Page 33 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

C arole was thoughtful as she wrestled Mom’s vacuum down the stairs and then trudged up the street to Christina Fornisanti’s car.

She suddenly remembered the painting in Hosea’s apartment of the storm-tossed ship Orion and the figures of drowning people.

Now that she thought about it, they all seemed to have dark skin, and one falling figure, captured in midair, seemed to have actually been thrown from the ship.

Carole had seen a series of stories in the Journal about the slave trade in Providence and other Rhode Island towns, and she knew there were instances when African captives destined for slavery in the New World were thrown overboard in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

Sometimes it was punishment for troublemakers, sometimes it was because of sickness and fear of contagion, and sometimes it was to lighten the load when a ship got in trouble or if it needed to outrun British Navy patrols.

Now that she thought about it, she wondered if that series of stories in the Journal had something to do with Stuart Poole’s forthcoming book.

She knew the name Browne had popped up in some of the items, and she recalled there had been two Browne brothers back in the eighteenth century who had very different attitudes toward slavery, in a way foreshadowing the way the issue tore families apart a century later in the Civil War.

One brother had become disillusioned with the slave trade and became an ardent abolitionist, while the other continued to take part in the profitable trade and became very wealthy.

Considering the painting in Hosea’s apartment, it seemed likely that he and his brother were descended from those same Brownes.

But which line? The slave trader or the abolitionist?

The painting could be taken either way: a reminder of a sinful past or an expression of family pride.

Maybe not exactly pride in the actual practice of slavery, but in his forebear’s entrepreneurial spirit or seamanship. Something along those lines.

And, she thought, hoisting the vacuum into the Corolla’s trunk, Jon Browne certainly seemed to think that Hosea wouldn’t have appreciated being reminded of this stain on the family’s honor.

He might well have considered Stuart Poole a viper in his breast or something like that, considering he was living in the Browne family manse.

If Hosea had challenged Poole, might the professor have reacted angrily, setting aside his pen and reaching for a blunt object?

“How come you’re so quiet all of a sudden?” asked Mom, when they were seated in the car.

“I’m thinking that maybe the professor had a motive for killing Hosea Browne,” said Carole.

Mom was incredulous. “That little guy who’s always got his nose stuck in a book? He couldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Carole. “You know that old saw about the pen being mightier than the sword? Well, he’s probably been working on that book about the slave trade for years, and it’s likely that he’s mentioned the Browne family’s involvement.

His whole reputation is staked on this single book; it’s his life’s work. ”

Mom was driving cautiously along Benefit Street, weaving her way past the occasional oncoming car.

There wasn’t much traffic, which was a good thing, considering that the cobblestones and the parked cars made the narrow road a bit of an obstacle course.

“And you think Hosea might’ve tried to put the kibosh on it, something like that? ”

“Yeah. Remember, he had a lot of power as a director of the university.”

“But what would be the point? Everybody knows the Brownes were slave traders. It was in the Journal. ”

“Yeah, but now there’s talk about reparations—paying money to people whose ancestors were slaves.”

“That’s crazy. How could anybody document something like that after all these years?”

“I dunno, but that’s what professors do, Mom.

They dig around in musty old records and find out stuff like that.

Who was sold and for how much and what that would be in today’s dollars, and who profited and was the money spent or socked away in an investment and what it’s worth now.

Plus there’s the matter of enforced labor; that had a value.

And I heard how they’ve recovered some slave ship down south somewhere, and they’re trying to recover DNA from the wreck that could be compared to the DNA of folks living there today who are descended from slaves.

Those folks could then sue on behalf of their wronged ancestors. ”

Mom was chugging slowly up the hill in front of the statehouse; honestly, Christina Fornisanti ought to get a tuneup or something. “So you’re saying that, because of the professor’s book, Hosea might have had to pay a lot of money to … to whom?”

“I don’t know. Maybe individuals, maybe a scholarship for African American kids at Brown.”

“So what you’re saying is that Hosea could’ve been putting the squeeze on the professor not to publish his book or maybe just to change it, and the professor got mad and bopped him on the head?” asked Mom, as she pulled up and braked in front of the Esplanade.

