Page 18 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

W hen Susan hesitated, Carole decided to make it clear that lunch was her treat.

“Let’s say it’s my way of making up for the Prospect Place sale,” she said, signaling the waiter. “Please have whatever you want.”

“You don’t need to do this,” said Susan. “It wasn’t your fault; you were certainly well-qualified buyers.”

“I know, but I want to,” insisted Carole, as the waiter approached, and she ordered the two glasses of wine. “I don’t suppose,” she continued to Susan, “now that Hosea is gone, that maybe there’s a chance for us to get that place?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Susan, shrugging.

“It all depends on the brother, Jon. From what I gather, he’s some sort of Indiana Jones type, digging away at an archaeological site in Peru.

Probably some remote location in the mountains or something.

It may be some time before he can get back to Providence.

I think that’s why they haven’t announced a funeral yet. I think they’re waiting for him.”

“I was wondering about that,” said Carole, as the wine arrived. She hoisted her glass in a toast, clinking with Susan’s. “Salute!”

They both took a sip of wine and then bent their heads over the menu.

Carole ordered a salad, with the dressing on the side, and Susan went for steak frites, which Carole thought indicated either a very high metabolism or the need to fill her stomach on somebody else’s tab.

“Do you want to switch to red?” asked Carole, indicating the wine.

“No, no, this is plenty for me. I have to get back to work.”

“I don’t usually drink with lunch,” said Carole. “I’ve had kind of a stressful day.”

“That’s understandable,” sympathized Susan. “Of course, I’m sure Frank is innocent, but even so, it must be a very difficult time for you.”

“You have no idea,” said Carole, twirling the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. “Or maybe you do. It must have been very disappointing for you when Hosea Browne nixed the sale.”

“Not just you guys, but a couple of others, too,” exclaimed Susan.

She leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“I had high hopes for one couple, lovely professionals, but Hosea voted no. I’m sure it was because they were Black.

He said it was for their own good; they’d be happier someplace else, with their own kind! ”

“That’s what he said about us,” said Carole, “but he was right. I am happy at the Esplanade. I love our gorgeous new apartment.”

“But you’re still in the market?” asked Susan, anxiously.

“Sure, if the right place comes along.” Carole took a sip of wine. “Frank hates paying rent. He doesn’t believe in it. And there are so many rules. You know, I can’t even hang a wreath on my apartment door at Christmas!”

“It’s always better to own. I’ll keep you in mind,” promised Susan, as their food arrived. “But you’re still interested in Prospect Place?”

That ship had sailed as far as Carole was concerned, but she didn’t want Susan to know that. “Frank loved it,” she said, with an encouraging smile.

“It’s a fantastic property. Unique, with all that history,” said Susan, with a sigh.

“But Hosea’s death has put everything on hold.

It’s a great address, and people are lining up to buy in, but I can’t even show the condo until Jon Browne arrives from Peru, whenever that is.

And even then, we’ll have to wait for the funeral,” she continued, “and then nobody knows what will happen because it’s part of Hosea’s estate.

There’ll be lawyers, bankers, claims, and counter-claims; it could be months before it’s back on the market. ”

Susan looked so mournful that Carole reluctantly crossed her off the list of suspects. It seemed clear that she was one of the very few people who would actually prefer that Hosea Browne were still alive and therefore wouldn’t have murdered him. But what about the other Prospect Place residents?

“You know,” she began, spearing a piece of lettuce, “Frank has a theory that somebody at Prospect Place killed Hosea Browne.”

“Really?” Susan’s eyebrows shot up quizzically, and Carole noticed she needed a waxing. “Whyever would one of them do that?”

“Remember how he said that he wouldn’t tolerate any impropriety in his family home? Frank thinks somebody up there has a dirty secret they want to hide.”

“Everybody’s got secrets,” agreed Susan, slicing into her steak. “Believe me, in this business you see a lot! But the Prospect Place bunch all seem pretty respectable to me.”

“What about Millicent Shaw?” asked Carole. “Doesn’t she seem too good to be true?”

Susan shook her head. “She’s a real lady, with those lovely, old-fashioned manners. She’s been nothing but sweet to me; she even sent me a handwritten note of encouragement after Hosea turned you down.”

“What do you know about her?” persisted Carole.

Susan chewed thoughtfully. “She seems to be one of those rare people who always looks for the good in others. One time, I complained to her that we’d never find a buyer who would satisfy Hosea, and she just laughed, said he was a relic from an earlier time.

