Page 14 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

P oopsie was still out like a light when Carole parked the Cayenne in her favorite spot in the garage, on the second level near the pedestrian bridge.

She knew she couldn’t manage to carry the big cooler up to the apartment, so she left the sleeping dog in the car and went on down to the lobby to check the mail and borrow one of the wheeled carts the concierge kept for the tenants’ use.

Barry was on duty today, sitting behind the slab of angled steel that had been salvaged in the rehab and recast as a modernistic, industrial-chic desk.

Carole loved the desk, but she wasn’t that keen on Barry, who was a stickler for detail.

That meant she’d have to sign the cart out and, worse, return it. Big pain.

“Hi, Barry,” she said, giving him a big smile. “I need to use the cart.”

“Sign here,” he said passing a clipboard across the desk to her. He pursed his lips and leaned toward her, whispering, “There’s a note from the management in your box.”

“I probably got an award for being the best tenant,” she joked.

That was one of the things, maybe the only thing, she didn’t like about renting: the way the management bossed the tenants around.

Considering how much they were paying every month, you’d think they would be treated like valued customers, customers who were always right, right?

Wrong. The management held all the cards; they wrote the rules, and the tenants were supposed to knuckle under and follow those rules, or else.

Opening her mailbox and pulling out the assorted bills and letters, Carole knew exactly what the complaint was this time.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Capobianco:

As property manager, it is my responsibility to inform you that I have received numerous complaints from tenants concerning your dog, which barks excessively and persistently, according to reports. These reports, I might add, have been confirmed by building staff.

Pets are allowed in the building at the discretion of the management, as long as they do not interfere with the comfort and enjoyment of the other tenants. For further details, see Section VI, paragraph 3 of the Rental Agreement.

Unfortunately, this is not the first time there have been complaints concerning your dog, and if the situation does not improve, there is a strong possibility that we will no longer be able to accommodate your pet here at the Esplanade.

Sincerely yours ,

Doriss Chomsky ,

Property Manager

Carole read the letter as the crossed the lobby, pushing the rumbling cart ahead of her.

Who was this Doriss woman? Whoever she was, Carole was positive she’d never actually met her.

She must spend her days hiding in some back office.

And so much for the two-thousand-dollar pet deposit they’d paid; it didn’t seem to have bought them much.

Not to mention the two hundred dollars she’d tipped Barry at Christmas.

Good luck next year, she thought, stuffing the paper in her purse and pushing the button for the elevator.

When it arrived, Joao, the Brazilian kid who collected the garbage and vacuumed the halls, was inside.

“Hi, Mrs. Capobianco,” he said, noticing the cart. “You need help with something?”

Carole cheered up; some people evidently appreciated their Christmas tips. “I do,” she said. “Thanks.”

Joao took charge of the cart as they rode up to the second floor.

“So how’s the family?” she asked, as they made their way to the garage.

“My mom’s doing better; she doesn’t miss Brazil so much,” he said. “But the weather! She hates the cold!”

“Me, too,” sympathized Carole. “But spring is almost here. The days are already getting longer; warm weather is on its way.”

At the car, Carole unlocked the door, and Joao lifted out the cooler, while Carole roused Poopsie. The dog was groggy, but she followed Carole on the leash, weaving unsteadily from side to side.

“Is your dog sick?” asked Joao, his soft brown eyes full of concern.

Carole loved this kid. “She was barking this morning, so I gave her some tranquilizers. They made her sleepy.”

Joao nodded as he held the garage door for her. “Dogs don’t like apartments; they like the country. And if you gotta live in the city, you gotta make sure they get a lot of exercise.”

“I think you’re right,” agreed Carole.

“I’m talking from experience, y’know. I got a dog.”

“Yeah? What breed?”

“Pit bull.”

“Oh,” replied Carole, a bit surprised. Joao was more interesting than she’d thought.

Returning to the building, they encountered Tilly, another staff member, wrestling with a massive, industrial carpet-cleaning machine. Seeing her, Carole had an idea.

“Listen,” she said, waving a hand at the cooler, “I got all this food here. Frank’s father made it and we can’t eat it all. Do you want some?”

“Sure,” said Tilly, promptly switching the noisy machine off.

“You’re very generous,” said Joao, as Carole popped the lid on the cooler.

“What do you want? Lasagna? Manicotti? I’ve got it all,” said Carole, passing out half a dozen packages. Down at the far end of the hall, she spotted Pinky, the super, and his assistant, Wilson, and waved at them.

