Page 24 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

“Whatever,” said the driver, with a shrug. “Your card went through; that’s all that matters to me. So is this some sort of prank? Like that old TV show? You know, the one where they pull tricks on people?”

“No. This is actually my life,” said Carole, with a sigh. Things were certainly not going her way; she had a lot on her plate, for sure, but she wasn’t about to bare her soul to an Uber driver. “Can you kind of hurry up?” she asked. “My mom’s waiting at the airport.”

“Once we’re through town, things should open up,” he said, referring to the stop-and-go traffic.

He was right; they made good time, but Polly had been waiting close to an hour by the time Carole arrived.

She was standing outside the terminal, impatiently drumming her fingers on her crossed arms, alongside a small mountain of Louis Vuitton luggage.

She despised the current trend for wearing a comfy track suit for travel and was wearing instead a classic black-and-white tweed Chanel suit, complete with patent-leather Chanel pumps and the trademark quilted bag.

She even smelled like Chanel, having doused herself liberally with Coco.

“Carole?” Polly pulled back when Carole jumped out of the car and attempted to embrace her.

“Yeah, it’s me, Mom. I mean, Polly.”

“What did you do to your hair?”

“It’s a wig,” said Carole, pulling it off.

“And why are you dressed like this? Has the IRS finally caught up with Frank?”

“I’ll explain later,” said Carole. “Hop in the car.”

Polly slid gracefully into the back seat, looking like Catherine Deneuve. “I have quite a bit of luggage,” she told the driver, expecting him to load it.

“I’ll pop the hatch,” he said.

“Well, really,” declared Carole, who had joined her mother in the back seat. She was pretty sure that he wouldn’t have dared to treat her like this if she weren’t dressed like a cleaning woman, and she wasn’t going to put up with it.

“Bad back,” he said, with a grimace, leaving Carole no option but to climb back out and load the suitcases into the car. When the cargo area was full, she put the rest in front, next to the driver, who was looking increasingly miserable. No doubt he was thinking he’d priced the trip too low.

“Look, this is for you,” said Carole, slipping him a fifty.

“Okay, where to now?”

“The Esplanade,” said Carole.

Fortunately for her, Will, the nice concierge, was on duty when they pulled up at the entrance, and he hurried out to help her unload the bags onto the luggage cart.

“Nice place,” said Polly, leading a little procession across the lobby to the elevator. “How long have you been here?”

“A couple of months,” said Carole, pushing the elevator button. She was suddenly exhausted and leaned against the wall. “Thanks for helping us,” she told Will, with a wan smile.

“No problem, Mrs. Capobianco.” He waited until they’d gotten in the elevator and then pushed the cart in after them. “There have been some complaints about your dog this morning.”

“My son’s in the hospital,” said Carole.

“I didn’t realize,” he apologized. “You know I’d be happy to walk her for you.”

If only, thought Carole, thinking of the one time she’d attempted to hire a dog walker. The poor kid had quit, giving up dog walking to take a job as an exotic dancer at the Foxy Lady. “Not a good idea,” she said. “Poopsie doesn’t like changes in her routine.”

And Poopsie didn’t like the cart coming into the apartment, or Will, either, but as soon as she caught sight of Polly, she went into a gleeful frenzy of jumping and barking and rolling on her back, until she finally subsided at Polly’s feet and gazed up at her in blatant doggy adoration.

Polly returned the favor, dropping gracefully to her knees and scratching beneath the little dog’s rhinestone collar, sending her into ecstatic wiggles.

“ Tu es gentille, n’est-ce pas ?” crooned Polly. “ Quel bel chiot !”

Poopsie couldn’t agree more about being a sweet dog and a pretty puppy and followed close on Polly’s heels as Carole showed her around the apartment.

“Who was your decorator?” she asked, staring at Frank’s enormous La-Z-Boy with a horrified expression.

“A friend of Connie’s from school came over, but I didn’t really like her ideas,” confessed Carole. “We kind of compromised on the sofa and the dining set, but she wanted to cover the windows with elaborate swagged and fringed curtains, so we parted ways.”

Polly studied the huge windows, which were at least twelve feet high. “They’re fantastique ,” she declared. “So much light, and the view! Formidable !”

“The windows are the same in every room,” said Carole. “Come see the guest room—your room,” she quickly corrected herself.

Carole was especially proud of the guest room, which she’d done in pale blue raw silk with Matouk linens and a pale beige mink throw, genuine fur—not faux—across the foot of the bed. The windows there overlooked the river and the trees that grew along its banks.

“This is nice,” admitted Polly. “Very luxurious, but I really think you should do something with the windows.”

Carole studied the narrow silver blinds that came with the apartment; they were serviceable and attractive, in a basic way, but she agreed.

“Do you know another designer?” asked Polly.

Wheels began to turn. “I do,” said Carole, thinking of Celerie Lonsdale.

She liked the idea so much that she gave her mother a big hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“You are fantastique ,” she declared, thinking that hiring Celerie would be a lot better approach to gathering information for the investigation than pretending to be a cleaning lady.

And she wouldn’t have to wear this horrible housecoat.

“I’m going to change and go over to the hospital,” she told Polly. “You can get settled here or come with me, whichever you want.”

“But of course I will come with you,” declared Polly. “But first I want some fresh air. Allons-y? Madame Pompadour ,” she called, and Poopsie obediently sat at her feet while she fastened the leash and calmly trotted out the door at her heel.

An hour later, Carole looked like herself again.

Her blond hair with buttery highlights flowed down to her shoulders, her face was freshly made up, and she was wearing a coral cashmere wrap sweater, skinny jeans, and ankle boots with stiletto heels.

She tossed on a short fur jacket, and they left the apartment.

The morning paper was lying on the floor, just outside the door, most likely thanks to Will, who must have brought it up. Carole stooped and snatched it up, wondering if there was anything about the fire.

There was, she discovered, as she unfolded the paper. A huge picture of the flames erupting from the building and the firemen carrying Frank-O took up most of the top half of the front page.

“ Sacre bleu !” declared Polly, reading over Carole’s shoulder. “He’s lucky to be alive.”

“I know,” said Carole, wondering for the first time if perhaps the fire wasn’t an accident but had been deliberately set. She wasn’t alone. According to the paper, the state fire marshal had declared the fire suspicious and was conducting an investigation.