Page 49 of A Matter of Pedigree
Remembering that Polly was having lunch with Connie and the apartment would be empty, Carole decided to grab some time for herself. It had been a while, she realized, since she’d had a free moment. So after checking that Frank-O was comfortable and a round of hugs with Big Frank and Mom, she headed home.
“First things first,” she told Poopsie, as she made herself a huge peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and poured herself a tall glass of whole milk. The dog gave her a look when she sat down at the table with her lunch, but Carole was quick to defend herself.
“I’m splurging,” she told the dog. “I’m sick of salad and Pellegrino, and this is what I want to eat, so keep your opinions to yourself.”
Chastised, the dog settled down at her feet.
Carole savored every bite of the sandwich and even treated herself to a couple of Double Stuf Oreos, Frank’s favorites, before taking Poopsie out for her noontime walk. Then, back at the apartment, she made herself a cup of tea and sat down at Frank’s computer. She was no computer whiz, but she had mastered Google, which never failed to find what she needed, whether it was a Korean face mask or an Italian purse. It had also provided interesting information about people, whether she was looking up celebrities or neighbors she’d suspected had complained about Poopsie, so she typed in Stuart Poole’s name to see what she could see.
Wow! There were absolutely thousands of references to Stuart Poole, the guy was a road hog on the information highway. She opened up the first listing, and the computer detoured into Adobe, taking its time to load, and when the little hourglass disappeared all of a sudden, the screen was filled with dense text. She began reading; it was all about trade in colonial times and was putting her to sleep, so she hit the little red X with the cursor and got out of there.
She obviously had to be choosier about what files she opened; she’d wasted a good ten minutes on that sucker, so she scrolled down the list of references. As it turned out, most of them were on the same subject, something called the Triangular Trade, which took place hundreds of years ago. The professor was apparently an expert on this subject, which she’d learned in high school involved sailing ships that carried goods like cotton or timber from the American colonies to Europe, where it was traded for guns and liquor. The ships then sailed to Africa, where they traded these goods for captive natives. This human cargo was then brought back to either the American colonies or Caribbean islands, where they were sold as slaves to work on plantations in exchange for sugar and rum. It was awful and disgusting, and she wondered why it held such fascination for Professor Poole. But, she reminded herself, having an interest in bad behavior didn’t mean a person would actually do anything bad. She herself enjoyed an occasional romantic novel, for instance, but it didn’t mean she’d ever consider being unfaithful to Frank. Not even with that gorgeous and very hotBridgertonduke. No way.
She went back to Google and typed in Angelique’s name, but nothing came up. Weird, she thought, unless it was because she’d only recently married Professor Poole. Or maybe she’d kept her family name; a lot of professional women did that these days. Maybe she could find out more if she had that name.
She entered the names of the other Prospect Place residents, and amazingly enough, there was plenty on them all. Facebook and Instagram, X and LinkedIn, tons of citations. Celerie Lonsdale had a website for her interior design business, but although there were plenty of pretty pictures, Carole couldn’t find any mention of passementerie. Mark Lonsdale was included in a website for American Dream Mortgage Company as one of the members of Dream Team Providence, “The team to make your dream of home ownership come true.” Maybe a bit of hype, thought Carole, thinking of current interest rates. And the site actually offered little information beyond a photo of Mark’s smiling face. She stared at the picture a moment or two, wondering if he whitened his teeth, and decided he must before hitting the red X.
Millicent Shaw was mentioned in a report of a fact-finding visit to Guatemala made by the Social Concerns Committee of the First Parish Unitarian Church on Benefit Street, but she was only noted as a member of the group.
She figured that she knew more than she wanted to about Hosea, but she was curious about Jonathan Browne. She discovered that he, like Professor Poole, had thousands of listings. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make head nor tail of any of them. They were all obscure references in scientific journals to Section VIII or Substratum XYZ; it was enough to give a girl a migraine. She was clearly in way over her head; she needed help.
She sat for a moment, fingering her phone, when she suddenly remembered hearing somewhere that Betty Strazullo’s kid Gary was a private eye. She googled Gary and discovered it was true. Strazullo Investigations had a nice website; they promised confidentiality in all investigations, which included divorce and custody, missing persons, background checks, and surveillance.
Gary himself took the call and declared himself eager to help. “Frank’s getting a bum deal,” he told her, “I’ll do whatever I can to help him.” He even said he’d only charge one fifty an hour, instead of his usual two hundred.
Carole found herself thanking him for the privilege of paying him, which she thought was screwy, but you didn’t get something for nothing, and she knew she needed help. She decided to surprise Frank and throw something together for dinner, maybe a chicken cacciatore, since they always had chicken breasts in the freezer, and it was nice and easy.
When Polly came home, she took over, pulling an apron out of the drawer and taking the spoon out of Carole’s hand. Carole popped the top on a diet soda and sat on one of the stools at the island, and asked how lunch went with Connie.
Polly took a wineglass out of the cabinet, got the chardonnay out of the fridge, emptied the bottle into the glass, and then tossed the empty bottle into the recycling. “She looked very tired,” said Polly. “And she was dressed like an old lady in an ugly, navy blue suit.”
Carole sipped her soda. “She works sixty-hour weeks, and the law firm has a dress code. I got her some pretty underwear for her birthday.”
“Oh, that’s right. Saint Joseph’s Day, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I’m planning a little do,” said Carole.
“And when were you going to tell me?” asked Polly. “I’ll need to get something to wear.”
“Honestly, it slipped my mind, what with everything that’s going on.”
“I understand,” said Polly, opening a can of San Marzanos and adding them to the cacciatore. “There’s the phone.”
Carole answered, surprised to hear Gary’s voice so soon. “It’s just a preliminary report. I haven’t gotten to everybody, but I thought you’d like to know. I was doing a routine check of birth certificates, and guess what I found out?”
“I don’t know, Gary,” said Carole. “Suppose you tell me.”
“Well, in 1981, Millicent Shaw gave birth to a male child, seven pounds nine ounces, name of Nelson Mandela Shaw. No father’s name is given.”
Carole couldn’t believe it. “Millicent had an illegitimate child?”
“Sure looks that way, and there’s more.”
“More?”
“Yeah, the kid was, um, African American.”
“How could he be, if she was his mother?”
