Page 44 of A Matter of Pedigree
“She could’ve lost her temper and whacked him on the head,” said Frank.
“I don’t think so. A real estate agent has to be pretty good at controlling her temper, don’t you think? And she’s supposed to be quite successful.”
“I thought you said she was having financial problems,” said Frank. “People do weird things when they’re under stress.”
“It sounded like a cash-flow issue to me, and you know how that goes. One month you’re rich, the next you’re hitting the food pantry.”
“You wouldn’t know where the food pantry is,” countered Frank.
Polly giggled. “That’ll be the day. Carole showing up in her Louboutins and Vuitton purse.” She picked up an English muffin crumb with her finger and put it in her mouth. “But it is true, about stress. It can really mess with your mind.”
“Okay, so we keep Susan Weaver on the list of suspects, but I’m pretty sure we can cross off Millicent Shaw. She’s too nice to kill anybody.”
“Those are the ones you have to watch out for,” said Polly, darkly.
“If you met her, I think you’d agree with me,” replied Carole. “She’s just the sweetest old thing. And that’s another point: she’s really old. Too old to bop somebody on the head hard enough to kill them.”
“Not so,” said Polly, poring over the Living section. “It says here that seniors are joining gyms in droves, especially older women. They’re working out with weights.”
“That’s just what we need,” muttered Frank, pushing his chair back from the table and heading for the bathroom, bringing along the sports section. “Old ladies with dumbbells. What next?”
“I don’t know,” said Carole, propping her cheek on her hand. “I wish Mom and I had found out more over there at Prospect Place, especially about the Pooles. They seem like an odd couple to me. Angelique doesn’t seem like the sort of woman you’d expect a fusty old bachelor like the professor to marry.”
“Angelique Poole? Is that her name?” asked Polly.
“Yeah. Do you know her?”
“No, but I see here that she’s offering a class in French pastry this weekend. Fifty dollars a person, and you get to eat everything you make. Shall we go? Maybe I can strike up an acquaintance with her and pump her for information.” She paused. “I’m sure she’ll know where to get good croissants.”
“I’ll try anything that will keep me out of that wig and rubber gloves,” said Carole, beginning to clear the table.
An hour later, dressed in her usual skinny jeans and heels, she was back at the hospital visiting Frank-O. Polly came, too, and Mom was already there with a jumbo beaker of Big Frank’s homemade eggnog, declaring that it would be soothing on his throat and was packed with nutrition. “You’ll never get better on the poor excuse for food the hospital gives you.”
“It’s not so bad,” said Frank-O. “I like those mashed potato mountains with the little crater on top for gravy.” He was looking better, thought Carole, and even had a little pink in his cheeks. Speaking was also a lot easier for him, although he still sounded quite hoarse, and he wasn’t coughing as much.
“Those potatoes taste like wallpaper paste!” protested Mom.
“Yeah, I know,” admitted Frank-O with a smile. “But I still like them.”
He had made substantial headway on the eggnog, however, when a nurse appeared and began taking his blood pressure. “Looks like you’re going home tomorrow,” she said, unwrapping the cuff with a ripping sound.
“What!” exclaimed Carole. “Tomorrow! He’s sick. Too sick to go home!”
The nurse looked at her. “Sorry, you’ll have to take it up with your health insurance. They say he’s ready to go.”
“The insurance! Since when do they decide?”
“Honey, it’s a new world,” advised the nurse. “They call the shots.”
“Not in France,” said Polly, smugly. “They have free health care.”
Carole figured Frank would work it out with the insurance company, but in the meantime they could certainly cover the hospital cost. “If money is the problem …”
“Listen, Mom,” interrupted Frank-O. “I don’t want to stay. I’m okay, really, and I want to go home.”
Carole looked at him, speechless. The kid couldn’t take care of himself under the best of circumstances. How was he going to manage in his weakened condition? He could hardly breathe, so how was he going to get up the stairs? And what about meals? Who was going to cook for him? Was he just going to lie around in squalor, waiting for one of his buddies to bring in a pizza or some Chinese? If only he could stay with her, but her mother was in the guest room. He could bunk on the couch, but that wouldn’t be too good, not with the way he and Frank didn’t get along so well. It would be hell, but if that’s what she had to do, that’s what she’d do.
“Okay,” she said. “You’ll come home with me.”
