Page 11 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

But what about this new wrinkle that Paulie had mentioned, that Hosea’s murder was linked to the Factory contract?

That was troublesome, thought Carole, who knew enough about the building trades to know that there was inevitably some pushing and shoving and squeezing when a lucrative contract was in the offing.

Hey, this was Providence; that’s the way things were.

Competitors were warned off, palms got greased, everybody was happy.

Nobody made a big deal about it. Look what happened to Buddy Cianci, for Pete’s sake.

He turned the city around when he was mayor, and everybody loved him for it, but the Feds got him on corruption charges and sent him to jail.

Even so, most people thought he got a bum deal, and the conservative Providence Preservation Society even gave him an award, overlooking the inconvenient fact that he would be unable to attend the awards banquet due to incarceration.

And when he got out of jail, he ran for mayor again and got elected to another term.

That all took place a long time ago, and a lot had happened in the meantime, like the recession and the Covid pandemic, but it was like that French saying, she thought, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” And Frank was a pretty smart cookie.

Hadn’t he invented the Bye-Bye Toilet? He was no dummy, and she was confident he always knew which side his bread was buttered on.

And when it came to the Factory, Hosea was the butter; he was the guy with the financing.

He held the purse strings, and there was no way Frank was going to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs, she decided, mixing metaphors.

Having cleared that up in her mind, she reached for her cell and dialed Tom Paliotto, over at the homicide division.

“You know, Tom,” she began, “I’ve been thinking about Frank’s problem.”

“How’s he doing?” asked Tom.

“Okay, everything considered. He knows he’s innocent, of course, and he figures the trial will show that.”

“We’ve got the best justice system in the world,” said Tom, diplomatically.

“Right,” agreed Carole. “But trials are expensive and take a long time, and while they’re building a case against Frank, the real murderer is still at large.

” Carole was so involved in her conversation that she didn’t notice the glances she was getting from the other people in the waiting room.

“And it’s really obvious to anyone who knows Frank that he would never do something like that. ”

“Kill somebody?” asked Tom, in a doubtful tone.

“I suppose everybody’s got their limit and could get mad enough to kill somebody,” admitted Carole. “But, for Frank, it would probably be someone in the family, like Frank-O,” she added, chuckling.

“Frank-O?”

“Frankie Junior. He’s an artist now. Wants to be called Frank-O. Like that guy who wrapped up islands in cloth and did a big deal in Central Park. Christo.”

“Okay,” said Tom, who didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

“Anyway, like I was saying, Frank would not kill Hosea Browne because Hosea Browne was controlling the cash for the Factory. He was the goose, you see, and Frank is way too smart to kill a goose.”

Everyone in the waiting room was fascinated; they were hanging on every word Carole said. A couple of people were even chuckling, and Carole looked up. Eyes were quickly averted; smiles were covered.

“Well, hey, I’m at the vet’s. I can’t talk anymore.

But keep what I said in mind, okay? And give my love to your mom.

” Carole sat, staring at the phone in her hand.

What the heck, she thought, scrolling through her contacts to Susan Weaver’s name.

She still had her number from the time when they were trying to buy the apartment at Prospect Place.

It wouldn’t hurt, she thought, to get together with her and have a little chat, see if she had some information about the other residents, that blond couple and the professors.

And the other applicants, too. If she was really as hard up as Sonia thought, she’d probably appreciate a free meal.

But Susan didn’t answer, and she got the recorded voice telling her to leave a message.

She did, proposing they meet for lunch, soon.

She pocketed the phone and reached for a magazine, unwilling to meet the eyes of the other people in the waiting room.

She flipped through the pages; it was some wordy news magazine, and she really couldn’t get interested; her mind was going a mile a minute.

What the heck were they doing in there, anyway?

How long was this going to be? How much veterinary care did a parakeet really require, or a cat?

And how could she get information about the Prospect Place residents if Susan Weaver didn’t accept her lunch invitation?

After all, she might be leery of getting involved with the wife of an accused murderer.

No, thought Carole, she’d probably sell a condo to Satan himself if it was a cash offer.

She smiled grimly to herself. How, she wondered, was she going to investigate, like Frank wanted?

How do you get to know people you don’t know?

Hang around and accidentally bump into them?

They had a name for that: stalking. No good.

She didn’t want to get into trouble, especially trouble that would make things worse for Frank. But there had to be a way …

“Mrs. Capobianco?” She looked up. It was the veterinary assistant, and not the one that Poopsie bit on her last visit. Small mercies, thought Carole.

“I’ll just run out and get the dog,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

The girl smiled at her as Carole dashed for the door, her heels clattering on the vinyl floor.

Out in the parking lot, Carole yanked the car door open and found the seat empty.

What happened to Poopsie? Come to think of it, she hadn’t been barking for a while.

Had somebody dognapped her? It seemed unlikely, considering her personality, but she was a pedigreed pooch.

Somebody might just be crazy enough, she thought, frantically yanking open the other doors, until she reached the driver’s door.

That’s where she found the little dog, curled up in a tight ball, sound asleep in the driver’s seat.