Page 25 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

F rank-O was awake when they got to the hospital, but he didn’t look at all good.

He wasn’t sitting up but was lying with his head slightly elevated, and he could only muster a whispered “Hi” for his mother and grandmother.

His color wasn’t good, he had blue circles under his eyes, and his breathing was ragged despite the oxygen tube taped to his nose.

He also wasn’t alone. A guy in a blue fireman’s jacket with brass buttons and a cap was sitting by the bed, a laptop computer open in his lap. Another guy, in jeans and a sweater, was holding a cell phone, recording.

“What’s going on?” demanded Carole, ready to defend her baby from all intruders. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“I’m Assistant Deputy Fire Marshal Brian Salvati,” said the guy in uniform, belatedly removing his cap. “I’m just asking a few questions about the fire.”

“And videotaping the answers?” Carole was furious. “Has my son been informed of his rights? How come there’s no lawyer here?”

“He was informed of his rights and waived them,” said Salvati.

Carole turned to Frank-O. “Is that true?” she demanded.

“Yeah, Ma,” he whispered.

Polly busied herself by refilling the water glass that stood on his bedside stand and held it so he could drink from the straw. “Thanks, Nana,” he whispered, before taking a sip.

“Look at him!” said Carole, waving her hand. “He’s in no condition to be questioned, and he’s just a kid. You come in here looking all important and official in your uniform, what’s he gonna say?”

“It’s okay, Ma,” whispered Frank-O. “Honest. I don’t know anything,” he added, before he was overtaken by a series of chesty coughs.

“We understand from your son that there were a number of artists squatting in the building,” said Salvati. “Do you know anything about that?”

“I know nothing about it,” declared Carole. “I don’t know anything at all. And I think it’s time for you to get out of here.”

“Fine, that’s fine,” said Salvati, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “But it might be better for your son if he cooperated with the department. Maybe you want to think about that.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Carole.

“Well, one theory is that the fire started when somebody was cooking up some meth …”

Carole was furious. “Are you implying that my son is operating a meth lab?”

“All I’m saying is that, if he cooperates, we can cut a deal …”

“Get out of here!” shrieked Carole, as Frank strolled into the room.

“What’s goin’ on here?” he demanded. “Is this a party or something?”

“How about a nice hello for your mother-in-law who just got here from Paris?” said Polly, giving Frank a flirtatious smile.

Frank stared at her. “What are you doing here?”

“What? Like I can’t visit my daughter? My grandson?”

His gaze shifted to the two investigators.

“And who are these guys?” demanded Frank.

As soon as he learned they were there to question Frank-O about the fire, he pulled out his cell and called Vince Houlihan.

He explained the situation to Vince, listening intently to his replies.

While he was involved in the conversation, Carole made her way to the head of the bed, where she smoothed Frank-O’s hair and adjusted his covers.

Polly, meanwhile, wasted no time joining Salvati and the videographer, who were holding their ground at the foot of the bed.

“So tell me,” she began, in classic Polly fashion, batting her eyelashes, “it must be very exciting to investigate fires. And dangerous, too.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Salvati, obviously flattered by her attention.

“But you have to deal with such dangerous people,” cooed Polly. “Arsonists!”

Carole couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t bad enough that her mother was flirting shamelessly with these fire-cops—at her age, no less; she was pushing sixty-five—but she was practically incriminating poor Frank-O when he was lying in bed and too weak to defend himself. “Mother!” she warned.

“Do you have one of those fire dogs?” asked Polly.

“Sure do,” admitted Salvati.

“What’s its name? Is it a Dalmatian? With spots?” continued Polly, cocking her head.

“Cinders. She’s a black Lab.”

“Ooh, I love Labs.”

“Me, too,” chimed in the guy with the cell phone. “I got a mix, named Snickers.”

“Aren’t you lucky,” purred Polly. “I’d love to have a dog, but, you know, I have such an unsettled lifestyle.

I’m back and forth between here and Paris, and, well, it wouldn’t be fair to the poor creature, what with these ridiculous immigration rules.

Quarantines and things.” She smiled. “Do you know you can’t bring unpasteurized cheese into the US?

You’d think a big country like this could handle a little bitty piece of cheese! ”

The two investigators were shaking their heads, agreeing with her, when Frank hit the red button on his cell.

“Okay!” he announced, in a voice that made it clear there would be no further discussion.

“These guys are getting out of here, now.” He jerked a thumb toward the door.

