Page 36 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

“But it’s not Paris,” said Carole, pressing the point. After all, it was hard to imagine that any woman would abandon Paris for an old stick like Professor Poole.

Polly leaned forward and squeezed Angelique’s hand. “You wanted to get away from a man?” she asked.

Angelique gave a little smile. “Worse than that, a situation. My father was involved in a scandal involving a DNA mix-up that sent an innocent man to jail. It was a very big thing in France, and even though he really wasn’t guilty of doing anything wrong, his name, my name, was dragged through the mud. ”

“What a shame,” cooed Polly, as the waiter arrived with fresh drinks. “Carole knows exactly what that’s like, don’t you?”

“There is a difference,” said Carole, bristling and thinking that her mother probably didn’t need a second martini.

They were supposed to be grilling Angelique, not airing the Capobianco family’s dirty laundry.

“Here in America you’re supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. In France, it’s the other way round.”

“But everybody thinks Frank killed Hosea Browne,” declared Polly.

“Oh, no,” protested Angelique, “I don’t think that. Not at all.”

Carole was on her quicker than a hungry flea on a sleeping dog. “Who do you think killed him?”

“I don’t know,” said Angelique, going all wide-eyed innocent over her martini glass.

“When we were interviewed about buying into Prospect Place, I got the feeling that Hosea wasn’t too popular with the other owners,” said Carole. “Is that true?”

“I can only speak for myself,” said Angelique.

“I found him old-fashioned and reserved. My husband explained that Hosea is, I mean was, a particular sort of New Englander, a traditional Yankee, that’s all.

” She giggled. “He said people like Hosea are an endangered species, so no, I didn’t dislike him.

” Angelique gave her a cool smile and put down her glass.

“I see what you’re doing. You’re looking for the murderer, no?

And you think it might have been my husband. Why do you think that?”

“I don’t, not at all,” protested Carole. “But he did write a book about the slave trade that I don’t think Hosea would have liked very much. And Hosea was in a position to scuttle your husband’s work.”

“That’s true, but we are civilized people …” Angelique was on her feet, reaching for her coat.

“Did Hosea try to block publication of the book?”

Angelique finished buttoning her coat and was slipping on her gloves.

“I don’t know. You would have to ask my husband,” she said, picking up her purse and sliding it over her arm.

She gave Polly a little smile and a nod.

“ A bientot , and thanks for the drinks.” Then she turned and trotted across the bar and out the door.

“You were so rude,” chided Polly.

“Me? She’s the one who stuck us with the tab,” said Carole.

“Stuck you,” said Polly. “I haven’t had a chance to change my money. All I have is euros.”

By the time they got the car out of the garage and were headed over to Mom and Big Frank’s to check on Frank-O, Carole had regained her good humor. “I’m going on a green tea detox,” she declared. “Nothing but green tea for three days.”

“ Bonne chance with that,” said Polly, when they opened the kitchen door and were met by the familiar scent of herbs and tomatoes. “What is that delicious aroma?”

“Just gravy,” said Mom, dropping her spoon and hugging them in turn. “Big Frank hasn’t been cooking much lately; he’s been down in the cellar helping Frank-O with his project.”

Carole was worried, listening to the clangs and bangs issuing up through the heating vent. “Isn’t Frank-O supposed to do it on his own?”

“It’s all Frank-O’s ideas,” said Mom. “Big Frank just helps with the heavy lifting.”

“You think he’ll mind if I take a look?” asked Carole.

“Why should he mind? Go on! Your mama and I will have a cup of coffee.”

“I could use some coffee,” admitted Polly, apparently feeling the effects of three blue martinis. She collapsed onto a chair at the kitchen table, which was covered with a plastic cloth and littered with newspapers and sudoku books.

In the cellar, Carole was relieved to see that Frank-O looked much better. His cheeks were rosy from the exertion of working on the sculpture, and his voice and breathing were almost normal. His hair was still bright blue.

“So what exactly is this?” asked Carole, once the hugs and greeting were over. She gestured to the assemblage of copper pipe that was taking up most of the free space in the cellar workshop. “What’s with all the copper pipe?”

“Offcuts,” said Big Frank. “From the Factory job.”

“Yeah, Mom. This whole sculpture is made from recycled pipe that Big Frank salvaged from the trash pile. It all would’ve been thrown away.”

“Really?” asked Carole. “Isn’t copper pipe expensive?”

