Page 30 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

She entered the names of the other Prospect Place residents, and amazingly enough, there was plenty on them all.

Facebook and Instagram, X and LinkedIn, tons of citations.

Celerie Lonsdale had a website for her interior design business, but although there were plenty of pretty pictures, Carole couldn’t find any mention of passementerie.

Mark Lonsdale was included in a website for American Dream Mortgage Company as one of the members of Dream Team Providence, “The team to make your dream of home ownership come true.” Maybe a bit of hype, thought Carole, thinking of current interest rates.

And the site actually offered little information beyond a photo of Mark’s smiling face.

She stared at the picture a moment or two, wondering if he whitened his teeth, and decided he must before hitting the red X.

Millicent Shaw was mentioned in a report of a fact-finding visit to Guatemala made by the Social Concerns Committee of the First Parish Unitarian Church on Benefit Street, but she was only noted as a member of the group.

She figured that she knew more than she wanted to about Hosea, but she was curious about Jonathan Browne.

She discovered that he, like Professor Poole, had thousands of listings.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t make head nor tail of any of them.

They were all obscure references in scientific journals to Section VIII or Substratum XYZ; it was enough to give a girl a migraine.

She was clearly in way over her head; she needed help.

She sat for a moment, fingering her phone, when she suddenly remembered hearing somewhere that Betty Strazullo’s kid Gary was a private eye.

She googled Gary and discovered it was true.

Strazullo Investigations had a nice website; they promised confidentiality in all investigations, which included divorce and custody, missing persons, background checks, and surveillance.

Gary himself took the call and declared himself eager to help. “Frank’s getting a bum deal,” he told her, “I’ll do whatever I can to help him.” He even said he’d only charge one fifty an hour, instead of his usual two hundred.

Carole found herself thanking him for the privilege of paying him, which she thought was screwy, but you didn’t get something for nothing, and she knew she needed help.

She decided to surprise Frank and throw something together for dinner, maybe a chicken cacciatore, since they always had chicken breasts in the freezer, and it was nice and easy.

When Polly came home, she took over, pulling an apron out of the drawer and taking the spoon out of Carole’s hand. Carole popped the top on a diet soda and sat on one of the stools at the island, and asked how lunch went with Connie.

Polly took a wineglass out of the cabinet, got the chardonnay out of the fridge, emptied the bottle into the glass, and then tossed the empty bottle into the recycling. “She looked very tired,” said Polly. “And she was dressed like an old lady in an ugly, navy blue suit.”

Carole sipped her soda. “She works sixty-hour weeks, and the law firm has a dress code. I got her some pretty underwear for her birthday.”

“Oh, that’s right. Saint Joseph’s Day, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I’m planning a little do,” said Carole.

“And when were you going to tell me?” asked Polly. “I’ll need to get something to wear.”

“Honestly, it slipped my mind, what with everything that’s going on.”

“I understand,” said Polly, opening a can of San Marzanos and adding them to the cacciatore. “There’s the phone.”

Carole answered, surprised to hear Gary’s voice so soon. “It’s just a preliminary report. I haven’t gotten to everybody, but I thought you’d like to know. I was doing a routine check of birth certificates, and guess what I found out?”

“I don’t know, Gary,” said Carole. “Suppose you tell me.”

“Well, in 1981, Millicent Shaw gave birth to a male child, seven pounds nine ounces, name of Nelson Mandela Shaw. No father’s name is given.”

Carole couldn’t believe it. “Millicent had an illegitimate child?”

“Sure looks that way, and there’s more.”

“More?”

“Yeah, the kid was, um, African American.”

“How could he be, if she was his mother?”

“Well, you know, obviously the father must be Black.”

“Oh, of course,” said Carole thinking of what Mom had told her about Millicent’s African American visitor. “So that means he’d be forty-something now, right?”

“That sounds about right,” said Gary. “Well, I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Sure thing, thanks,” said Carole. “Keep up the good work.”

“I will,” promised Gary. “Like I told you, I just got started. I bet there’s plenty more. There always is.”

Carole’s mind was racing as she set the table, putting out the handwoven napkins and place mats she’d bought on Nantucket last summer and the French faience plates with roosters, in honor of the chicken cacciatore.

“Very nice,” said Polly, as Carole lit the candles. “A table setting should always have a touch of whimsy.”

“I’ve got more than a touch,” said Carole. “I’ve got a whammo for Frank when he gets home.”

When Frank walked in, Carole popped the cork on a bottle of Asti and gave him a big smile.

“So what’s the celebration for?” asked Frank, as Carole filled the flutes.

“Well, Frank-O’s out of the hospital and on the mend at your folks’ house,” said Carole, raising her glass. “And we’re having a home-cooked dinner …”

“That is cause for celebration,” agreed Frank, taking a healthy swallow.

“There’s more,” said Carole. “I got a big break in the investigation today.”

“Yeah?” Frank was all ears.

“You remember the little old lady in the basement apartment …”

“Mildred Something?”

“Millicent, Millicent Shaw. Well, it turns out that she had an illegitimate child back in 1981. A little Black boy.”

Frank’s eyebrows popped up. “You kiddin’ me?”

“No. I got it on good authority from Gary Strazullo, who found the birth certificate.”

“And if Gary Strazullo could find it, so could Hosea Browne, is that what you’re saying?” asked Frank.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, because if Hosea Browne found out …”

“What is the problem?” asked Polly, refilling her flute from the bottle. “A single woman had a child forty-odd years ago, so what?”

“You didn’t know Hosea Browne,” said Carole. “He told us he wouldn’t tolerate any impropriety in his family home, and I think that to somebody like Hosea, an illegitimate child would definitely qualify as improper.”

“Millicent would be out on her ear,” said Frank.

“And I think Millicent definitely wants to stay in her apartment,” said Carole.

“Which gives her a big motive for killing Hosea.”

“Seven pounds nine ounces of motive,” said Carole, raising her glass. “Here’s to Millicent!”