Page 34 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

“That explains a lot,” said Carole, as Poopsie resumed her sniffing progress along the edge of the parking lot.

“I’m glad I could help,” said Connie. “I gotta go now.”

Carole suddenly remembered that Celerie was coming over and glanced at her watch. Actually, she was probably on her way. She had to get back upstairs and out of her disguise, fast.

Carole was just zipping up her jeans and slipping into her leopard-print Manolos when Celerie arrived, accompanied by Pinky, who was toting an enormous ladder, easily eight feet long. Poopsie most certainly didn’t approve of the ladder and started barking, so Carole locked her in the bathroom.

“Sorry about that,” apologized Carole, returning and holding the door wide open for them. As Celerie whisked past her, she did a double take and gave Carole a puzzled look, then snapped her fingers at Pinky, who wasn’t bringing in the ladder quickly enough for her.

“Where do you want it?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.

“You can just take it over to that window,” Celerie said, pointing across the living room.

He carried it carefully past the furniture and set it up, spreading out the legs, then joined them by the door. “You can call me when you’re ready to leave,” he said.

“Thanks, Pinky.” Carole gave him a big smile and slipped him a ten, taking it out of the purse she’d left on the hall table.

After he was gone, Carole turned to watch Celerie, who was climbing up, stepping lightly in her heels and pencil skirt.

Minutes later, she was unrolling a massive con tractor’s steel measuring tape, asking Carole to hold the bottom.

“Twelve feet even,” she said, snapping the switch and rerolling the tape. Back down, she busied herself measuring the width of the window.

“Can I get you some tea or something?” offered Carole.

“No, thanks,” said Celerie, jotting down the measurements.

“Uh, how’s your husband?” asked Carole, wishing she’d been able to phrase the question rather more subtly.

“Mark?” Celerie shut her notebook. “He’s fine.”

“And how’s he weathering this mortgage meltdown?” persisted Carole. “I heard American Dream made some big staff cuts lately.”

“Well, you know what they say, when one door closes another one opens. Mark got a good severance package, and he’s going into consulting.”

Carole wasn’t fooled; she knew consulting was just another word for unemployed. “Is the consulting business good?”

“As good as can be expected,” said Celerie. “It’s early days yet.” She was descending slowly, carefully negotiating her way down the ladder. “Your husband is involved in the Factory project, isn’t that right?”

“Capobianco and Sons has the plumbing contract.”

“That’s all?” persisted Celerie. “He’s not an investor?”

“No, no,” said Carole. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if they’re soliciting bids for interior decoration. You know, choosing fixtures, carpet, colors, things like that. I’ve done quite a bit of corporate work.”

“Oh,” said Carole, as light dawned over Marblehead, Celerie was networking, looking for a referral. “I’m sorry. He doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Just thought I’d ask,” said Celerie, struggling to close the legs of the ladder together.

“You don’t need to do that; I can call Pinky,” said Carole.

“No. It’s not heavy. I’ve got it,” she said, hoisting the ladder on her shoulders and carrying it through the living room, stopping to pause at the doorway. “By the way, the design for the windows is more complicated than I thought at first.”

Carole thought she’d better make herself clear, before she got stuck with something she didn’t want. “I’m worried you may be going in the wrong direction here. I really want something simple.”

“I understand,” said Celerie. “But sometimes simple is the hardest thing to achieve. You have to get every detail exactly right, or it just looks cheap.”

“I suppose so,” sighed Carole.

“So I’ll need another five hundred dollars.”

“Five hundred!” exclaimed Carole. “I already gave you a thousand, and I haven’t even seen a sketch.”

Celerie gave her an apologetic smile. “Perhaps you don’t understand how much custom window treatments cost,” she began. “Why, I just finished doing some for a lovely restored colonial home on Hope Street: living room, dining room, and master suite. The total came to nearly sixty thousand dollars.”

Something in Celerie’s tone took her right back to those miserable days at Mount Holyoke, when everyone knew she was the scholarship girl who couldn’t afford nice things.

She’d come a long way since then, but it was true; she had no idea how much custom window treatments cost. The last time she bought curtains was at Walmart, with Mom, who wanted to perk up her living room.

They’d splurged on a designer line and bought matching throw pillows, and it all came in under a hundred dollars.

“Okay,” she said, with a sigh. “I’ll get my checkbook. ”

But after she’d handed over the check and watched Celerie trudge down the hall to the elevator, carrying the ladder, she suspected she’d been had.

The woman hadn’t wanted help, because then she’d have to tip Pinky.

Her husband had lost his job, money was tight, and she needed cash.

Fast. Closing the door, she got right on the phone to Gary Strazullo.

There had to be a cheaper way to get information about the Lonsdales than spending thousands of dollars on curtains she didn’t want.

“I was just going to call you,” said Gary. “I’ve got some information.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I found out who Millicent Shaw’s kid is, and you’ll never believe it.”

“Nellie Shaw, the football player,” said Carole.

“The great football player,” persisted Gary, disappointed that Carole already knew his big news.

“Yeah, she’s having him over for dinner,” said Carole.

“You seem to be way ahead of me,” complained Gary.

“Actually, I’m beginning to wonder what I’m paying you for,” grumbled Carole.

“Hold on,” said Gary. “I’ve got something else. You wanted to know about Mark Lonsdale, right?”

“That’s right,” said Carole. “I heard he lost his job.”

“But did you know he’s under investigation by the state AG for selling mortgages to people who didn’t have a hope in hell of ever making their payments? Did you know that?”

“Not exactly,” admitted Carole. “Is it serious? Is he in big trouble?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. Used to be something that would get you a slap on the wrist, but these days it’s a big issue, and the AG wants to make a name for herself as a champion of the little guy. So, yeah, I think he could be looking at some serious time.”

Carole’s mind was clicking, making connections. “So tell me, Gary, when did the AG’s investigation start? Was it before Hosea Browne got killed?”

“Oh, yeah. Subpoenas were issued three weeks ago; the grand jury was scheduled to meet this week, but it was delayed because of Hosea Browne’s death.”

“Was he in trouble, too?”

“No. He was supposed to be an expert witness on banking.”

“So Mark would have had an interest in getting rid of him before the grand jury met?”

“Bingo,” said Gary.

Carole was feeling pretty good about her day’s work and was celebrating with a late lunch of Polly’s reheated cacciatore—two solid leads, thank you, deserved some solid food and even a small glass of vino—when Polly came in.

She could have been coming straight from the grand boulevards of Paris, dressed in her neat black coat with the blue scarf wrapped around her neck and her quilted Chanel bag.

“How was the lecture?” asked Carole, looking up from her meal.

“ Mon Dieu !” exclaimed Polly, dropping her chin in horror and pointing at Carole. “What have you done to yourself?”

Carole didn’t have a clue. She was wearing an oversized white linen shirt, black jeans, and those fabulous Manolos; what was the problem?

“Your hair!”

She’d just had her color done, thought Carole, reaching up to fluff her hair and feeling instead the stiff artificial fibers of the wig. Horrified, she jumped to her feet and ran across the room to the mirror. It was true; she was still wearing the ugly brown wig from her cleaning lady disguise.

“I forgot,” she whispered, pulling it off.

“I hope nobody saw you like that,” said Polly.

Carole remembered the odd look Celerie had given her when she opened the door.

She went back to the table and downed the rest of her wine in one gulp.

She might have two solid leads, but she’d blown her cover.

Her days as a cleaning lady at Prospect Place were definitely over; she’d have to come up with another way to investigate Hosea’s murder.