Page 15 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

As Carole expected, Adrienne, a petite brunette with a pixie cut, wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this pass.

She was a reporter, alone in the ladies’ room with the wife of an accused murderer, a plumbing contractor who was rumored to be connected, but if he wasn’t, which most people thought was unlikely, he certainly knew people who were.

There could be a story here. “So how’s Frank holding up? ” she asked, turning on the tap.

“He’s fine,” said Carole, sounding like a well-prepped wife. “He knows he’s innocent, and he welcomes the opportunity to prove it.”

Adrienne soaped her hands.

“He’s got nerves of steel,” said Carole, hoping she could get some information out of Adrienne without actually giving her any.

“It’s not just the murder,” continued Adrienne, lathering up. “There’s all that talk about the Factory contracts.”

“You can’t believe everything you hear,” said Carole, unzipping the pouch and pulling out a lipstick. “What exactly are people saying?”

“The usual,” replied Adrienne, rinsing her hands. “Threats, payoffs, that sort of thing.”

Carole sighed. “That’s just because Frank’s Italian …”

“I know.” Adrienne was drying her hands with a paper towel. “That’s what I told my editor, but he went ahead anyway and assigned an investigative team to the project. He’s even hiring a forensic accountant, and those guys don’t come cheap.”

Leaning into the mirror, applying her Chanel Rouge Absolu, Carole recognized the I’m really your friend tactic. She decided to play along. “What’s a forensic accountant?”

“Fancy bookkeeper, knows how to spot fraud.”

Carole didn’t like the sound of this, but didn’t want to seem concerned. “Are you on the team?” she asked.

“No. I’m covering the city council meeting tonight.

Some of the folks from Valley Street who are being displaced by the Factory are scheduled to speak.

” She studied her reflection in the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it up.

“Ought to be interesting. Those artists are a lively bunch.”

“Artists!” snorted Carole. “Far as I know, it’s mostly chop shops and T-shirt printers down there.”

“Them, too,” admitted Adrienne, laughing as if Carole had made a joke.

Carole smiled, too. It never hurt to have a reporter on your side.

When Carole got back to the table, she found Frank had gone, leaving a couple of crisp twenties under his empty glass. Her untouched wineglass sat on one of those cardboard coasters, so she took a big swallow and went outside, shrugging into her fur-trimmed jacket.

“What now?” she asked, slipping into the car beside him. He had the engine running.

“Let’s get a pie at Caserta’s,” he said. “I couldn’t take it in there; they were all giving me looks, you know,” he explained, with a shrug. “Bunch of a-holes, pardon my French.”

Caserta’s wasn’t too busy on a weekday night, and they got a table in the rear, after ordering a nine-square pie and a salad for Carole.

Unlike just about every other pizza in the world, including those in Providence, Caserta’s pizzas were square.

“We can take the extra home,” said Frank, as they seated themselves and waited for their number to come up.

“What did you get out of Viola?” he asked.

Carole raised one delicately arched brow, remembering the sheer agony of getting it waxed into shape. “I didn’t think you noticed,” she said.

“I see more than you think,” replied Frank, with a grin and a wink.

Carole felt warm all over—you had to love the guy. He was annoying, for sure, but so damn cute. “The Journal ’s assigned a team to investigate the Factory, including a forensic accountant.”

Frank nodded. “Viola’s on the team?”

“No, she’s covering the Factory neighbors’ protest at the City Council meeting tonight.” As soon as the words were out, Carole knew she’d made a mistake. What if Frank wanted to go, to defend the project? And what if Frank-O was there, too? She could already see the headlines.

“Somebody’s always got a beef,” muttered Frank, as their number was called and he got to his feet. Returning with the pie, he announced his decision. “I guess we might as well go. We might pick up some information for our investigation, right?”

“I don’t think so, Frank,” protested Carole. “After all, you yourself said Browne was probably killed by somebody from Prospect Place.”

“Yeah,” said Frank, getting most of a piece of pizza in one bite. “But the first rule of investigation …”

“There are rules?”

Frank gave her a look. “Yes, there are rules, and rule number one is to keep an open mind, and rule number two is to gather as much information as you can. We’re going to the meeting.”

“Okay, Frank,” said Carole, nibbling at her slice. “Where’s my salad?”

