Page 57 of A Matter of Pedigree
Carole thought she’d better make herself clear, before she got stuck with something she didn’t want. “I’m worried you may be going in the wrong direction here. I really want something simple.”
“I understand,” said Celerie. “But sometimes simple is the hardest thing to achieve. You have to get every detail exactly right, or it just looks cheap.”
“I suppose so,” sighed Carole.
“So I’ll need another five hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred!” exclaimed Carole. “I already gave you a thousand, and I haven’t even seen a sketch.”
Celerie gave her an apologetic smile. “Perhaps you don’t understand how much custom window treatments cost,” she began. “Why, I just finished doing some for a lovely restored colonial home on Hope Street: living room, dining room, and master suite. The total came to nearly sixty thousand dollars.”
Something in Celerie’s tone took her right back to those miserable days at Mount Holyoke, when everyone knew she was the scholarship girl who couldn’t afford nice things. She’d come a long way since then, but it was true; she had no idea how much custom window treatments cost. The last time she bought curtains was at Walmart, with Mom, who wanted to perk up her living room. They’d splurged on a designer line and bought matching throw pillows, and it all came in under a hundred dollars. “Okay,” she said, with a sigh. “I’ll get my checkbook.”
But after she’d handed over the check and watched Celerie trudge down the hall to the elevator, carrying the ladder, she suspected she’d been had. The woman hadn’t wanted help, because then she’d have to tip Pinky. Her husband had lost his job, money was tight, and she needed cash. Fast. Closing the door, she got right on the phone to Gary Strazullo. There had to be a cheaper way to get information about the Lonsdales than spending thousands of dollars on curtains she didn’t want.
“I was just going to call you,” said Gary. “I’ve got some information.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I found out who Millicent Shaw’s kid is, and you’ll never believe it.”
“Nellie Shaw, the football player,” said Carole.
“The great football player,” persisted Gary, disappointed that Carole already knew his big news.
“Yeah, she’s having him over for dinner,” said Carole.
“You seem to be way ahead of me,” complained Gary.
“Actually, I’m beginning to wonder what I’m paying you for,” grumbled Carole.
“Hold on,” said Gary. “I’ve got something else. You wanted to know about Mark Lonsdale, right?”
“That’s right,” said Carole. “I heard he lost his job.”
“But did you know he’s under investigation by the state AG for selling mortgages to people who didn’t have a hope in hell of ever making their payments? Did you know that?”
“Not exactly,” admitted Carole. “Is it serious? Is he in big trouble?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure. Used to be something that would get you a slap on the wrist, but these days it’s a big issue, and the AG wants to make a name for herself as a champion of the little guy. So, yeah, I think he could be looking at some serious time.”
Carole’s mind was clicking, making connections. “So tell me, Gary, when did the AG’s investigation start? Was it before Hosea Browne got killed?”
“Oh, yeah. Subpoenas were issued three weeks ago; the grand jury was scheduled to meet this week, but it was delayed because of Hosea Browne’s death.”
“Was he in trouble, too?”
“No. He was supposed to be an expert witness on banking.”
“So Mark would have had an interest in getting rid of him before the grand jury met?”
“Bingo,” said Gary.
Carole was feeling pretty good about her day’s work and was celebrating with a late lunch of Polly’s reheated cacciatore—two solid leads, thank you, deserved some solid food and even a small glass of vino—when Polly came in.
She could have been coming straight from the grand boulevards of Paris, dressed in her neat black coat with the blue scarf wrapped around her neck and her quilted Chanel bag.
“How was the lecture?” asked Carole, looking up from her meal.
