Page 54 of A Matter of Pedigree
“In that case, I suppose it’s all right,” said Carole, sounding as if it was an imposition, despite her eagerness to have another stab at questioning Celerie. “Let’s say three-ish.”
“Umm, actually two would be better for me,” countered Celerie.
Whatever happened towhatever is convenient?Carole wasn’t about to surrender; she had an image to uphold. “Two-thirty? That’s the earliest I can do.”
“Well, if that’s the only time …”
“Unless you want to do it next week,” said Carole, raising the ante.
“No, not at all. Two-thirty will be fine.”
“Good,” said Carole, mentally toting up one for herself. As if anyone was keeping score, she thought, wrapping up the vacuum cord for the trip down to the second floor. Who was she kidding? She didn’t know who she was anymore, or if she was coming or going. She’d done a lot of cleaning, but she hadn’t made much progress at all in this so-called investigation, and she had a nagging sense that time was not her friend. The longer it took, she feared, the more time the murderer would have to hide his—or her—tracks.
Chapter Seventeen
Carole was thoughtful as she wrestled Mom’s vacuum down the stairs and then trudged up the street to Christina Fornisanti’s car. She suddenly remembered the painting in Hosea’s apartment of the storm-tossed shipOrionand the figures of drowning people. Now that she thought about it, they all seemed to have dark skin, and one falling figure, captured in midair, seemed to have actually been thrown from the ship. Carole had seen a series of stories in theJournalabout the slave trade in Providence and other Rhode Island towns, and she knew there were instances when African captives destined for slavery in the New World were thrown overboard in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Sometimes it was punishment for troublemakers, sometimes it was because of sickness and fear of contagion, and sometimes it was to lighten the load when a ship got in trouble or if it needed to outrun British Navy patrols.
Now that she thought about it, she wondered if that series of stories in theJournalhad something to do with Stuart Poole’s forthcoming book. She knew the name Browne had popped up in some of the items, and she recalled there had been two Browne brothers back in the eighteenth century who had very different attitudes toward slavery, in a way foreshadowing the way the issue tore families apart a century later in the Civil War. One brother had become disillusioned with the slave trade and became an ardent abolitionist, while the other continued to take part in the profitable trade and became very wealthy.
Considering the painting in Hosea’s apartment, it seemed likely that he and his brother were descended from those same Brownes. But which line? The slave trader or the abolitionist? The painting could be taken either way: a reminder of a sinful past or an expression of family pride. Maybe not exactly pride in the actual practice of slavery, but in his forebear’s entrepreneurial spirit or seamanship. Something along those lines.
And, she thought, hoisting the vacuum into the Corolla’s trunk, Jon Browne certainly seemed to think that Hosea wouldn’t have appreciated being reminded of this stain on the family’s honor. He might well have considered Stuart Poole a viper in his breast or something like that, considering he was living in the Browne family manse. If Hosea had challenged Poole, might the professor have reacted angrily, setting aside his pen and reaching for a blunt object?
“How come you’re so quiet all of a sudden?” asked Mom, when they were seated in the car.
“I’m thinking that maybe the professor had a motive for killing Hosea Browne,” said Carole.
Mom was incredulous. “That little guy who’s always got his nose stuck in a book? He couldn’t hurt a flea.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Carole. “You know that old saw about the pen being mightier than the sword? Well, he’s probably been working on that book about the slave trade for years, and it’s likely that he’s mentioned the Browne family’s involvement. His whole reputation is staked on this single book; it’s his life’s work.”
Mom was driving cautiously along Benefit Street, weaving her way past the occasional oncoming car. There wasn’t much traffic, which was a good thing, considering that the cobblestones and the parked cars made the narrow road a bit of an obstacle course. “And you think Hosea might’ve tried to put the kibosh on it, something like that?”
“Yeah. Remember, he had a lot of power as a director of the university.”
“But what would be the point? Everybody knows the Brownes were slave traders. It was in theJournal.”
“Yeah, but now there’s talk about reparations—paying money to people whose ancestors were slaves.”
“That’s crazy. How could anybody document something like that after all these years?”
“I dunno, but that’s what professors do, Mom. They dig around in musty old records and find out stuff like that. Who was sold and for how much and what that would be in today’s dollars, and who profited and was the money spent or socked away in an investment and what it’s worth now. Plus there’s the matter of enforced labor; that had a value. And I heard how they’ve recovered some slave ship down south somewhere, and they’re trying to recover DNA from the wreck that could be compared to the DNA of folks living there today who are descended from slaves. Those folks could then sue on behalf of their wronged ancestors.”
Mom was chugging slowly up the hill in front of the statehouse; honestly, Christina Fornisanti ought to get a tuneup or something. “So you’re saying that, because of the professor’s book, Hosea might have had to pay a lot of money to … to whom?”
“I don’t know. Maybe individuals, maybe a scholarship for African American kids at Brown.”
“So what you’re saying is that Hosea could’ve been putting the squeeze on the professor not to publish his book or maybe just to change it, and the professor got mad and bopped him on the head?” asked Mom, as she pulled up and braked in front of the Esplanade.
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“I think you should come home with me and have some of Big Frank’s manicot’, and spend some time with your son …”
Carole felt the familiar sensation of guilt settling on her, like a heavy winter coat. “Oh, Mom, I wish I could, but …”
Mom clucked her tongue. “I know. I know. Just keeping up with Frank is a full-time job, and you’ve got your mother there, too.”
“How is Frank-O doing? Is he behaving himself?”
