Page 20 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

W hew! What a day, Carole thought, as Poopsie dragged her down the four long flights.

When the ceilings are eighteen feet high, the stairs are twice as long.

Then, after taking her paranoid peek through the glass window in the lobby door, she ran across the polished concrete floor, Poopsie making silly little swimming motions as she struggled to get her footing on the slick surface, and they made it outside.

Carole let out a long, relieved sigh, and Poopsie squatted just outside the door.

Not the best spot, since they were right in the path of a rather distinguished-looking, sixtyish gentleman in a topcoat carrying a briefcase.

Carole gave him an apologetic grin; he gave her a disapproving glance and made a slight detour downhill from Poopsie.

A tactical mistake, since the yellow stream headed straight for his lovely, polished brogues.

Carole gave the leash a yank, but Poopsie was not about to cooperate.

She didn’t like this man; she could apparently sense his disapproval and was determined to let him know it by nipping at his ankles as he danced past.

The gentleman was spryer than he looked; he not only avoided the nip but gave Poopsie a sharp little kick as Carole dragged her up the street, legs stiffly splayed out in resistance.

It wasn’t until they reached Holden Street that the dog gave in and trotted along, stopping now and then to sniff something that caught her interest.

As she reached the corner of West Park, Carole suddenly realized she didn’t need to walk the dog any farther in this darkening drizzle; she had already done all her business.

She could go home and recuperate from the day’s stresses with a nice cup of tea and a TV soap, maybe catch the last few minutes of Jennifer Hudson.

She needed some downtime, a chance to process the crash and to sort through the information she’d gathered from Angelique and Susan.

But when she got back to the apartment, she discovered Frank had come home early and had found the accident report she had dropped on the console table by the door.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, waving the paper in her face.

“No big deal,” said Carole, soothingly. “I rear-ended this little car that popped out in front of me on a hill, when I was trying to make the light.”

“I’ve told you, time and time again, you drive like a maniac.”

“I do not. Even the cop thought it was tough luck. He gave me a parking ticket.”

Frank wasn’t buying it. “You smash into somebody’s car and you get a parking ticket?”

“’Cause I was blocking the road. He told me to get out of there, and I did.” She was hanging up her jacket. “The car’s fine, hardly a scratch; the airbags didn’t even deploy. And I’m okay, too,” she added, turning to face him. “Not that you bothered to ask!”

If Carole had hoped that Frank was going to suddenly realize the error of his ways and engulf her in a loving and forgiving hug, offering apologies for being such a callous brute when she was actually an accident victim deserving tea and sympathy, she was about to be disappointed.

“And the other guy?” he demanded, waving the report in her face.

“Uh, well,” confessed Carole, “it was a very little car, and they had to take him to the hospital.”

“Minor injuries?”

“He was unconscious, and they had to use the jaws of life …”

“Ohmigod!” exclaimed Frank, pacing back and forth, clutching the accident report in his fist and pumping it up and down. “What have you done?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” insisted Carole. “Really. The guy must be an idiot. Who pulls out without looking, hunh?”

“Maybe somebody who just got off a plane from Peru and isn’t used to city traffic,” said Frank. “Do ya think?”

An awful suspicion was growing in Carole’s mind. “This guy’s from Peru?”

“Yeah. And you know what his name is?”

“I haven’t actually read the report because of the dog,” said Carole, noticing for the first time that Poopsie had jumped up on their twenty-thousand-dollar, custom-made sectional and was tossing the Fortuny silk pillows around in an effort to find a biscuit she had hidden there.

“Stop that!” she ordered the dog, who paused to give her a challenging stare before resuming the task at hand.

“I was late getting back to walk the dog because I spent the most of the day investigating, like you wanted.”

“Investigating is fine,” growled Frank. “Sending Jonathan Browne to the hospital is another.”

“The Jonathan Browne? Hosea’s brother?”

“Yeah,” said Frank, reaching for the scotch.

While Frank made himself a drink, Carole started calling hospitals.

She finally discovered that Jon Browne has been admitted to Rhode Island Hospital and was in stable condition following surgery.

She took down his room number and got right on the horn to Frey Florists over on Radcliffe Avenue; they had gorgeous arrangements, and she ordered a huge bouquet to be sent to him in the hospital.

She struggled a bit over the wording of the note; she didn’t want to admit culpability—that was the first rule of accidents—so she settled for a simple “Wishing you a speedy recovery.”

That done, she went back to the living room, where Frank was in his usual spot in the leather recliner with Poopsie on his lap, watching the sports network. Carole replaced the cushions on the sectional and sat down.

“That Jonathan Browne got here from Peru awfully fast,” said Carole. “I had lunch with Susan Weaver today—you know, the real estate lady—and she said he was sort of an Indiana Jones, off digging up bones in the Andes.”

“Yeah, well, when there’s a lot of money lying around, people tend to be in a big hurry to hear what the will says,” observed Frank.

“He’s probably already rich,” speculated Carole.

“You’re never rich enough,” said Frank, scratching Poopsie behind her ears. She closed her eyes and extended her neck, letting Frank know he was the best ear-scratcher in the world and pointedly ignoring Carole.

“Do you think there’ll be a funeral? Should we go?” asked Carole.

“Probably one of those memorial services,” suggested Frank.

“Not worth the trouble, really. Won’t be any tears with all those stiff-upper-lip types.

Besides,” he added, “we probably wouldn’t be welcome.

I wouldn’t be surprised if they think we’ve got some sort of vendetta going and will pull out knives from our socks. ”

“Vendetta? Socks?”

“Yeah, like we’re out to destroy the family.”

“I know what vendetta means,” said Carole. “But that’s crazy. Why would we do that?

“We wouldn’t. But you gotta admit, Carole, it don’t look good. They think I killed Hosea, and here you go, smashing into his brother and sending him to the hospital.”

