Page 10 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

T hat annoying woman who shunned hair dye and lipstick and wore ugly natural fibers was right; Poopsie was barking her head off when Carole got back to the SUV.

Probably because the interfering woman had disturbed her when she approached the SUV and wrote a note about the danger of leaving a dog unattended in a car and stuck it under the windshield wiper.

That was exactly the sort of thing that would drive Poopsie wild.

Carole pulled off the note and tossed it in a nearby trash barrel, thinking it was a wonder that the woman who couldn’t mind her own business hadn’t bothered to inform her that an oversized car like the Porsche only got eighteen miles to the gallon on the highway and contributed to global warming.

Climbing behind the wheel, she took a few yoga breaths and hoped that Poopsie would calm down when she started the car.

Poopsie didn’t; she kept on barking and tried to jump into the front seat.

“No!” ordered Carole, using the authoritative voice the dog trainer had told her would guarantee instant obedience. “Sit! Quiet!”

Poopsie continue to bark and tried to slip through the gap between the two front seats.

Carole grasped the steering wheel with both hands and rested her head on it; Poopsie immediately slipped by and seated herself in the front passenger seat, where she continued to bark.

What was she supposed to do now? How was she going to get the dog to quiet down and go back to the rear seat, where she belonged? If only there was Xanax for dogs …

Carole lifted her head, inspired. That was it. They must have something like that, some sort of dog tranquilizer. She’d take Poopsie to the vet.

Shifting into drive, Carole zoomed out of her parking spot, cutting off a VW Beetle.

Hey, she couldn’t be responsible for everybody in the world, could she?

She had problems of her own, namely this dog, who was driving her crazy.

The vet, fortunately, had her office nearby, in Pawtucket.

Carole was definitely rattled as she drove, but she began to feel calmer just spotting the vet’s sign, and she almost felt normal when she parked.

Poopsie, however, was still upset and barking frantically.

There were a lot of other cars in the parking lot, so Carole figured it would be best to leave the dog confined to the car while she went in to ask for an emergency appointment.

“Sorry, hon, the doc’s got an emergency; a Lab got hit by a car. We’re all backed up,” said the receptionist. She waved a hand at the waiting room, which Carole saw was packed with people and their assorted pets: cats, dogs, birds, even a rabbit.

“This is an emergency, too,” said Carole. “My dog won’t stop barking.”

“That’s Madame Pompadour, right?” asked the girl, pulling out a file and flipping it open. It apparently made absorbing reading. “She’s a biter, I see,” said the girl.

“That was an accident,” said Carole, a bit defensive. “The veterinary assistant had her hand in the wrong place.”

“Sure,” said the receptionist, who had clearly been trained to agree with the clients. “Why don’t you take a seat, and we’ll see if the doctor can squeeze you in.”

“I’m not kidding; the dog is out of her mind. I’m worried she’s going to have a fit or something,” explained Carole. “Maybe I could just buy some tranquilizers for her?”

The receptionist looked shocked. “The doctor will want to examine the dog before prescribing medication.”

“Okay, I’ll wait,” said Carole, turning to go into the waiting room.

She could hear Poopsie barking right through the walls and shut windows.

Pausing in the doorway, she sighed and looked for a seat.

Only one was empty, and she was surprised to discover it was next to Millicent Shaw, the old lady who lived at Prospect Place.

She was dressed, as before, in a pleated skirt and twin-set combo, blue this time, and was holding a gray plastic cat carrier on her lap.

Carole hesitated, afraid Millicent might not welcome her presence.

Her husband, after all, was accused of killing her neighbor.

Millicent looked up, spotting Carole. Carole was ready to flee; there must be other vets in this town. But Millicent smiled at her.

“Don’t be shy; take a seat,” she said, patting the empty chair.

“Thanks,” said Carole. “I was afraid I might make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no.” Millicent shook her head. “I’m sure the police have made a terrible mistake and your husband is innocent.

” She paused, reflecting. “I did so think you would have been a breath of fresh air in that musty old place. Hosea was wrong to vote the way he did. He won’t allow anyone who’s not a white Protestant and preferably a Mayflower descendant to buy that apartment, not that he would ever have admitted it.

But I’m sure he didn’t like your beautiful Italian name; he probably thought all Italians are in the Mafia or something.