“You wanna talk to my son, you call my lawyer, Vince Houlihan, first. Got it?”

The videographer was already on his way to the door, followed by Salvati. “Sure,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “It was very nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said, twirling his hat in his hand and smiling at Polly.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” said Polly, giving him a big smile. “ A bientot , as we say in France. That means, until next time.”

“ A bientot ,” he replied, with a nod toward Frank.

“Did I say get outta here, or what?” growled Frank, and Salvati quickly replaced his cap on his head and beat a hasty retreat, his shoes squeaking on the vinyl tile floor.

“What are you trying to do?” demanded Frank, turning on Polly. “Whose side are you on here?”

“I was just trying to help,” said Polly.

“Well, from now on, don’t. Just mind your own business, okay?”

“ Bien sur ,” said Polly. “I guess I’ll go down to the cafeteria for a café. Anybody want something?”

Frank and Carole shook their heads, but Frank-O had a request. “Ice cream?” he asked.

“I’ll see what I can do,” promised Polly, clicking out of the room in her neat Chanel pumps.

“What is going on?” demanded Frank, closing the door behind her. “When did she get here? Why is she here?”

“She called this morning, from the airport, when I was over at Prospect Place with Mom. I don’t know why she’s here, but she is, so I’d like you to treat her like an honored guest, since she happens to be my mother. Okay?”

Frank’s eyes widened in horror. “She’s staying with us?”

“Of course she’s staying with us,” said Carole.

“My life is over,” said Frank. “They might as well put me in jail.”

“Get a grip,” ordered Carole. “We’ve got more important stuff to worry about right now.” She turned to Frank-O. “So how are you feeling, baby?”

“Rotten,” he replied, in a hoarse voice. “I got a sore throat, and it feels like I got an elephant on my chest.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Haven’t seen one.”

“Figures,” snorted Frank. “So what were you doing down there at the Factory, anyway?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’? You musta been doing something.”

“No, nothing. I was meeting a friend …”

“Who?”

“You don’t know him.” Frank-O maintained eye contact with his father as he continued. “An artist. Said he’d help me with my project. Feedback, you know? So he said come on by; he’s been squatting there.”

“Is that where the fire started? In his squat?”

“I don’t know. I was waiting around for him; I had a coffee, so I drank some of it, and I was wandering around, looking for his studio.

Then I kinda got lost; I was in this corridor, and it was getting smoky, and I turned to leave, and the smoke was getting thick, and I was trying to get back to the door, so I could get out, and that’s all I remember. ”

Carole was horrified by her son’s close call; she wanted to scoop him up in her arms and hug him, but since she couldn’t do that, she just grabbed his hand and pressed it to her lips. “You were lucky the firemen found you in time. Think of what could’ve happened.”

“Yeah,” grumbled Frank, as Polly returned, carrying a Popsicle.

“I hope orange is okay; it’s all they had,” she said, peeling off the paper wrapper and handing it over to Frank-O. “And the café , just awful. I couldn’t drink it.”

“Orange is great,” he said, struggling to sit up.

Carole handed him the switch that operated the bed, and he gradually rose to a sitting position, licking on the Popsicle.

He still looked awful, she thought; his skin actually seemed gray, but at least he was beginning to look and act like himself.

When he reached for the remote and switched on the TV, she decided he really didn’t need company.

“I guess we better let you rest,” she said.

“Yeah, I got business,” said Frank.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, his eyes on the TV as he flipped through the channels. “See you later.”

Frank, Carole, and Polly began the long walk through the hospital corridors that took them to the parking garage. As they were passing the emergency room, Frank spotted an acquaintance, Mitch Chase, also leaving, with one hand wrapped in a thick, white bandage.

“Hey, Mitch! What happened to you?”

Mitch, a tall man with receding hair, dressed in a Carhart barn jacket and jeans, greeted them warmly. “Frank! Carole! And this is your mom, right? I guess you’re all here to see Frank-O. So how’s the kid doing?”

“It’s a miracle he wasn’t killed,” said Polly.

“I think he’ll be fine,” said Carole. “Thanks for asking.”

“So what happened to you?” asked Polly, her eyes full of concern.

“I burned myself, it’s nothing. How’s your kid? I heard he was in the fire. That was sure some blaze.”

“He’s gonna be okay. Were you at the Factory, too?” asked Frank, keeping his tone casual. “Is that how you got burned?”

“Nah. I was cooking bacon.” He shrugged. “It’s not too bad, second degree, but I thought I better play it safe, get it looked at.”