“But I didn’t know who he was,” said Carole.

“Try telling that to the judge.”

Carole stared at him. “I haven’t been charged with anything.”

“Not yet,” said Frank.

Carole leaned back against the cushions. Was he right? Were the cops going to put two and two together and come up with five? Was she going to get slapped with driving to endanger or maybe attempted vehicular homicide? It was too awful to think about; she needed a drink.

In the kitchen, she poured herself a big glass of chardonnay with shaking hands, then carried it into the bedroom, away from the noise of the TV.

There she stood at the window, hoping to calm herself by looking at the view she loved so much.

There was the Coca-Cola sign, a flamboyant swirl of red neon in the evening darkness.

The streetlights marked out Promenade Street, running along the Woonasquatucket River, which gleamed like a ribbon of black satin.

Farther along, in the distance, she could see the streaming white and red lights of the cars on Route 95; the evening rush hour was in full swing.

Beyond, she saw the bridge over the highway that led up to the Hill, where the lights from the houses and restaurants gave the misty air a soft, golden glow.

She took a swallow of wine, holding it in her mouth and savoring the fruity, buttery taste.

Then she swallowed, tasting the lingering touch of bitterness, and took a deep yoga breath, concentrating on letting the tension out.

Only after three breaths, in and out, did she allow herself another sip of wine.

She was feeling better already. She loved it here, high up, looking out at the city and thinking of all the people hurrying home to their families, all the people gathering together with their loved ones around their dinner tables, all the moms cooking meat loaf and pot roast and pork chops, and all the kids doing homework or playing video games until they were called to supper.

Then, suddenly, her peaceful reverie was shattered by the scream of sirens, lots of sirens.

At first, she didn’t see anything; she couldn’t tell where the fire trucks were headed, but then one and then two and then more all went roaring past on Promenade Street.

She followed their progress, watch ing as they began to gather just past the bridge to the hill, where Valley Street began, at the Factory.

“Frank!” she screamed. “There’s a fire at the Factory!”

“Whuh?” Frank had been dozing; he struggled to upright the chair and untangle himself from the dog. He took a quick look out the window and headed straight for the closet to get his coat.

“You’re going over there?” Carole didn’t think it was a good idea.

“Sure, I’m goin’ over there. Some of the guys might still be there, working late.”

She looked at the clock; it wasn’t six yet. The clouds and rain had made it seem later than it was. “I’ll go with you,” she said. It had long been understood between them that if one of their employees had been injured, she would be the one to break the news to his family.

What a day, she thought, zipping up her parka. She hadn’t changed out of her velour track suit and was still wearing her dog-walking boots. She hadn’t even had a chance to do her hair or put on her rings. She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and hurried over to the garage with Frank.

“Where’s your car parked?” he asked, as they jogged along.

“We gotta take your truck,” she said. “The Cayenne’s at Johnny D’s.”

He stopped and stared at her with narrowed eyes. “I thought you said the Porsche was okay …”

“I’m just having Aaron look it over to make sure.”

He let out a big sigh and led the way to the truck.

Exiting the garage a bit too fast, he avoided Promenade Street, which was crowded with fire trucks and police cars, and wound his way through the side streets, past the rows of three-story tenements with their steeply pitched roofs and porches stacked one above the other.

Spotting a police barrier on Valley Street, he turned abruptly and parked in the lot behind the Coca-Cola bottling plant, and they hurried across the street, holding hands, to join the crowd of onlookers.

“Where’s the fire?” demanded Frank. You could smell the smoke, but there were no flames shooting out of the windows of any of the buildings, at least not that they could see.

Nevertheless, the fire department was responding as if it were a major fire, with lots of engines.

Their lights were flashing, illuminating the entire area in an eerie, pulsating, red light.

Hoses were snaked through the area, firemen were running this way and that, cops were setting up yellow saw-horses to keep everyone back.

Frank wanted to get in there; he wanted to know firsthand what was going on, but the cops wouldn’t let him.

“Too dangerous,” one was saying, when suddenly there was an enormous boom and a giant fireball exploded out of one of the hollow, black buildings.

“What the hell!” exclaimed somebody.

“Propane,” said Frank. “Musta been a tank in there. Probably other explosives, too.”

“Move back, move back,” ordered the cops, lifting the sawhorses and forcing everyone to the far side of the street.

“I thought all the buildings were empty,” said Carole.

“The artists, they squat; soon as you kick ’em out of one place, they pop up somewhere else,” said Frank. “And that art stuff is flammable: paints, tanks for welding—you name it, they got it in there.”

“You know, Frank-O hasn’t been spending much time in his apartment. You don’t think he’s down here, do you?”

“Doesn’t he work over at the school? Don’t they have studios there? We pay ’em enough.”

“Of course. You’re right. That must be it,” she said, as an ambulance began making its slow way down the street and onto the fenced building site.

“They musta found somebody,” said a man in the crowd.

And indeed, two helmeted firemen were running to meet the ambulance, carrying an unconscious victim between them in a classic firemen’s hold.

“I didn’t know they really did that,” said Carole, straining to get a glimpse of the victim. But all she could see was a glimpse of purple hair. Probably an artist, she thought, like Frank-O, with his blue hair.

She sent up a little prayer for the kid, gazing at the red light that was bathing the scene, giving it a surreal glow. Everything was red, she was thinking, and what did you get when you mixed red with blue? Purple, you got purple.

“Frank-O,” she screamed, shoving her way through the crowd and breaking free from the cop who tried to stop her.

The ambulance drivers were beginning to close the doors, but paused when they heard her shrieking.

“That’s my son!” she was yelling frantically, crazy with terror, running as fast as she could to the ambulance. “That’s my baby!”