Page 53 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Yeah, they somehow think they’re the exception that proves the rule,” said Mom, switching on the vacuum.
When they finished cleaning Millicent’s place, they decided to start at the top of the house and work their way down, and they began hauling the vacuum and all their cleaning equipment up the stairs. They’d only reached the third floor when they heard a tremendous thumping coming from inside Jon Browne’s apartment. Carole dropped the vacuum, and Mom knocked on the door; a deep male voice ordered them to come in.
Stepping inside, they found a slightly younger version of Hosea Browne sitting on a big leather couch, his injured foot elevated on a leather hassock, with a book in one hand and some sort of primitive ceremonial staff in the other. He gave a final thump with the staff and glowered at them. “What the hell are you doing out there?”
“Kleeenink,” said Mom.
“You’re making a hell of a lot of noise,” he grumbled.
Carole had to admit Jonathan Browne wasn’t exactly the Indiana Jones type she had expected. He was prematurely bald, and even though it was hard to tell because he was sitting down, he seemed to be quite small and wizened, as if the hot sun of the tropics had shriveled him somehow.
“Shorry,” said Mom, with a shrug. “I get you sometink? Drinkk? Sometink to eeeet?
“Tea,” he said, with a wave toward the kitchen.
Getting a nod from Mom, Carole scurried off into the kitchen to make the tea. “Ver dushty,” she heard Mom, as she filled the kettle and set it on the stove, which was stained with splashes of spilled liquids. “Veee kleeen?”
“No!” roared Browne. “Don’t touch anything.”
Peeking through the door, Carole was amused to see Mom tapping her foot, raising a small cloud of dust.
“Okay, okay,” said Browne, as if granting her a favor. “You may vacuum the rugs. But gently, as they’re very old and valuable.”
Mom got to work giving the assorted Oriental rugs in the living room a quick once-over and continuing on into the next room, which was a study. Carole presented the mug of tea on a small tray she found leaning against the backsplash, along with a sugar bowl, a pitcher of cream from the fridge, and a teaspoon. She even added a napkin, getting a nod of approval from Browne. That job done, she joined Mom in the study, where she found the vacuum running and Mom looking over the papers on his desk. Joining her, she discovered they were mostly academic journals, old Peruvian newspapers, maps, and photographs of holes in the ground. If there was a clue hidden in this junk, she didn’t have time to look for it. She picked up the vacuum and continued on into the bedroom, where she found a huge mahogany, four-poster bed with crumpled, unmade sheets. She quickly set the bed to rights, scooted around with the vacuum, and returned to the living room. Mom was carrying the tray back to the kitchen. Browne was reading his book.
When Mom returned, they gathered up their cleaning things and were on their way out the door when he suddenly exploded, throwing the book across the room with a roar.
“Damned fool idiot!” he shouted.
Carole bent down to retrieve the book and discovered it was written by none other than Stuart Poole, PhD. It wasn’t a regular book like you’d get at Barnes & Noble, with a colorful dust cover; it was a hefty paperback with a plain paper cover and was titledEighteenth-Century Slave Trade in Providence, R.I.
“Yoooo vant?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.
He was fidgeting with that primitive staff of his. “I guess so,” he grumbled. “Better to know your enemies, right?”
“Eh?” she asked, approaching timidly and placing the book on the table beside him.
“Nothing, nothing,” he said, flapping his free hand and baring his yellow teeth in something resembling a smile. “All I can say is my poor departed brother, Hosea, must be rolling in his grave—or, more accurately, rattling in his urn.” He glanced at the mantel, and Carole followed his gaze, spying a simple bronze container set in the middle, beneath a painting of a clipper ship in full sail. “It’s hard to believe a reputable publisher like HarperCollins would even consider trash like this book.”
“Funny-looking book, no?” said Carole.
“It’s an advance copy,” said Jonathan, adding a snort. “Nice of them to let me know what’s coming.”
“Bye-bye,” said Mom, grabbing her arm and dragging her out. “Veee dun noww.”
“Did you see what I saw?” asked Carole, as soon as they were back in the hall. “He’s got his brother’s ashes on the mantel!”
“I tell you, these WASPs don’t know how to have a decent burial,” said Mom, with a disapproving sniff. “The poor man. I bet there wasn’t even a memorial service, let alone a proper Mass. He’s probably floating around in limbo, or the other place, wishing they’d get him settled instead of leaving him on the mantel like a vase or something.” She shuddered, looking over her shoulder at the door to Jon Browne’s apartment, as if expecting the ghost of Hosea Browne to come walking out. “Gives me the creeps. I think we ought to get out of here.”
“Me, too,” said Carole, starting to haul the vacuum up the stairs to the attic level, where the Lonsdales had their apartment.
They’d just about finished vacuuming the rather cramped hallway when her cell phone rang. Funny coincidence, she thought, realizing the caller was Celerie herself. It was enough to make you think Mom wasn’t so crazy after all, with her fear of ghosts and talk of ESP and atmospheric vibrations.
“I have some samples I’d like to show you,” said Celerie. “And I need to measure your windows so I can make a precise estimate. Would it be okay if I came over this afternoon?”
“Shuu …” began Carole, catching herself using her cleaning-lady accent. She stood up straight, reminding herself she was Carole Capobianco, the stylish wife of a very wealthy and extremely successful businessman, and assumed her natural voice. “About what time?” she inquired, reminding herself to behave like a demanding client.
“Whatever is convenient for you,” said Celerie. “It will only take a few minutes.”
