Page 47 of A Matter of Pedigree
“All of it,” declared Celerie. “This is a big space, and we want to make an impact. I’ve seen some gorgeous, over-sized stuff from a place in Florence. They make it to order, and we’ll go for size, because it will be quite high up, and we want to be able to appreciate its bespoke beauty.”
While she was talking, Polly had heard Poopsie yip and went to find her. Returning with the dog in her arms, she sat down on the couch. Poopsie seemed perfectly content to remain in her lap, resting her chin on her paws and occasionally giving her a devoted glance. “I think Carole was thinking of some simple linen sheers,” said Polly, stroking Poopsie’s chin.
“I don’t think sheers will have quite the impact we need,” said Celerie, making a last-ditch effort to save a sizable commission. “We want to give an impression of luxe, of richness, no?”
“Sometimes less is more,” said Polly, as the dog flipped onto her back for belly rubs.
Sheers? Festoons? Carole was confused. “I don’t really …”
“Of course not,” agreed Celerie. “It’s a big decision. Tell you what, I’ll work up some sketches and get back to you; how about that? Then you can see how both styles will look.”
“Sure,” said Carole, relieved to be off the hook.
“Of course, I will need a deposit before I can begin,” said Celerie, not quite meeting Carole’s eyes. “A thousand is customary, to get started.”
Carole hadn’t expected this. “Just for a sketch?”
“I draw them myself; I don’t use a computer,” Celerie was quick to explain. “They’re really lovely little water colors that you can frame, if you want. And I’ll provide estimates, too. It’s quite time-consuming, but any portion of the deposit that isn’t used gets credited to your account.”
“Of course,” sighed Carole, going to fetch her checkbook.
When she returned with the check, Celerie practically snatched it out of her hand. “I’ll be in touch,” she promised, grabbing her Coach bag and making a quick departure.
When Celerie had gone, Polly released Poopsie, who ran across the floor to the door, sniffing the floor and following the designer’s trail. At the door, she stopped and pressed her nose against the crack, determined to sniff up every last trace of Celerie’s scent.
“I’ve never seen her do that,” observed Carole.
“She smells her fear,” said Polly. “That woman is desperately afraid.”
“Of what? Of Frank?”
“No. Not at all. I think she has money problems. Why else would she suggest fancy curtains with fringes and flounces? It’s all wrong for this place; elaborate Italian passementerie would look ridiculous with exposed brick walls, Frank’s leather chair, that sleek entertainment center. No, there’s only one reason she would suggest it, and that’s because it’s obscenely expensive and she can tack on a nice big markup for herself. That’s why. She wants to get as much money out of you as she can. I bet she’s down in the lobby, sending an image of that check to her bank. The money will be in her account before she leaves the building.” She glanced at Carole’s Vuitton bag that was sitting on the console table. “And she had a Coach bag. You can pick them up at Macy’s. Or Nordstrom’s Rack.”
“I think you’re right,” said Carole, who had just written a check for a thousand dollars and didn’t have anything to show for it, which wasn’t the way she usually did things. She reached for the phone and called Connie.
“Hi, sweetie, I need you to do something for me.”
“Something legal?” said Connie, cautiously.
Carole pretended she didn’t hear that. “Find out everything you can about Celerie and Mark Lonsdale; they live over there in Prospect Place.”
“Um, I don’t think I can do that.”
“Why not? Hosea Browne retained your firm, right? You’ve got all the applications, the deeds, all that stuff for Prospect Place.”
“Yeah, Ma, but they don’t leave that stuff lying around. I have limited access. I’m the low girl on the totem pole. First-year associates are lower even than the secretaries, than the cleaning crew. We are dirt.”
“Didn’t they teach you anything in law school?” muttered Carole. “The secretaries have all the information! Make nice with the secretaries!”
“Okay, Ma. I’ll try,” said Connie. “I’ve got to go now.”
“Hold on,” cautioned Carole. “I got somebody here wants to talk to you. Yourgrandmerefrom Paree!” She handed the phone over to Polly, who had a big grin on her face.
“Cherie!” she exclaimed. “You must let me take you to lunch.”
While Polly made plans to meet for lunch the next day, Carole wandered over to the window to check out the view. But she wasn’t really seeing it. Her thoughts were running round and round in her head, seeking the solution to what seemed an increasingly difficult question: Who killed Hosea Browne?
Chapter Fifteen
