Page 17 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

“My apartment is one flight up,” said Angelique. “Follow me,” she continued, climbing up one or two stairs and then pausing. “While we’re here, you can look around you; this is the area you will be responsible for. The hall, the stairs, windows, and there is also a basement area.”

“Ver’ goot,” said Mom, nodding. Carole nodded, too, for effect.

Angelique paused outside the door to her apartment, indicating the hall, which was spacious and contained several large pieces of furniture: a table, a pair of wooden armchairs, and several large paintings.

Heavy drapes hung at the two enormous windows, which were deeply set and had cushioned window seats.

“As you see, this is more than the usual condo cleaning job. You need to know how to care for antique furniture, paintings, and rugs, as well as the silk curtains.”

“Beeshwax,” declared Mom. “Besht for wood.”

“Exactly,” said Angelique, opening the door and ushering them inside her apartment.

Behind her, Mom met Carole’s eyes and gave her a thumbs-up. In response, Carole stuck up one of her pink latex thumbs. Surreal, real surreal, she thought, keeping her eyes down and scuttling along behind Mom.

“You, I take it, are Mrs. Nowak?” Angelique was addressing Mom, who nodded. “And you are …” she began, looking Carole over from head to toe.

“Mrs. Pijar,” supplied Mom. “Her English not yet goot. Sheesh from Dubrovnik. Jusht come lasht mo’.”

Carole picked up her head at the word Dubrovnik , hopefully indicating it was a familiar word she recognized, then returned her gaze to the floor.

Dusty, very dusty, she saw, and covered with a turquoise rug with pink flowers.

And French women were supposed to be so chic.

Glancing around, she noticed the walls were lined with bookcases containing strange objects, like broken bits of statuary and crockery, as well as books.

Lots of books. Well, she thought to herself, both Angelique and her husband were professors, so they probably would have books.

“I think we’ll go in the kitchen,” suggested Angelique. “Follow me.”

Once again, they made a little procession through a smaller room, which was obviously a study, and down a dark hallway.

Angelique pushed open the swinging door, and they were suddenly zapped by a flood of bright light that poured from countless ceiling fixtures and bounced off polished stainless-steel appliances and caromed off snowy white marble counters and glossy white subway tile walls, ricocheting from one surface to another until finally crashing into their dazzled eyes.

“Wow!” exclaimed Carole, blinking furiously and slipping out of character.

“Exaktly,” chimed in Mom, giving her a warning look.

“This is where I am most at home,” explained Angelique, in her light French accent. “I’ve cooked all my life. I teach confectionary at Johnson and Wales.” She waved a hand toward a table set by the window. “Sit down, please, and I’ll give you some tea, and we can talk.”

After she had filled their cups with lightly scented chamomile tea and set a plate of golden madeleines on the table, Angelique began explaining the job.

“It’s just one morning a week, and only the public—no, that’s not the right word,” she said, pausing thoughtfully, “the shared spaces in the building. The foyer, the stairs, the halls. But, as I indicated, these areas contain valuable carpets and furniture that require special care.”

“In Dubrovnik, my friend Mishus Pijar worked in big hishtorical palash,” affirmed Mom.

“Yesh,” agreed Carole. “Palash.”

“She kleen golt gilt, shilk, cryshtal, all verry, verry olt and delikat.”

Carole nodded furiously, avoiding eye contact. Angelique was giving her odd little looks; she was no dummy, that was for sure, and Carole was afraid she was getting suspicious.

“You teech canty?” asked Mom, going on the offensive.

Angelique laughed, setting her fragile cup on its saucer. “I do. I teach in the culinary department at Johnson and Wales. My specialty is pastry, candy, anything with sugar and butter.” She slid the plate of madeleines toward them. “Try these, I made them myself.”

Mom took a bite. “Mmm,” she said. “Ver goot. I ne’r het befoor.”

“They’re a French delicacy. I’m from France, you see.”

“Yoo English ver’ goot,” declared Mom. “Yoo here lonk?”

“A couple of years,” said Angelique. “I met my husband on vacation in the French West Indies, on Saint Martin. It’s very popular with French people. We met, we fell in love, and I ended up here. C’est l’amour, n’est-ce pas ?”

“Ah, l’amoor,” said Mom, nodding wisely. “And how you say? Privak work, for utter tenansh? Ish poshible?”

“Perhaps,” said Angelique, with a shrug. “You’d have to arrange with each one separately.”

“Yoo?” asked Mom. “I notish mush dusht.”

Carole figured Mom had blown it, but Angelique just laughed, a tinkly little charming French laugh. “That’s my husband; he gets upset if anything is moved. My kitchen, you see, is very clean.”

“Yesh, verry,” agreed Mom, nodding away.

“Well,” said Angelique, rising and indicating the interview was over. She ushered them back through the apartment, speaking as she went. “I have some other people to interview, but I’ll let you know in a day or two. And, oh, the pay is fifteen dollars an hour, is that acceptable?”

“For two?” demanded Mom, snapping to attention at the top of the stairs.

“No, no, fifteen hours each, for four hours a week,” said Angelique, proceeding down the stairs. “That’s sixty dollars each. Okay?”

“Sheventy-five,” said Mom, unable to resist bargaining. They were at the door, so it was a last-ditch attempt.

“I will take that under advisement,” said Angelique, closing the massive front door behind them.

Once outside, on the stoop, Carole began laughing so hard she had to hold her stomach. “I thought I’d die in there,” she declared. “Dushty? What sort of accent is that?”

Mom raised herself to her full five feet one inch. “I’ll have you know I got an A in that dialect class I took at Providence College.” Mom was always taking acting courses. “And anyway, I think she fell for it.”

“I think she did, thanks to you,” admitted Carole, as they headed back along Prospect Street to the car. “Do you think we’ll get the job?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Mom. “Madame Angelique can be as snooty as she wants, but we’re probably the only ones who’ll take the job for such crummy pay.”

It was already almost twelve when Carole dropped Mom off at home; she didn’t have time to change or she’d be late for lunch with Susan Weaver.

She couldn’t go the way she was, though, so she yanked the scarf and wig off as she drove back across town to the East Side, where Red Stripe was located, near Wayland Square.

She plunked her makeup bag in her lap and brushed on some bronzer as she drove.

Stopping at a traffic light, she dabbed on some mascara and lipstick, and she brushed her hair as she crept along on Waterman Street.

Finally reaching the parking lot off Wayland Street, she wiggled out of the jacket and housedress; the navy blue velour track suit wasn’t what she would normally wear to lunch, but lots of women did.

As for the grubby boots, hopefully Susan wouldn’t notice.

Reaching down to the floor, where she’d hidden her Prada bag, she grabbed it and hopped out of the car.

She hurried down Angell Street, already fifteen minutes late.

Susan was seated in a booth and was checking her watch when Carole arrived, giving her a big wave as she sailed across the bistro’s dining room and plunked herself down at the table.

She was opening her purse, which she’d set down on the banquette, and discovered the five fingers of a rubber glove sticking out of the black bag, looking like five little pink balloons.

“Thanks for waiting,” cooed Carole, as she tried to unobtrusively stuff the uncooperative pink latex—it looked for all the world like a bright pink cow’s udder—back inside her bag. “I think I’ll have a drink. How about you? Some chardonnay?”