Page 27 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

N ext morning, Carole was surprised to find Polly sitting at the dining table when she and Poopsie got back from their walk.

“Must be jet lag. I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” explained Polly, who had made coffee and was sipping a cup, poring over a magazine.

Carole had picked up the morning paper on her way home and gave it to her, then went about her usual morning routine of feeding the dog and cooking eggs for Frank.

“I can’t believe he eats that every morning,” said Polly, as the bacon started sizzling. She was nibbling on an English muffin, which she put down with a sigh. “I don’t suppose you can get decent croissants around here?”

“Croissants aren’t exactly health food,” said Carole, break ing a couple of eggs into the pan. “Frank!” she called. “Eggs are on!”

He appeared a minute or two later, unshaven and with mussed hair, in his rumpled pajamas and robe.

Polly gave him a disapproving look but, wisely, didn’t comment on his appearance.

She herself was a picture of perfection: her hair was freshly styled, her face washed and moisturized, and she was dressed in an oversized white shirt and black leggings, with ballet flats on her feet.

Frank ignored her and sat down heavily in his usual chair.

Carole brought him a big mug of coffee, and he reached for the paper, which was unopened, lying beside Polly’s plate.

“Ya don’ mind, right?” he growled as he flipped it open and glanced at the headline: DA C ONFIDENT OF C ONVICTION IN B ROWNE C ASE , grunted, and tossed it aside in favor of the sports section.

He was engrossed in a story about a promising rookie player when Carole brought him his plate, and he continued reading while he ate.

Carole, however, read every word of the headline story about the DA while she ate her whole-wheat English muffin and eighty calories worth of peach yogurt. “The DA says he wants to go to trial as soon as possible,” Carole advised Frank.

“Good luck with that,” replied Frank. “Vince has got other plans.”

“Like what?” asked Carole.

“Delay, delay, delay, that’s the name of the game—at least that’s what he told me.

The more motions you file, the longer you put it off, the case loses steam.

Stuff gets lost, people’s memories aren’t so good.

I think he’s filing a motion for change of venue, says that’ll use up a good six months.

Then he’s got a bunch of other stuff, says he can put off the trial for at least three years. ”

“That wouldn’t work in France,” said Polly.

“I’m not sure it’s going to work here,” said Carole. “I hope he’s got a better defense strategy than that.”

Frank was mopping up the last of the egg yolk with a piece of toast. “You and Mom find out anything yesterday over at Prospect Place?” he asked.

“Not much,” admitted Carole, “But we’re going back next week. And I’ve got an interview with Celerie Lonsdale this afternoon. I asked her for some help with window treatments.”

“Window treatments! I’m looking at a couple of million in legal fees and you’re talking window treatments?”

“Calm down,” said Carole, placidly stirring her yogurt. “The windows are just an excuse. I’m going to pump her for information about Prospect Place, just like you want.”

“Oh,” said Frank, getting a sharp look from Polly. “That’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Carole, licking her spoon. “I feel like I’m poking around in the dark. I don’t know what to ask her.”

“What’ve you got so far?” asked Frank.

“Not much,” admitted Carole. “The real estate lady, Susan Weaver, seemed to have a big motive for getting rid of Hosea Browne because she’s definitely got money problems. But when you think about it, she was better off when he was alive.

He was difficult, but she could probably find some nice WASPy buyer for him sooner or later.

Now that he’s dead, there’s all sorts of legal complications that could hold up the sale for years. ”

“She could’ve lost her temper and whacked him on the head,” said Frank.

“I don’t think so. A real estate agent has to be pretty good at controlling her temper, don’t you think? And she’s supposed to be quite successful.”

“I thought you said she was having financial problems,” said Frank. “People do weird things when they’re under stress.”

“It sounded like a cash-flow issue to me, and you know how that goes. One month you’re rich, the next you’re hitting the food pantry.”

“You wouldn’t know where the food pantry is,” countered Frank.

Polly giggled. “That’ll be the day. Carole showing up in her Louboutins and Vuitton purse.” She picked up an English muffin crumb with her finger and put it in her mouth. “But it is true, about stress. It can really mess with your mind.”

“Okay, so we keep Susan Weaver on the list of suspects, but I’m pretty sure we can cross off Millicent Shaw. She’s too nice to kill anybody.”

“Those are the ones you have to watch out for,” said Polly, darkly.

