Page 55 of A Matter of Pedigree
“He’s a good boy, and he and Big Frank are getting on like a house afire …” she said, suddenly turning bright red. “Oops. I didn’t mean that. And he’s stronger every day. Looks like himself again.”
“He’s taking his pills?”
“For sure. He’s no trouble at all. You can be proud of that boy, Carole.”
Mom patted her hand, and Carole thought it would be nice if her own mother were a little more like Mom. Maybe she was carrying some extra pounds and she wasn’t the most fashionable dresser, but she was always ready to help. Most of the time, you didn’t even have to ask; she was right on it, giving you whatever you needed before you even knew you needed it.
“Thanks for everything,” said Carole, giving the older woman a hug.
Mom squeezed her back. “For what? I’m not doing anything special.”
“No, Mom. You’re pretty special,” said Carole, getting out of the car.
Carole was amused at the look the concierge gave her when she entered the lobby, still in her cleaning-lady disguise. It was Barry, the stickler for the rules. She thought he was going to challenge her and was planning to surprise him by revealing her true identity, but didn’t get the chance because he was distracted by another tenant collecting her dry cleaning.
She continued on her way to the elevator, where Joao was busy polishing the stainless-steel doors. He gave her a big smile and asked, “You work for Miz Capobianco?”
Carole decided to play along. “Yes,” she said, “I’m here to walk to dog.”
“That dog is a little troublemaker,” said Joao.
“I got a way with her,” said Carole.
“She pays good, hunh? Miz Capobianco?”
Carole nodded. “Pretty good.”
“She’s a nice lady.”
“Her husband’s kind of grouchy,” said Carole.
“Yeah, well, he’s got a lot of problems,” said Joao, pushing the fifth-floor button for her before she slipped through the closing doors.
Truer words were never said, she thought, as the elevator carried her up. Frank definitely had some problems.
Poopsie greeted her at the door, jumping excitedly. Polly wasn’t home; she’d left a note saying she’d gone over to the Alliance Française for a lecture on French cinema, so Carole grabbed the leash and snapped it on the dog’s collar. Once outside, Poopsie didn’t want to go up the hill, and she didn’t want to go down the hill, so Carole followed her lead and took her around the edges of the parking area, which was against the rules, but who was going to explain that to Poopsie?
Poopsie especially liked exploring the grassy bank at the back of the parking area, and Carole didn’t mind; it was sunny and sheltered there, and she figured she might as well absorb some vitamin D; it was supposed to be good for you. She was standing there, basking in the sun, when her cell phone went off. It was Connie.
“Hi, honey,” she said, hoping Connie had turned up something.
She had. “I did like you said, Ma, and I started chatting up the girls in the secretarial pool.”
“Never underestimate people,” advised Carole.
“You said it. They’re a great bunch of girls, and they’re all worried about this one, Vanessa, who’s losing her home.”
“All you brainy lawyers there can’t do anything to help her?” demanded Carole.
“Well, yeah, one of the partners, actually, is working on it, trying to get it straightened out. But he isn’t getting anywhere because the mortgage has been sold, and he’s having a hard time figuring out who actually has it.”
“The bank, duh.”
“No, Ma. It’s more complicated now. The banks sell the mortgages to investors; sometimes they’re part of mutual funds, and there’s a lot of mortgage brokers that aren’t banks. It’s a mess, and you’ll never guess who’s right smack in the middle.”
“Who?” Poopsie wanted to go up the hill, and Carole was tugging on the leash, trying to restrain her.
“Mark Lonsdale!”
