Page 31 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

B y the time they finished dinner, the Asti had gone flat, and so had Frank’s spirits. “You know, I’m not so sure that you’re right about Millicent,” he grumbled, pushing his plate away.

“How come?”

“Well, it’s a condo, right? Everybody owns their apartment. Hosea couldn’t make her leave.”

Carole bit her lip and considered. “Maybe there’s a special clause in the deed, like in the hoitsy-toitsy gated community we looked at. You know, no RV parked in the yard, no motorcycles, campers, or clotheslines.”

“No bastard babies? I never heard of a clause like that,” said Frank.

“There might be something about upholding the moral tone of the place,” said Polly. “They wouldn’t want some madam setting up shop in the family manse; they’ve probably got a way to deal with a situation like that.”

“Maybe Connie could find out,” suggested Carole.

“She hasn’t been much help so far,” grumbled Frank.

“They work her like a slave at that place,” replied Carole, eager to defend her cub.

“So we won’t give her more to do,” said Frank. “You and Mom can go back there, do your cleaning lady routine again, and see what you can find out.”

Carole didn’t like the sound of this at all. “Oh, Frank, it’s a waste of time …”

“No way. They saw you there before; they’re getting to know you, so you’ll be able to chat up the residents.”

“Celerie did say that Jon Browne is out of the hospital and has taken up residence in his apartment,” said Polly, earning an evil look from Carole.

“That settles it then,” said Frank. “You and Mom go over there, and you find out about the Black kid, and maybe see if you can do anything for Jon Browne, and while you’re at it, just casually ask about deed restrictions.”

“Okay,” said Carole, in a sarcastic tone, “how exactly do you suggest two down-at-heel cleaning ladies turn the conversation to deed restrictions? Hunh? And don’t forget, he might remember me from the accident.”

“I hardly recognized you, and I’m your mother,” observed Polly.

“See? You’ll think of something,” said Frank. “So how about some coffee and maybe a biscotti or two?”

Angelique was surprised when she opened the door on Thursday morning and found Mom and Carole standing on the stoop with their cleaning gear for the second time in one week. She didn’t hesitate to express her displeasure.

“I thought I made it clear that you would come on Mondays,” she said. “And frankly, I have to say that I was not happy with your work. I don’t think you even got past the hall.”

“Emergenshy,” said Mom, nodding furiously. “Het to leeeeve and no finish.”

Beside her, Carole joined in the nodding. She overdid it, and her wig slipped a bit, but Angelique didn’t seem to notice.

“All right,” said Angelique, with a big sigh. “But I hope you understand that there will be no additional payment for today’s work, and in the future, I expect you to keep to the schedule we agreed upon.”

“Yesss,” hissed Mom. “Unnerstan’ goot. Nott pwoblem.”

“I think you should consider yourselves on probation,” continued Angelique. “If I’m not satisfied with your work today, we will not continue this relationship.”

“Ookey-dookey,” said Mom.

“I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

“Ver’ kleeeer,” said Mom.

“All right, then,” said Angelique, stepping aside and admitting them to the building.

“I think you better start downstairs. Millicent complained that the hallway and stairs down there weren’t even touched.

” She opened the door to the basement stairs and watched as they went down, toting the vacuum cleaner and their buckets of cleaning gear.

When the door closed behind them, Mom whispered to Carole, “Do you think she suspects something?”

“No,” said Carole, sticking a finger under the wig and scratching. “Help is hard to find, and she wants to keep us, believe me.”

Carole was looking around the hall, a narrow, dark space with one door leading to the outside, another to Millicent’s apartment, and a third to what she discovered was a communal storage area used by all the tenants.

She made a mental note to give that area a thorough search, but first they needed to get started on the cleaning.

She could see why Millicent had complained; the carpet was soiled with leaves and dirt tracked in from outside.

She got busy with the vacuum, and Mom manned the duster, whisking cobwebs out of the corners and running it along the moldings and baseboards.

They were so absorbed in their work that they didn’t notice Millicent until she tapped Carole on her shoulder, making her jump.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, apologizing.

Carole just smiled and nodded, continuing her mute act. “Isss gooot,” said Mom, waving the duster around. “Ookey-dookey, no?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely. I didn’t mean to complain, but the hall was … well, now it’s just lovely, and I certainly do appreciate your hard work.”

“Nein pwobwem,” said Mom, smiling and shrugging.