The City Council’s chamber was packed when they arrived, and the crowd of artists and tradespeople was spilling out into the hall.

This was not a problem for Frank, who ploughed his way through, with Carole following in his wake, like Moses leading the Israelites through the Red Sea.

Once inside, he made his way down to the front row, where he tapped on somebody’s shoulder.

The guy, startled, jumped up when he recognized Frank, first nudging the guy next to him, who also got up.

Now Frank and Carole had front row seats.

When stuff like this happened, and it happened quite a bit, Carole was always amazed—and worried. “Who are those men?” she asked.

“Guys I know,” said Frank, shrugging and slapping his hands, palm down, on his knees, which were spread wide apart. Frank wasn’t really that big a man, but he took up a lot of space.

Carole looked around while they waited for the council members to appear.

Being in the first row, she couldn’t easily see the back of the room to find out if Frank-O was in the crowd, but she sincerely hoped he wasn’t, and if he was, that he would keep quiet.

The view of the front of the room wasn’t very inspiring.

The place could use a coat of paint, and she didn’t much like the color, whatever it was supposed to be.

The fluorescent lighting was out of date and very unflattering; the place could use a redo.

And so, she thought, could the council members, who she judged a scruffy lot as they filed in and took their seats.

All except for the president, a young guy oozing ambition with moussed hair, an overlong red tie, and a blue Brioni suit, copying you-know-who.

And there was a distinguished-looking old guy with white hair and a bow tie—the East Side’s representative, she was willing to bet on it.

“I’m calling the meeting to order,” said the president, banging his gavel. “We’ll begin with the usual public comment period.”

A forest of hands shot up, and Carole crossed her fingers.

No blue hairdo, please, she prayed, every time a new speaker was recognized.

They all said pretty much the same thing: they enjoyed low rents in their studios and workshops and would be driven out of business by the Factory.

Providence would lose valuable diversity; artists would be forced to relocate to Pawtucket, depriving the city of vision and creativity, not to mention the probable loss of a number of first-class auto body shops.

Finally, Frank was allowed to speak.

“This is a load of crap,” he began. “Let’s cut through the bullshit here, pardon my French.”

A few people laughed, but Frank was undeterred.

“This place you’re all so crazy about is one big dump.

You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves.

Why do you want to live and work in these crappy conditions?

Low rent is good for you, I get that, but considering the money you save, how come you don’t buy a gallon of paint?

It’s cheap enough. Or pick up the trash; that don’t cost nothing.

The place is a health hazard. I see rats down there, garbage everywhere.

So, the way I see it, take your filth and crap and your precious creativity to Pawtucket.

I won’t miss it. We’re gonna make this a place people can be proud of; that’s all I have to say. ”

While Frank was talking, Carole managed to angle herself so she could see more of the room.

She looked for Frank-O but didn’t see him.

She spotted Adrienne and a couple of other reporters and photographers; the cameras were pointed in Frank’s direction.

And she spotted somebody familiar. Stu something.

Stu from sixth grade; he hadn’t changed a bit.

Sempione. That’s it. Stu Sempione. She’d know him anywhere.

He was a big tattletale who’d gotten her and her friends in trouble plenty of times.

“Sister, I saw Carole stick her chewing gum under the desk,” he’d say.

Or, “Sister, I saw Carole roll up her skirt when she left school yesterday to make it shorter.”

What had become of Stu, she wondered. Hadn’t she heard something, something that she’d thought was terribly fitting, and thus funny? Like he’d become a cop. An undercover cop, that was it. And was that Frank-O standing next to him?

On the way home, she asked Frank if he’d seen Stu Sempione.

“The narc?”

“Is that what he is? A narc?”

“Yeah,” said Frank.

“So why was he at the meeting?” asked Carole. “I thought the cops were interested in fraud.”

“’Cause of the artists,” said Frank, taking a corner a mite too fast, so that Carole had to hang on to the grab bar over the door. “Those creative types like to experiment with hallucinogens, mushrooms, crap like that. Expand their minds.”

“Oh,” said Carole, as a broad avenue for future worry opened before her. “You don’t think Frank-O uses, do you?”

“Better not,” said Frank, flooring the gas to make a yellow light. “I’ll kill him if he does.”