Page 43 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Nah. One of the guys followed me.” He jerked his head toward a little Civic behind the Cayenne.
Carole smiled. “You think of everything. Thanks, again.”
“Yeah,” he said, giving her a little salute and hopping into the Civic.
Funny, she thought, how much better she felt having her car back. Wheels equaled freedom and independence, which she needed right now. She decided to delay telling Frank about Polly’s plan until she found the right moment. First things first, and she had to move the car into the garage. “C’mon, Poopsie,” she said, opening the car door. “We’re going for a ride.” Poopsie hesitated, sniffing the new car smell. “It always smells like new after the detailing,” she explained. Poopsie didn’t seem convinced and gave her head a good shake before deciding to leap in. “Sorry, but it’s a very short ride,” she added, as she started the engine and turned into the garage entrance.
Later that night, Carole finally broke the news about Polly to Frank, and he took it better than she expected, maybe because after her bath she’d slipped into the new peignoir set her mother had bought for her at Macy’s. It was cream-colored chiffon, trimmed with lace, and didn’t leave much to the imagination as she twirled about to give him a better view.
He was sitting in bed, readingSports Illustrated. “Va-va-voom,” he said, tossing it aside. “Where’d you get that?”
“My mother gave it to me. A hostess gift.” Carole sat on the side of the bed and tickled Frank’s chin. “She’s going to be with us for a while. Maybe even six weeks.”
“Well, she can stay with us as long as she likes,” declared Frank, “as long as she keeps giving you stuff like this.”
“Have I got your word on that?” asked Carole, slipping out of the peignoir and letting it flutter to the floor. The gown beneath was nothing but a wisp of silk.
“Ooh, baby, I’ll give you whatever you want,” said Frank, flipping back the duvet. “Now see what Papa’s got for you!”
Chapter Fourteen
Next morning, Carole was surprised to find Polly sitting at the dining table when she and Poopsie got back from their walk. “Must be jet lag. I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” explained Polly, who had made coffee and was sipping a cup, poring over a magazine. Carole had picked up the morning paper on her way home and gave it to her, then went about her usual morning routine of feeding the dog and cooking eggs for Frank.
“I can’t believe he eats that every morning,” said Polly, as the bacon started sizzling. She was nibbling on an English muffin, which she put down with a sigh. “I don’t suppose you can get decent croissants around here?”
“Croissants aren’t exactly health food,” said Carole, break ing a couple of eggs into the pan. “Frank!” she called. “Eggs are on!”
He appeared a minute or two later, unshaven and with mussed hair, in his rumpled pajamas and robe. Polly gave him a disapproving look but, wisely, didn’t comment on his appearance. She herself was a picture of perfection: her hair was freshly styled, her face washed and moisturized, and she was dressed in an oversized white shirt and black leggings, with ballet flats on her feet. Frank ignored her and sat down heavily in his usual chair. Carole brought him a big mug of coffee, and he reached for the paper, which was unopened, lying beside Polly’s plate.
“Ya don’ mind, right?” he growled as he flipped it open and glanced at the headline: DA CONFIDENT OFCONVICTION INBROWNECASE, grunted, and tossed it aside in favor of the sports section. He was engrossed in a story about a promising rookie player when Carole brought him his plate, and he continued reading while he ate.
Carole, however, read every word of the headline story about the DA while she ate her whole-wheat English muffin and eighty calories worth of peach yogurt. “The DA says he wants to go to trial as soon as possible,” Carole advised Frank.
“Good luck with that,” replied Frank. “Vince has got other plans.”
“Like what?” asked Carole.
“Delay, delay, delay, that’s the name of the game—at least that’s what he told me. The more motions you file, the longer you put it off, the case loses steam. Stuff gets lost, people’s memories aren’t so good. I think he’s filing a motion for change of venue, says that’ll use up a good six months. Then he’s got a bunch of other stuff, says he can put off the trial for at least three years.”
“That wouldn’t work in France,” said Polly.
“I’m not sure it’s going to work here,” said Carole. “I hope he’s got a better defense strategy than that.”
Frank was mopping up the last of the egg yolk with a piece of toast. “You and Mom find out anything yesterday over at Prospect Place?” he asked.
“Not much,” admitted Carole, “But we’re going back next week. And I’ve got an interview with Celerie Lonsdale this afternoon. I asked her for some help with window treatments.”
“Window treatments! I’m looking at a couple of million in legal fees and you’re talking window treatments?”
“Calm down,” said Carole, placidly stirring her yogurt. “The windows are just an excuse. I’m going to pump her for information about Prospect Place, just like you want.”
“Oh,” said Frank, getting a sharp look from Polly. “That’s a good idea.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Carole, licking her spoon. “I feel like I’m poking around in the dark. I don’t know what to ask her.”
“What’ve you got so far?” asked Frank.
“Not much,” admitted Carole. “The real estate lady, Susan Weaver, seemed to have a big motive for getting rid of Hosea Browne because she’s definitely got money problems. But when you think about it, she was better off when he was alive. He was difficult, but she could probably find some nice WASPy buyer for him sooner or later. Now that he’s dead, there’s all sorts of legal complications that could hold up the sale for years.”