“It’s wonderful to have you ladies,” said Millicent. “I know Angelique can be a bit exacting. I think it’s because she’s French.”

Mom smiled and nodded.

“Well,” continued Millicent, twisting her fingers awkwardly, “I do wonder if you might have some extra time today to give my place a quick once-over. I’m expecting some company, a rather special guest for dinner tonight, and it would mean so much to me …”

Mom was on it in a flash. “How mooccch?”

“It’s a small apartment, really just a studio,” said Millicent. “Fifty dollars?”

“Ookey-dookey,” said Mom, holding out her hand.

Millicent scurried back into her apartment and returned a moment later in her coat and hat and carrying her reusable Whole Foods grocery bags on her arm as well as five crisp ten dollar bills in her gloved hand.

“Just one thing. Please don’t let Tiggles, that’s my cat, out. He’s a bit of an escape artist.”

“No pwobwem,” said Mom, snatching the cash and pocketing it. As soon as Millicent was out the door, they were stepping into her apartment, entering carefully lest Tiggles make a break for freedom. The cat, however, took one look at them and scooted under the bed.

As Millicent had said, it was little more than a studio. A large front room served as living, dining, and kitchen, all in one. A curtained alcove contained a twin-size bed, and a tiny bathroom was tucked behind the kitchen area.

“Not what I expected,” said Mom, taking in the colorful African dashiki-cloth curtains and vibrant sofa cushions.

Carole was looking at the collection of framed photos that hung on one wall.

She recognized many of the faces: Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, a young Jesse Jackson, Rev.

Al Sharpton. A beautiful young woman with long, flowing hair appeared in some of the photos, too, and Carole realized she must be the young Millicent.

“Wow,” she said, “it’s no wonder she got knocked up. ”

“Yeah,” said Carole. “I wonder why she never married?”

“Maybe it was like Obama’s mom, you know, a grad school romance that ended when her boyfriend went back to Africa.”

“Or maybe he got killed,” said Mom. “Like those cop killings you hear about.”

“Like poor George Floyd,” said Carole, as grim images from the TV newscasts replayed in her head.

She turned to Millicent’s desk and flipped through a little stack of bills and letters that were piled under a small wooden sculpture of a very pregnant woman used as a paperweight.

“I guess she’s got a sense of humor,” she observed, holding it up for Mom to see.

“A fertility figure,” said Mom, surprising Carole. “I saw an exhibit over at Providence College when I was taking a class in stagecraft.”

Carole put it right down, as if it were a hot potato, and went back to the mail. A photo of a fortyish Black man fell out of one letter, and she showed it to Mom. “Is this the guy you saw?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

Carole unfolded the letter and read the neat, squarish handwriting. “He is her son, and get this, he says he hopes to meet her; he’s been searching for her for years.”

“Like one of them stories you see on TV.”

“Even better,” said Carole, chuckling. “You’ll never guess who he is.”

“Who?”

“Nellie Shaw!”

“The football player?” Even Mom recognized that name.

Nellie Shaw’s career started at Brown University, but he was picked up by the Buffalo Bills before graduating.

He went on to break records and collect Superbowl rings, ending up with the New England Patriots before retiring.

The Providence Journal had followed his career closely, considering him a favorite son of the city, and had recently trumpeted his admission to the Football Hall of Fame.

“Yeah, and I bet he’s coming to dinner tonight,” said Carole. “I wonder what Hosea would think of that?”

“He’d probably be waiting by the door, hoping for an autograph,” said Mom.

“I think you’re probably right; even the most bigoted people make exceptions for superstars,” said Carole, reaching for the Pledge.

“Yeah, they somehow think they’re the exception that proves the rule,” said Mom, switching on the vacuum.

When they finished cleaning Millicent’s place, they decided to start at the top of the house and work their way down, and they began hauling the vacuum and all their cleaning equipment up the stairs.

They’d only reached the third floor when they heard a tremendous thumping coming from inside Jon Browne’s apartment.

Carole dropped the vacuum, and Mom knocked on the door; a deep male voice ordered them to come in.

Stepping inside, they found a slightly younger version of Hosea Browne sitting on a big leather couch, his injured foot elevated on a leather hassock, with a book in one hand and some sort of primitive ceremonial staff in the other.

He gave a final thump with the staff and glowered at them.

“What the hell are you doing out there?”

“Kleeenink,” said Mom.

“You’re making a hell of a lot of noise,” he grumbled.