“What’s this?” asked Pinky, looking at the cooler.

“Frank’s dad loves to cook, but I don’t have room in my freezer,” said Carole.

She actually had plenty of room; in fact, she relied on Big Frank’s cooking to feed Frank, since she didn’t really like to cook much herself.

She was willing to make the sacrifice, however, if she could win them over with the food.

“Can I convince you to try some of his cacciatore? It’s sooo good … ”

“I don’t need no convincing,” said Wilson, stretching out his hands, dark chocolate brown on the backs and pink on the palms. “Say, what’s the matter with your dog?”

Poopsie was standing unsteadily with her legs splayed out, looking woozy.

“She was barking this morning, and I don’t want her to disturb the other tenants, so I got some tranquilizers for her. I don’t think it will be a problem anymore.” She made eye contact with them, one at a time, her arms full of frozen food. “Will it be a problem?”

“Dogs bark; it’s natural,” said Pinky, accepting a couple of containers of cacciatore, a container of gravy, and a chicken parm.

“Boss is right,” agreed Wilson, topping his load with a foil-wrapped baton of garlic bread. “Thanks, Mrs. Capobianco.”

“I got a couple more,” coaxed Carole, studying something lumpy wrapped in white freezer paper. “Looks like osso buco to me. You ought to try this. It’s delish.”

“You sure, Mrs. C?” asked Joao. “There’s nothing left for you and Mr. C.”

“No problem; we got plenty upstairs,” fibbed Carole, handing them over. “But, hon, do me a favor? Return the cart for me?”

“Sure thing,” said Joao. “Want me to put the cooler back in your car?”

“You’re a peach,” said Carole, handing over the keys and scooping up Poopsie, who was about to topple over. Next time, she thought, stepping into the elevator, she’d try giving the dog half a tablet and see how that went.

When Frank got home, she suggested going out for dinner, explaining she’d given all of Big Frank’s food to the building staff so they wouldn’t turn Poopsie in if she started barking again.

“A little insurance?” asked Frank, cocking an eyebrow.

Sounded like a good idea to Carole. “Can you get dog insurance? In case she bites someone?”

“We got a hefty umbrella policy,” said Frank, landing heavily in his La-Z-Boy and clicking on the TV to the sports network.

Poopsie, who was starting to come around, made it up to his lap on the third try and settled down, just like she always did, so he could scratch behind her ears.

“You know,” he continued, “I could go for one of ’em big, thick burgers they got at Trinity Brewhouse. ”

About a gazillion calories, thought Carole, not to mention the mountain of fries they came with. And, of course, the beer. Liquid bread, they called it because it was loaded with carbs. But, hey, anything to keep Frank happy. And they had salads. “Fine with me,” she said.

Neither one of them thought to remember that the pub was right down the street from The Providence Journal building, making it a favorite hangout for reporters. The bar was overflowing when they arrived and were seated at a booth.

“IPA for me,” Frank told the waitress. “Chardonnay for you?” he asked Carole.

“Sure,” agreed Carole, who said she had heard Frank’s name mentioned by some guy at the bar.

“What’s going on?” demanded Frank, as Carole opened her menu. “They talkin’ about me?” He was ready to go over and punch somebody.

“Hold your horses,” advised Carole, reaching for his arm. “They’re reporters, and you’ve been in the news lately.”

“I don’ care who they are,” growled Frank. “I don’t like bein’ talked about.”

“You’re news, Frank,” said Carole. “You better get used to it.”

“Well, I’m not,” he said, starting to rise. “Let’s go someplace else.”

Looking across the room, Carole recognized Adrienne Viola, the Journal ’s chief investigative reporter, heading for the stairs to the basement restrooms. “I gotta use the ladies’ first,” said Carole.

Frank scowled. “Already? Shoulda gone before you left the house.”

“I did,” snapped Carole. “It’s a woman thing. I had two kids, and I don’t have to account to you for my bladder or my …”

“Nah, nah.” Frank was holding up his hands as if to ward off some witchy spell and backing off. He hated what he called “woman problems,” joking that feminine “plumbing” was a mystery to him and he wanted to keep it that way.

Downstairs, Carole was standing at the sink and patting her expensively highlighted hair when Adrienne came out of a stall.

“Don’t mind me,” said Carole, stepping aside so Adrienne could use the sink. “I’m just freshening up.” She started groping in her bag for her makeup case.