Page 38 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

T he first person to approach her was a large Black woman who worked in one of the nearby office buildings. Carole knew her by sight; they always exchanged smiles, but didn’t know her name.

“What happened to you?” the woman asked, removing the large pashmina she always wore over her coat and wrapping it around Carole’s shaking shoulders.

“He tried to rape me,” stammered Carole, through her chattering teeth.

The woman looked up at the stairwell, then gave Carole a reassuring hug. “Are you okay, honey?”

Carole took inventory and discovered she was more frightened than anything, and, of course, she’d wet herself. “I peed my pants,” she confessed, horrified. “My new jeans.”

The woman gave her another hug. “Never you mind. That’ll wash right out,” she said, as a couple of other women approached. “Some guy tried to rape her,” she told them.

“In the garage?” asked one. “My friend’s purse got snatched last week,” said another. “Down on Promenade Street.”

Soon a group of clucking, cooing women had surrounded her, mostly office workers and a few neighbors.

One man she recognized, a young, super-fit guy she often saw jogging when she walked Poopsie, also joined the group and offered to run back upstairs to retrieve her purse and groceries.

He was gone before she could warn him to watch out for the guy who assaulted her, and she waited anxiously for his return.

He was back in minutes, reporting that the rapist had gone, leaving her things where they’d fallen.

When he handed over her Prada bag, she discovered nothing was missing, not even her wallet, which was stuffed with close to a thousand dollars.

“Thanks,” she told the guy, as he handed her the bag of groceries. “That was really brave of you.”

“No big deal. I was hoping he’d still be there. I was gonna give him a—well, never mind.” He gave her a wave and jogged off.

Carole discovered that while she was still shaken by the experience—her hands were shaking and she was trembling, struggling to catch her breath—she was also growing increasingly furious.

Who did her attacker think she was, to treat her like that?

To knock her off her feet, grabbing at her and pawing her. It was outrageous.

“I’m okay,” she said, in a quavery voice and pulling out her keys with the entry fob. Then, remembering the pashmina, she shrugged it off and returned it to its owner. “Thank you so much for helping me. I’m Carole, by the way. Carole Capobianco.”

“Beverly Robinson,” said the woman, introducing herself.

“Well, thank you so much for helping me, Beverly. But now I can take it from here.”

One of her neighbors, a gentleman she often met in the elevator but didn’t know by name, insisted on taking her elbow and escorting her into the building. “You should report this to the concierge,” he said, as Carole headed straight for the elevator.

“Maybe later,” said Carole, who suddenly just wanted to get behind the locked door of her apartment and out of her clothes and into the shower.

“Really, it’s a security issue,” said the man. “It affects all of us.”

Carole wasn’t so sure. She remembered the way her assailant had warned her to mind her own business. This was no random attack; it was targeted at her, to scare her. But why? Reaching the elevator, she pressed the button. “I’m fine, honest. The less said, the better.”

“I understand this was a traumatic experience, but refusing to deal with it is a big mistake,” he told her. “I’m a psychologist, and …”

The elevator doors opened, and Carole got in. “Thanks again,” she said, giving her head a little shake. He got the message and didn’t attempt to join her, but stood back as the doors closed. Carole found herself breathing a huge sigh of relief as the elevator carried her upward.

Moments later, she was back in her apartment, her beautiful apartment, and Poopsie was sniffing at her jeans as her mother helped her undress.

“ Mon Dieu !” exclaimed Polly. “I never should have left you.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Carole, darkly.

“What do you mean? If there were two of us, he would have gone after somebody else.”

Carole studied her mother critically, guessing she maybe weighed a hundred pounds. Maybe. “To be honest, I don’t think you’d offer much protection. He could have assaulted us both, then where would you be, with those fragile bird bones of yours?”

“I could have screamed, or beat him with my purse, or something.”

Carole shook her head. “I don’t think that would have made much difference. This was a warning to me to mind my own business.”

“Because you’re investigating the murder?”

“Probably,” said Carole, peeling off her jeans.

“I’ll put those right in the wash,” said Polly, grabbing the jeans and underpants and trotting down the hall to the closet containing the washer and dryer.

