Page 8 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Right. Now I don’t want you to worry. Frank did the right thing; he called me first thing. I’ve made it clear that he will not answer any questions unless I am present.”
“That’s good,” said Carole. “How is he? Where is he? Can I see him?”
“He’s being transported to the Intake Service Center at the Rhode Island Department of Corrections. He’ll have to be processed, but I think you can probably see him this afternoon. I’ll try to set something up.”
“Thanks,” said Carole, in a small voice. All of a sudden, reality seemed to be crashing all around her. It was really true. Frank was accused of murder; he was in jail. He might spend the rest of his life in jail. Tears began rolling down her cheeks, and Poopsie gently licked them away.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Vince.
Carole got up and went into the bathroom, where she peed and smoothed some cooling Clinique Moisture Surge on her face. She put the cell phone on the charger, changed out of her heels and into her dog-walking boots, and put Poopsie on the leash for a quick walk. Back in the apartment, she made herself a salad, then found she couldn’t eat it. Vince called and told her she could see Frank at four o’clock; he also told her the arraignment and bail hearing would take place tomorrow morning at ten.
“I’m confident he’ll get bail,” he said. “Bring your checkbook and Frank’s passport. And, uh, dress conservatively, and it wouldn’t hurt if you brought his parents along. They’re pretty old, right?”
“Right,” said Carole, getting the picture.
First things first, however. She had to decide what to wear to visit Frank this afternoon. She wandered into her gigantic closet, the one she’d had California Closets outfit for her, and studied her reflection in the three-way mirror. Funny, she thought, she looked just like she had earlier that day, before she’d learned that Frank was accused of murder. Her shoulder-length blond hair still needed a touch-up; the roots were showing, but that was kind of fashionable now. Her figure was still trim, but if she gave into her current craving for something chocolate, she’d start packing on the pounds. Note to self: eating wouldn’t help. Neither would drinking, she told herself, resisting the urge to pour herself a stiff one. No, this was going to take self-discipline. She couldn’t let herself go; she had to think of Frank.
She glanced around the closet, studying the lighted shelves holding designer bags and shoes, as if they were precious artifacts. Well, considering what they’d cost, they were. She studied the dresses, shirts, and pants, all hanging on one side, arranged by color. Lingerie and sweaters were folded in drawers on the other side. She perched on the stool in front of the vanity counter and thought: What was she going to wear? What would cheer Frank up?
Not the gray Armani suit she’d immediately thought of when Vince advised her to dress conservatively for court. That thing had bad memories, anyway, since she’d worn it at the ill-fated Prospect Place interview. No, she wanted something colorful, something cheery, something a bit risqué, for Frank.
She stripped off her cashmere sweater, noticing the lacy black bra she had on underneath. A glimpse of black lace, that was just the thing. On her feet, yanking open drawer after drawer, she finally found it: a fuzzy pink angora sweater with a revealing, deep V-neck. She slipped it over her head and studied her reflection. Perfect.
Not that Frank seemed to notice the trouble she’d gone to, when she was finally admitted to the visiting area. He was more interested in the squares of Caserta’s pizza she’d smuggled in, in her Louis Vuitton bag. You weren’t supposed to bring anything for the inmates, according to the big sign in the waiting room, but Carole had gone to school with one of the prison guards, Brian Dutra, and she slipped him a fifty, so he made an exception. He didn’t even check the pizza to see if she’d hidden a file inside, not that she had.
“This is a hell of a mess,” complained Frank, taking a big bite. He was sitting on the other side of a table, and they were alone, apart from a watchful prison guard, in a big room that looked like a school cafeteria and smelled strongly of disinfectant. Except for a brief hug, they weren’t supposed to touch, which Carole found difficult since she was a hugger. “While I’m rotting in here, we’re losing money, you know. That contract has late penalties, and now I don’t know how we’re going to make the deadlines.”
“You’ll get out, Frank. Vince said so.”
“Paulie?”
“He called me to tell me you’d been arrested.”
“I mean about the job. Can he handle it?”
“He didn’t say anything about that,” admitted Carole.
“It’s a conspiracy, I tell you. A big WASP conspiracy to destroy Capobianco and Sons, that’s what it is. We had the low bid, so we got the job, but it didn’t sit well with Chase and Mooney,” said Frank, starting on his second piece of pizza. “Those guys think they’re so superior ’cause they’ve been in business since indoor plumbing was invented, they figure they’re doing you a favor to even put in a bid, and then price everything too high like you gotta pay for the privilege of getting them to work for you.”
“I don’t think …”
“It is.” Frank nodded, chewing away. “A big conspiracy. I’m not kidding. You get too successful, they start going after you. They want to bankrupt me and put me in my place, then Chase and Mooney will be the only big plumbing outfit in Providence.”
“Don’t talk like that, Frank,” said Carole, alarmed. “That’s what the cops think, that you had a motive because you were mad we didn’t get into Prospect Place.”
“Is that what they think?” Frank leaned back in his chair. “Not to worry, babe.” He popped the last bit of pizza into his mouth. “Thanks, hon, that sure hit the spot,” he said, giving her a smile. “You go on home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Carole stood up and blew him a kiss, then turned and hurried out the door. She didn’t want him to see her crying.
Next morning, the Superior Court was packed. Not only had Frank’s parents come, but almost everybody from the Hill had crowded into the room to show support for one of their own. Connie couldn’t make it; she’d called and said she had to work on a motion, whatever that was, that one of the partners wanted ASAP. But Frank-O was there, greeting his mother with a big hug. He’d dressed for the occasion in a dark suit a size or two too big; Carole guessed he’d either borrowed it or bought it in a thrift shop, and he’d slicked down his hair. It was still blue, of course. But the color wasn’t so noticeable as when he wore it moussed and gelled into spikes.
“Thanks for coming,” she whispered, squeezing his hand as they took their seats in the front row, right behind the table where Frank and Vince were sitting. Frank was wearing the same outfit he’d worn to the Prospect Place interview; Carole had delivered it to Vince’s office yesterday, after visiting the jail.
“Thanks for the food,” said Frank-O. “It was great.”
She looked at him. “Did you eat it all?”
“Yeah, me and some guys. It was great.”