” She snorted. “So ridiculous. The moment I heard dear Susan say Capobianco,” she said, lingering over the syllables.

“well, I thought of Florence.” She turned to Carole, nodding.

“It’s my favorite city in the whole world. ”

“Mine, too,” said Carole, who actually thought Florence was terribly overcrowded and often smelly. “I heard he turned down other offers,” she added, recalling the gossip she’d heard at Happy Nails.

“Several. A lovely Black couple, an Asian professor, and oh, that wonderful rabbi and his wife,” said Millicent, rolling her eyes.

Her short, curly hair was snow-white, and she wasn’t wearing a bit of makeup, Carole noticed, but she didn’t look bad.

Her skin was soft, and her cheeks were pink and firm, even though wrinkles sprouted around her eyes and mouth.

Her eyes were bright, and she had a perky look about her, as if she found everything absolutely fascinating. “That was Hosea for you.”

“He voted against them all?”

“It made me furious,” admitted Millicent, patting her cat box. “Tiggles has an upset stomach.”

Even through the wall, Carole could still hear Poopsie, who was still barking, but not quite as frantically as before. “My dog’s having a panic attack,” she said.

“Animals are so sensitive. I bet your dog is worried about your husband,” said Millicent.

She paused a moment, apparently lost in her own thoughts.

“I abhor prejudice,” she said, suddenly, startling Carole.

“I absolutely detest it. I’ve seen it firsthand—you know, dreadful, hateful behavior—in the South.

But it isn’t just there, you know; it persists in many places today.

And we in the North are certainly not blameless.

” She lowered her voice. “Hosea’s ancestors, you know, made their money in the slave trade. Rhode Island was a major player.”

“So they say,” said Carole.

“It’s only recently that we’re beginning to come to terms with our history.

” Millicent peered into the carrier, checking on Tiggles.

“The lynchings and the church burnings and the fear, it was a terrible thing. I was a Freedom Rider, you know. I went down to Mississippi in the sixties, with a group of Quakers and Unitarians to register Black voters.”

Carole was impressed; she’d never have guessed that this little old lady with her pearls and her kitty-cat had done anything so daring. “You were part of history,” she said.

“We made history, that’s for sure, but things didn’t change overnight. And when I got back North, I found parents in Boston were protesting when they began bussing to integrate the public schools. I was shocked!”

“There’s a documentary about that. I saw the promo on PBS,” said Carole. “I remember their faces, so full of hate.”

“Exactly,” said Millicent, just as her name was called. She popped right up, quite spry for someone her age, thought Carole. “It was nice talking to you,” she said, before hurrying to follow the veterinary assistant.

Carole settled into her seat, trying to ignore Poopsie’s barks and hoping she wouldn’t have to wait much longer.

The situation was getting on her nerves; she was worried about Frank, and that’s probably what set Poopsie off.

The little dog was terribly sensitive and tuned right in to her people’s moods.

Maybe she should have gone in for a yoga session, instead of getting a manicure, she thought.

She knew her emotions were in turmoil, and it wasn’t doing her or the dog any good. Or Frank, for that matter.

How could the cops be so wrong? she wondered.

Why hadn’t they dug a little deeper? If they had, they would have discovered that Hosea Browne wasn’t a very nice guy and there were probably a lot of people who would have liked to kill him.

Take Susan Weaver, for one; old Hosea had really screwed her, turning down those perfectly good offers.

And what about the other applicants? Maybe they weren’t about to take Hosea’s rejection lying down.

Mentally, Carole tut-tutted. Wasn’t discrimination in housing supposed to be illegal? How could Hosea get away with it? And if he was pulling stunts like that, how many other people had he offended? Maybe Frank was right, she thought; maybe the murder did have something to do with Prospect Place.

Of course, that was probably part of the cops’ case against Frank: that he was so upset about being turned down that he offed the old Yankee.

But Carole thought they’d have a hard time proving it.

Truth was, a day or two after the Prospect Place interview, Frank had already forgotten about it.

In fact, he’d never even mentioned Prospect Place again.

He was like that; he didn’t fret, he simply moved on.

Nowadays, he seemed perfectly happy with the pool and gym and parking at the Esplanade; he especially loved the hot tub.

There was no sign at all that he was sulking over the rejection.