“If you met her, I think you’d agree with me,” replied Carole. “She’s just the sweetest old thing. And that’s another point: she’s really old. Too old to bop somebody on the head hard enough to kill them.”

“Not so,” said Polly, poring over the Living section. “It says here that seniors are joining gyms in droves, especially older women. They’re working out with weights.”

“That’s just what we need,” muttered Frank, pushing his chair back from the table and heading for the bathroom, bringing along the sports section. “Old ladies with dumbbells. What next?”

“I don’t know,” said Carole, propping her cheek on her hand.

“I wish Mom and I had found out more over there at Prospect Place, especially about the Pooles. They seem like an odd couple to me. Angelique doesn’t seem like the sort of woman you’d expect a fusty old bachelor like the professor to marry. ”

“Angelique Poole? Is that her name?” asked Polly.

“Yeah. Do you know her?”

“No, but I see here that she’s offering a class in French pastry this weekend. Fifty dollars a person, and you get to eat everything you make. Shall we go? Maybe I can strike up an acquaintance with her and pump her for information.” She paused. “I’m sure she’ll know where to get good croissants.”

“I’ll try anything that will keep me out of that wig and rubber gloves,” said Carole, beginning to clear the table.

An hour later, dressed in her usual skinny jeans and heels, she was back at the hospital visiting Frank-O.

Polly came, too, and Mom was already there with a jumbo beaker of Big Frank’s homemade eggnog, declaring that it would be soothing on his throat and was packed with nutrition.

“You’ll never get better on the poor excuse for food the hospital gives you. ”

“It’s not so bad,” said Frank-O. “I like those mashed potato mountains with the little crater on top for gravy.” He was looking better, thought Carole, and even had a little pink in his cheeks.

Speaking was also a lot easier for him, although he still sounded quite hoarse, and he wasn’t coughing as much.

“Those potatoes taste like wallpaper paste!” protested Mom.

“Yeah, I know,” admitted Frank-O with a smile. “But I still like them.”

He had made substantial headway on the eggnog, however, when a nurse appeared and began taking his blood pressure. “Looks like you’re going home tomorrow,” she said, unwrapping the cuff with a ripping sound.

“What!” exclaimed Carole. “Tomorrow! He’s sick. Too sick to go home!”

The nurse looked at her. “Sorry, you’ll have to take it up with your health insurance. They say he’s ready to go.”

“The insurance! Since when do they decide?”

“Honey, it’s a new world,” advised the nurse. “They call the shots.”

“Not in France,” said Polly, smugly. “They have free health care.”

Carole figured Frank would work it out with the insurance company, but in the meantime they could certainly cover the hospital cost. “If money is the problem …”

“Listen, Mom,” interrupted Frank-O. “I don’t want to stay. I’m okay, really, and I want to go home.”

Carole looked at him, speechless. The kid couldn’t take care of himself under the best of circumstances.

How was he going to manage in his weakened condition?

He could hardly breathe, so how was he going to get up the stairs?

And what about meals? Who was going to cook for him?

Was he just going to lie around in squalor, waiting for one of his buddies to bring in a pizza or some Chinese?

If only he could stay with her, but her mother was in the guest room.

He could bunk on the couch, but that wouldn’t be too good, not with the way he and Frank didn’t get along so well.

It would be hell, but if that’s what she had to do, that’s what she’d do.

“Okay,” she said. “You’ll come home with me.”

“Where’s he gonna stay at your house?” asked Mom.

“You got your mother, don’t you? And you know how Frank likes his routine; he wants to watch what he wants to watch on TV when he wants to watch it.

And don’t get in between him and his bathroom!

How are you going to take care of Frank and Frank-O at the same time? ”

“I’ll manage,” said Carole, noticing that Polly was definitely looking nervous.

“I could go to a hotel,” she said, without enthusiasm.

“I got a better idea,” said Mom. “Frank-O should come and stay with me and Big Frank. We got plenty of room, and Big Frank’ll feed him up good.”

It was an offer from heaven. The woman was a gray-haired angel in a roomy turquoise polyester sweatshirt with matching elastic-waist pants and arch-support Skechers. “That okay with you?” she asked Frank-O.

“Sure, sounds great,” he replied, reaching for the TV remote. The small movement started up a bout of coughing, and Mom hurried to give him a drink of water.

“You behave yourself; don’t give your grandparents any trouble,” warned Carole. “If your dad hears …”

“He won’t be any trouble,” said Mom, beaming at her grandson. “We’re happy to have him.”