what to wear. Her Versace jeans, she thought, with a cashmere sweater and her new retro, faux-leopard-skin jacket. Cute. And, of course, her new Jimmy Choo stilettos.
She was greeted like a hero when she breezed into Macy’s at Providence Place, but even so, she had to admit it was a poor substitute for her beloved Nordstrom, which was a victim of the financial crisis. Back then, in the good old days, she’d always stopped to give the piano player a hug and a ten, and he’d play her favorite song, “La Vie en Rose,” for her. But times changed, right? And the girl at the Bobbi Brown counter was waving at her.
“Hi, Mrs. Capobianco,” she chirped. “We have some fab new eyeliners.”
“Not today,” she called back, with a wave. “I’m in a hurry.”
“Come in for a free makeover,” the girl urged. “You’d look great in the new teal eyeshadow.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” promised Carole, hurrying on through the cosmetics department to the escalator. Up on the second floor, the girls in the designer collections waved to her. “Just arrived,” one called to her. “Gorgeous, sexy spring outfits from Vince Camuto.”
“Send me a text reminder,” she called, waving her cell phone. “I don’t have time today,” she explained, making a beeline for the lingerie department, where she hoped to find a birthday present for Connie.
“She’s a lawyer,” she told the sales associate, Lily. She knew Lily from before, when she’d worked at Nordstrom.
“Wow, you must be really proud, Mrs. Capobianco.”
“I am. But the problem is she has to wear such conservative clothes to work, and she works all the time. That’s why I thought of lingerie. It can be lovely and lacy and sexy, and nobody sees it because it’s under her clothes.”
“Unless she wants them to,” said Lily, with a naughty twinkle in her eye.
“Right,” agreed Carole, with a smile. “And maybe I’ll just look for a little something for myself. Something that Frank would like.”
“Good idea,” said Lily. “Black? Leopard print? Red?”
“Red,” said Carole. “I heard somewhere that it’s the color of sex.”
She and Lily had a good laugh over that.
Twenty minutes later, she was back in her Porsche Cayenne, tapping her nails impatiently on the steering wheel as she waited in line at the exit. Parking for less than two hours was free, but you still had to insert the ticket in the machine. Really, why? she fumed, impatiently, as someone ahead was trying various credit cards.
Finally through the lift gate, she zoomed through a yellow light at the exit out onto Promenade Street, heading straight for the Hill and Scialo’s bakery to order zeppole for the traditional Saint Joseph’s Day celebration. Usually it was just family, but this year they wanted to show off the new apartment and were planning an open house.
“How many do you want, hon?” asked the counter girl, when it was her turn. There was almost always a line at Scialo’s, and today was no exception.
“Two dozen?” Carole wasn’t sure. The pastries were enormous and very sweet, loaded with whipped cream and lemon curd.
“You tell me, hon,” said the girl, looking off into the distance.
“Two’s probably not going to be enough. Give me four dozen.”
“Okay.”
Carole was adding up everybody she thought might come. “No, make it six.”
“You got it, hon. They’ll be ready for pickup in the morning on the nineteenth. Something for today?”
Carole looked around the bakery, studying the gleaming glass cases filled with cookies, pastries, cakes, and bread. “I’ll take a loaf, and some cannoli. A half dozen. To take with me.”
“No problem,” said the girl, folding a box for the cannoli.
Leaving the bakery, Carole walked across the plaza to Venda Ravioli. Frankie Junior loved Pellegrino orange soda, and she thought she’d grab him some, plus some of their fabulous prepared takeout food, since she knew that he never bothered to cook for himself. There was no line at Venda and no numbers you pulled from a machine; you just had to catch the eye of the guy behind the counter. Carole never had any trouble with that.
