Page 59 of A Matter of Pedigree
“You prefer the professional students?” asked Polly.
“It’s easier because I know what they know; we are all on the same page. But this morning, I had you, Polly, and you know what you’re doing, and I also had that little Chinese lady who was treatingpâte briséelike wonton dough!” Angelique, Carole noticed, was much too polite to include her rather subpar effort in her critique.
The student waiter arrived, and Polly and Angelique ordered coffee, while Carole requested mint tea. They didn’t have it, so she had to settle for Earl Grey. Carole didn’t say much; she was too busy sipping her tea and concentrating on trying not to feel nauseous from the rich food and her uncomfortably tight jeans, but Polly and Angelique were getting on great. They’d established that their favorite park in Paris was the Luxembourg Garden and the best museum was the Tuileries and the best shopping was at the Clingancourt flea market. Carole was beginning to feel as if her chance to question Angelique was slipping away. What she really needed, she decided, was a change of venue. The bright lights and minimalist design of the coffee bar simply did not encourage intimacy.
“Isn’t that new bar, Bar Bleu, near here?” she asked, rather abruptly. “I’ve heard so much about it, and I’ve been dying to try it. Why don’t we continue our conversation there and try one of their signature cocktails?”
“Fine with me,” agreed Polly, who had never turned down a drink in her life.
There was a moment when Angelique seemed to hesitate, and Carole thought she might have miscalculated, but then she smiled and agreed to the change. After a short, two-block walk, they were all settled in comfortable armchairs in the cozy bar; each had a blue martini to sip, and the confidences were flowing.
Angelique asked Polly how she happened to decide to live in Paris, and Polly told her all about her marriage to Jock Prendergast and how she needed a change after the emotionally devastating but financially rewarding breakup. “Where better than Paris?” she declared. “And why did you ever leave?”
Angelique shrugged. “I met my husband when I was vacationing on Saint Martin; it was very fast, very intense. At first, I thought of it as a fling, a vacation romance, fun, not serious, but he asked me to marry him, and”—she smiled—“I said yes.”
“But you left Paris for Providence,” said Carole, amazed.
“Providence is very nice. I like it here.”
“But it’s not Paris,” said Carole, pressing the point. After all, it was hard to imagine that any woman would abandon Paris for an old stick like Professor Poole.
Polly leaned forward and squeezed Angelique’s hand. “You wanted to get away from a man?” she asked.
Angelique gave a little smile. “Worse than that, a situation. My father was involved in a scandal involving a DNA mix-up that sent an innocent man to jail. It was a very big thing in France, and even though he really wasn’t guilty of doing anything wrong, his name, my name, was dragged through the mud.”
“What a shame,” cooed Polly, as the waiter arrived with fresh drinks. “Carole knows exactly what that’s like, don’t you?”
“There is a difference,” said Carole, bristling and thinking that her mother probably didn’t need a second martini. They were supposed to be grilling Angelique, not airing the Capobianco family’s dirty laundry. “Here in America you’re supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. In France, it’s the other way round.”
“But everybody thinks Frank killed Hosea Browne,” declared Polly.
“Oh, no,” protested Angelique, “I don’t think that. Not at all.”
Carole was on her quicker than a hungry flea on a sleeping dog. “Who do you think killed him?”
“I don’t know,” said Angelique, going all wide-eyed innocent over her martini glass.
“When we were interviewed about buying into Prospect Place, I got the feeling that Hosea wasn’t too popular with the other owners,” said Carole. “Is that true?”
“I can only speak for myself,” said Angelique. “I found him old-fashioned and reserved. My husband explained that Hosea is, I mean was, a particular sort of New Englander, a traditional Yankee, that’s all.” She giggled. “He said people like Hosea are an endangered species, so no, I didn’t dislike him.” Angelique gave her a cool smile and put down her glass. “I see what you’re doing. You’re looking for the murderer, no? And you think it might have been my husband. Why do you think that?”
“I don’t, not at all,” protested Carole. “But he did write a book about the slave trade that I don’t think Hosea would have liked very much. And Hosea was in a position to scuttle your husband’s work.”
“That’s true, but we are civilized people …” Angelique was on her feet, reaching for her coat.
“Did Hosea try to block publication of the book?”
Angelique finished buttoning her coat and was slipping on her gloves. “I don’t know. You would have to ask my husband,” she said, picking up her purse and sliding it over her arm. She gave Polly a little smile and a nod. “A bientot, and thanks for the drinks.” Then she turned and trotted across the bar and out the door.
“You were so rude,” chided Polly.
“Me? She’s the one who stuck us with the tab,” said Carole.
“Stuck you,” said Polly. “I haven’t had a chance to change my money. All I have is euros.”
By the time they got the car out of the garage and were headed over to Mom and Big Frank’s to check on Frank-O, Carole had regained her good humor. “I’m going on a green tea detox,” she declared. “Nothing but green tea for three days.”
“Bonne chancewith that,” said Polly, when they opened the kitchen door and were met by the familiar scent of herbs and tomatoes. “What is that delicious aroma?”