“Yeah,” replied Big Frank. “For sure. But this is all little bits, too small to use.”

Carole studied the sculpture, which was indeed pieced together from many small lengths of pipe, some measuring only a couple of inches. “I can see that you were able to make a very intricate design,” she said. “It’s really complicated, like a puzzle.”

“Yeah, Mom!” agreed Frank-O, enthusiastically. “It’s called que , spelled with a q.”

“Oh,” said Carole, not much the wiser.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“I guess not.”

“Well, cu is the scientific notation for the element copper, and que is pronounced the same way and is a common word in several languages, including French where que is a question. It means what .”

Carole thought about this. “Q-u-e is the beginning of the word question. ”

“Right, Ma! I didn’t think of that.”

Carole was beginning to doubt that her son was as smart as she liked to think he was. “So this whole piece is a kind of copper question mark?”

“Wow, Ma. You’ve got it!” Frank-O was beaming at her. “You’re really cool.”

“Thanks,” she said, heading back upstairs. “I’m starting detox tomorrow,” she explained to Mom. “In the meantime, I’d love a glass of chianti.”

At the table, Polly pursed her lips and gave her a disapproving glance. “You’re driving,” she said, “and I’d like to get home alive.”

“I guess I better have some Pellegrino,” said Carole.

After leaving Mom and Big Frank’s, they stopped on Atwells Avenue and picked up some groceries, some nice lemon chicken and pasta salad from Venda Ravioli for supper, and some cannoli for Frank from Scialo’s.

Polly wasn’t happy about the cannoli. “Why don’t you make some profiteroles, like you learned in class?” she asked. “French pastry is so much better than Italian.”

“Try telling that to Frank,” said Carole, ordering a dozen, assorted.

Then they were back in the car, passing the Factory, on their way home. A big sign had gone up announcing that apartments would soon be available and the rental office was now open.

“Let’s stop,” said Polly, impulsively. “I’d like to see what it’s all about.”

“You want to look at apartments?”

“Sure,” said Polly.

“How come?”

“Just curious.”

“I thought you loved living in Paris.” Carole wasn’t sure how she felt about her mother moving back to Providence.

“I do love living in Paris, but the dollar doesn’t go very far there these days,” said Polly.

Carole wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this. “So you’re really thinking of moving back here?”

“Don’t panic,” said Polly, chuckling. “I’m just thinking about it. Exploring my options.”

“I’m not panicked,” Carole was quick to say as she pulled into a parking slot. “I’m just surprised.”

Getting out of the car, she noticed that, except for a few pickup trucks belonging to contractors, the partly finished parking lot was empty.

People weren’t exactly flocking to the rental office.

And when they followed the signs that pointed the way to the office, which was located in the lobby, they found the door was locked tight.

They cupped their hands around their eyes and peered in, observing a tastefully designed waiting area, but couldn’t get inside.

“It looks nice,” said Polly. “What’s the deal here? Mixed use?”

“Yeah,” said Carole, waving her hand. “As you can see, there’s a number of buildings. They’re rehabbing them for various uses: offices, residences, retail. They’re also opening up access to the river and landscaping the grounds. It’s going to be real nice.”

Polly looked around, as if she was imagining how it would all look when the project was completed. “Where was the fire?” she asked, suddenly, surprising Carole.

“Over there,” said Carole, pointing across the parking lot to the blackened brick building.

“I want to see,” said Polly, marching across the fresh asphalt.

It soon ended, and they had to make their way across raw, rubble-strewn earth to the shell of a building.

As they got closer, they could smell the lingering scent of the fire and could see the yellow tape that had been strung across the door.

Polly ignored it and ducked under, stepping inside, where she paused.

“Poor Frank-O must have been terrified.”

“I imagine so,” said Carole, whose heart was beating faster as she looked around and imagined the black smoke he had said filled the building. “He was in a hallway; he said he was confused and disoriented. It was a miracle the firemen found him in time. He could’ve died from smoke inhalation.”

“How did the fire start?” asked Polly, stepping farther into the building.

Carole grabbed her by the elbow. “I don’t think we should go any farther; the building might be unstable.” In the distance, she could hear voices, probably workmen involved in demolishing the damaged sections. “Besides,” she added, pointing to a smoke-blackened sign, “this is a hard-hat area.”

“Oh,” said Polly, looking down at the wooden floor planks, black with soot. “Do they think somebody set the fire?”