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“I think you should come home with me and have some of Big Frank’s manicot’, and spend some time with your son …”

Carole felt the familiar sensation of guilt settling on her, like a heavy winter coat. “Oh, Mom, I wish I could, but …”

Mom clucked her tongue. “I know. I know. Just keeping up with Frank is a full-time job, and you’ve got your mother there, too.”

“How is Frank-O doing? Is he behaving himself?”

“He’s a good boy, and he and Big Frank are getting on like a house afire …” she said, suddenly turning bright red. “Oops. I didn’t mean that. And he’s stronger every day. Looks like himself again.”

“He’s taking his pills?”

“For sure. He’s no trouble at all. You can be proud of that boy, Carole.”

Mom patted her hand, and Carole thought it would be nice if her own mother were a little more like Mom.

Maybe she was carrying some extra pounds and she wasn’t the most fashionable dresser, but she was always ready to help.

Most of the time, you didn’t even have to ask; she was right on it, giving you whatever you needed before you even knew you needed it.

“Thanks for everything,” said Carole, giving the older woman a hug.

Mom squeezed her back. “For what? I’m not doing anything special.”

“No, Mom. You’re pretty special,” said Carole, getting out of the car.

Carole was amused at the look the concierge gave her when she entered the lobby, still in her cleaning-lady disguise.

It was Barry, the stickler for the rules.

She thought he was going to challenge her and was planning to surprise him by revealing her true identity, but didn’t get the chance because he was distracted by another tenant collecting her dry cleaning.

She continued on her way to the elevator, where Joao was busy polishing the stainless-steel doors. He gave her a big smile and asked, “You work for Miz Capobianco?”

Carole decided to play along. “Yes,” she said, “I’m here to walk to dog.”

“That dog is a little troublemaker,” said Joao.

“I got a way with her,” said Carole.

“She pays good, hunh? Miz Capobianco?”

Carole nodded. “Pretty good.”

“She’s a nice lady.”

“Her husband’s kind of grouchy,” said Carole.

“Yeah, well, he’s got a lot of problems,” said Joao, pushing the fifth-floor button for her before she slipped through the closing doors.

Truer words were never said, she thought, as the elevator carried her up. Frank definitely had some problems.

Poopsie greeted her at the door, jumping excitedly.

Polly wasn’t home; she’d left a note saying she’d gone over to the Alliance Francaise for a lecture on French cinema, so Carole grabbed the leash and snapped it on the dog’s collar.

Once outside, Poopsie didn’t want to go up the hill, and she didn’t want to go down the hill, so Carole followed her lead and took her around the edges of the parking area, which was against the rules, but who was going to explain that to Poopsie?

Poopsie especially liked exploring the grassy bank at the back of the parking area, and Carole didn’t mind; it was sunny and sheltered there, and she figured she might as well absorb some vitamin D; it was supposed to be good for you.

She was standing there, basking in the sun, when her cell phone went off. It was Connie.

“Hi, honey,” she said, hoping Connie had turned up something.

She had. “I did like you said, Ma, and I started chatting up the girls in the secretarial pool.”

“Never underestimate people,” advised Carole.

“You said it. They’re a great bunch of girls, and they’re all worried about this one, Vanessa, who’s losing her home.”

“All you brainy lawyers there can’t do anything to help her?” demanded Carole.

“Well, yeah, one of the partners, actually, is working on it, trying to get it straightened out. But he isn’t getting anywhere because the mortgage has been sold, and he’s having a hard time figuring out who actually has it.”

“The bank, duh.”

“No, Ma. It’s more complicated now. The banks sell the mortgages to investors; sometimes they’re part of mutual funds, and there’s a lot of mortgage brokers that aren’t banks. It’s a mess, and you’ll never guess who’s right smack in the middle.”

“Who?” Poopsie wanted to go up the hill, and Carole was tugging on the leash, trying to restrain her.

“Mark Lonsdale!”

Poopsie heard Connie’s voice and was suddenly alert, listening to every word, just like Carole. “How exactly is he involved?”

“Well, he’s the one Vanessa got the mortgage from, one of those interest-only deals from American Dream, which ought to be called American Nightmare, and she’s been calling him, trying to refinance, but she never gets him.”

“What, like he’s hiding?”

“More like he’s been fired, Ma. American Dream cut their workforce by fifty percent last week.”