“Thanks, Mom,” called Carole, turning on the shower, and for once, Polly didn’t object to her use of the word.

As the glorious and healing hot water streamed over her, Carole wondered who exactly it was who wanted her to mind her own business.

Someone who felt threatened enough to hire some goon to send a message.

Was it one of the Prospect Place residents?

She didn’t think so; it wasn’t their style.

They all had their problems, for sure, but they hardly seemed likely to resort to violence.

The Lonsdales needed money, but that was hardly a unique situation.

Lots of people were in the same boat these days, and being temporarily strapped was hardly a motive for murdering Hosea Browne.

And while Mark was under investigation for selling bad mortgages, Carole was pretty sure he was the low man on the totem pole.

Investigators were probably more interested in the information he could give them about his bosses than in indicting him.

As for the Pooles, well, Carole didn’t think that much of anything apart from his books and research made the least impression on Stuart.

He seemed to live in a world of his own, encased in academic privilege.

If push came to shove, she was willing to bet that Stuart’s weapon of choice really was the pen rather than the sword.

And Angelique? Well, she had seemed pretty angry when she left the bar, but Carole figured she was one woman who believed revenge was a dish best served cold.

Besides, according to Susan Weaver, if Hosea caused her any trouble, all she had to do was bake him a tarte tatin to get back in his good graces.

As she knew herself, it was hard to argue with a tarte tatin.

But what about Jon Browne? He stood to inherit Hosea’s substantial fortune, minus some generous bequests to the university and hospital, but Carole hadn’t gotten the impression that he cared.

In her brief encounter with him, she’d been reminded of the hermits of old, those saints who sat on pillars or withdrew to the wilderness in their scratchy hair shirts.

He didn’t seem to care about creature comforts or material things; all he wanted to do was get back to Peru to dig up bits of bone and shards of pottery.

And then there was Millicent, with her illegitimate son.

Carole turned off the water and reached for a towel, beginning to pat herself dry.

There was a time, she reminded herself, when giving birth to an illegitimate, mixed-race child would have been scandalous, but those days were long past. And if that child turned out to be a Football Hall of Famer, and a Brown alumnus, even Hosea would have been impressed.

Maybe he even would have begged for an autographed football!

No, she thought, smiling to herself as she reached for the blow dryer, she didn’t see any of the Prospect Place residents as murderers or rapists, and she couldn’t imagine any of them having anything to do with the creep who attacked her in the stairwell.

And then there was the matter of timing: the attack came after she had paid a visit to the Factory.

She paused, boar-bristle brush in one hand and dryer in the other, staring at her astonished face in the mirror. The attack probably didn’t have anything to do with Hosea, she realized; it was all about the fire. Somebody didn’t want her snooping around the Factory.

In that context, the guy in the hoodie, the guy who wasn’t interested in her money and probably wasn’t really interested in raping her, made sense. It was all about the warning, the warning to stay away from the Factory.

When Carole emerged from the bathroom in her terrycloth robe and slippers, her mother had a glass of port waiting for her.

She settled herself on the couch, and Poopsie jumped up beside her, resting her head in her lap.

Carole sipped the delicious port, stroked the dog’s soft coat, and suddenly felt that maybe everything wasn’t quite right with the world, but she was going to be okay. And then there was a knock at the door.

Polly went to answer, discovering the picky concierge Barry, accompanied by a uniformed patrol officer.

“Just a moment,” she said, holding up a finger before quickly closing the door and dashing to the couch, where she scooped up Poopsie.

“There’s a cop,” she told Carole, carefully shutting the dog into the master bedroom before hurrying back to the door.

“We got a report of an assault in the garage,” began Barry, clearly miffed at the delay and speaking in a disapproving tone, rather as if it was Carole’s fault and she’d somehow invited the attack. “Management policy in that situation is to contact the police immediately.”

What the hell, thought Carole. No apologies, no expression of concern for her well-being? Where were the flowers, the cards? No promise to install video cameras, no assurance that nothing like this would ever happen again?

“That’s right, ma’am,” said the cop, who seemed just about old enough to have graduated from kindergarten. “I’m here to escort you to the hospital …”