But then she went on and said that wasn’t always such a bad thing, that some of those old-fashioned virtues, like honesty and fair dealing, were in short supply these days, something like that. ”

“I’d call it turning a blind eye to bigotry, but then I’m not a Pollyanna like Millicent,” said Carole, softening her declaration with a smile. “What about the Pooles? They seem a bit of an odd couple. She’s quite a bit younger …”

“He’s a fusty old thing, isn’t he? I suspect he’s pretty upset about losing Hosea. They were birds of a feather.”

“Somehow I can’t see Hosea approving of Angelique, though. She’s so French.”

“Are you kidding?” protested Susan. “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and Hosea was no different. All she had to do was cook him a tarte tatin or something and he’d be a goner, head over heels with her.”

“He looked pretty skinny to me,” observed Carole. “Like he didn’t really care about food.”

“Trust me. He might have lived on a steady diet of English muffins and tea, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t appreciate free food when it was given to him. I brought some doughnut holes from Dunkin’ to my first meeting with the Prospect Place owners, and he ate almost all of them.”

Carole pushed a piece of frisée around her plate. “What about the professor?” she asked. “How was he like Hosea?”

Susan was making steady progress on her meal, chowing down on the steak and frites.

“I think Angelique was his one moment of madness,” she said.

“His head is in the clouds; at least it was whenever I had any dealings with him. He just sort of nodded along, and I knew he wasn’t really hearing a word I said.

” She laughed. “Like Hosea, he lives in an alternate reality. I once saw him on Benefit Street, walking along, reading. Reading a book, while he walked. Can you imagine?”

“Not on Benefit Street,” said Carole. “The paving is so uneven it’s practically impossible to walk there in heels.”

“You said it,” agreed Susan, finally putting down her fork and coming up for air. “This is so good, and it’s so nice to just sit and chat with you like this. I’ve been so”—she paused, searching for the right word—“busy lately.”

“Me, too,” said Carole. “Would you like some coffee or tea? Some dessert?”

When Susan admitted that she wouldn’t mind, Carole asked the waiter for the dessert menu. “Go for the profiteroles,” she urged, when he brought them. “They’re delicious.”

“Want to share?” asked Susan.

“Sure, I’ll have a bite,” she said. “And two coffees,” she told the waiter. “ S’il vous plait .”

“You speak French?” asked Susan.

“Tourist French. My mother lives in Paris, so I’ve picked up a little bit.”

“Lucky you,” enthused Susan. “It must be great having family in Paris.”

“Sometimes,” said Carole, noncommittally. “What about those Lonsdales? Frank calls them ‘the skim-milk couple.’ ”

Susan laughed, nodding. “Mark and Celerie? I don’t imagine Hosea had any trouble approving them,” she said. “I don’t know much about them. He’s a banker; she’s got an interior-design business. Somehow I think there might be some trust fund money in their background, but I’m just speculating.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, those units start at well over a million, and even though they’ve got the smallest one, up on the top floor, it seems like a lot of money for a young couple to come up with.”

Carole was inclined to agree. “Some people have it all, don’t they? Rich parents, naturally blond hair, perfect teeth.” Carole sighed. “Of course, she is named after a vegetable.”

“You’re not so badly off yourself,” said Susan, smiling as the dessert and coffee arrived.

“It wasn’t always like this,” said Carole, grinning mischievously. “You know that old commercial? Frank made his money the old-fashioned way—he earned it.”

When Carole left the restaurant, she had to admit to herself that, although she’d enjoyed the meal and Susan’s company, she hadn’t really gotten any incriminating information out of her.

And now she was almost three hours late for Poopsie’s eleven o’clock walk.

The poor dog hadn’t been out since early morning, about eight hours ago, and that was a long time to expect her to wait. The poor thing was probably frantic.

Carole paid the parking fee and zoomed out onto Angell Street, tapping her foot impatiently at the red light.

Damn, damn, damn, she thought. The Wheeler School would be letting out soon and the street would be packed with school buses and kids.

And then there was Thayer Street to get through, with the absent-minded professors and the entitled Brown kids wandering this way and that, heedless of traffic.

The local streets were a nightmare, but at least she didn’t need to take the highway, which was way worse, nothing more than a nerve-wracking high-stakes game of bumper cars.