Page 19 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)
Oh, well, she told herself as she crept slowly along in the narrow streets, there was nothing she could do.
She couldn’t be where she wasn’t, and she was trying to get home as quickly as she could.
Frank had told her to gather as much information as possible, because you never knew exactly which little bit was going to be the final piece of the puzzle.
When she looked at it that way, her lunch with Susan hadn’t been a waste.
She’d definitely picked up some interesting and possibly valuable background information.
Finally making it through the stop sign by the Hillel Club, Carole broke free of the congestion and accelerated up the hill and through the light at Prospect Street, which was, amazingly, green.
She was on the way down the hill, toward the oldest Baptist Church in America, and picking up speed when the light on Benefit Street turned yellow, a clear invitation to speed up.
She pressed her foot down on the gas; she could make it, she knew she could, because she’d done it a million times, when suddenly—what the hell?
—a ridiculously tiny little mini car pulled out of a parking spot and stopped right in front of her, even though the light was still golden amber.
“Gold means go,” screamed Carole, slamming on the brakes and hanging on to the steering wheel for dear life. It wasn’t like she could avoid a crash; the street was lined with official RISD vehicles on both sides, and the Smart car was directly in her path.
The noise of the impact was horrible—first, the big, loud, hollow bang, followed by the grating crunch of metal tearing, glass smashing, horns honking, tires popping, and radiators hissing.
Carole quickly climbed onto the street, where she saw that, except for some minor scratches, the Cayenne didn’t appear to be seriously damaged.
She gasped in horror, how ever, when she saw the damage to the Smart car.
It was completely demolished, and she was horrified to see that the driver, a man, was unconscious, face down over the steering wheel.
Not dead, please God, she prayed, standing helplessly in the street.
Should she try to get him out? What if the little car burst into flame?
She started toward the Smart car, but was stopped in her tracks by a RISD security guard, one of several who came running to the accident.
They quickly took charge, insisting on leaving the injured man in place until the EMTs arrived.
Soon there were police cars and an ambulance and fire trucks, all with lights flashing.
The jaws of life were employed to pry the little car open, and the driver was finally extracted.
Carole couldn’t watch but turned away, a sick knot in her stomach, as he was rolled away on a stretcher.
“So what happened, Mrs. Capobianco?” demanded one of the cops, after examining her license and registration. “The guy stopped for a yellow light or something?”
“It was worse than that,” said Carole. “The road was clear, but all of a sudden he pulled out of a parking spot right in front of me and stopped. There was nothing I could do. I braked hard, but it was too late.”
“Must be from out of town,” suggested the cop, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “What was he thinking?”
They both watched as the stretcher was slid into the ambulance, the doors slammed, and it took off with siren screaming and lights flashing.
“Was he hurt real bad?” asked Carole.
The cop shrugged. “Them little cars is nothing more than sardine cans,” he said.
“I feel terrible,” said Carole.
“Nothin’ you could’ve done,” said the cop, consoling her. “’Course, I’m gonna have to charge you with something since you did rear-end him.”
Carole braced herself. What would it be? Vehicular homicide? Manslaughter? Speeding or, at the very least, failure to use caution. Would she have to go to court?
“Illegal parking,” said the cop, handing her the summons and the accident report. “Fifty-dollar fine.”
“Illegal parking?” she asked incredulously, as the Smart car was cranked up onto a wrecking truck and driven off.
“Lady, you’re parked in the middle of the road. You can’t do that.”
“Right,” said Carole, taking the papers. “I’ll move my car right away.”
“You do that,” said the cop, with a dismissive nod.
Still shaken by the accident, Carole drove home slowly and carefully, to a steady chorus of outraged honks.
The other drivers didn’t seem to appreciate her cautious approach as she switched on her signal indicator and braked to make a slow turn onto Holden Street and repeated the process at Edith Street.
“Get a rocking chair, Granny,” yelled one guy, zooming past her in a Range Rover.
“Get one yourself,” she yelled back, using the brake the whole way down the hill and turning into the garage. There she flipped on her headlights, just to be on the safe side, and circled slowly up the ramp until she got to her favorite spot and found it vacant.
Grateful for small mercies, she carefully checked that everything was off before turning off the engine, which gave a hiccup before falling silent.
That had never happened before, and she wondered if the collision had broken something in the engine.
She decided she’d better have the car inspected before she drove it again and made a call to Johnny D’s Auto Care.
She spoke to Aaron, her favorite mechanic, and after sympathizing with her about the accident and making sure she was okay, he promised to pick the car up right up away.
Then, suddenly remembering Poopsie’s predicament, she hopped out, hurried across the bridge, and pounded the elevator button.
It seemed to take forever, but it finally did arrive, and she got up to the fifth floor, where she hurried down the long hallway to her apartment at the end; she was fumbling with the key, and she could hear Poopsie whining and jumping, scratching at the other side of the door.
Finally, it opened, and she scooped up Poopsie, grabbed the leash, hooked it on the dog’s rhinestone collar, and set her down in the hallway for the dash to the stairs.