Page 40 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

C arole wasn’t about to go wandering through the fenced construction site, even though the chain-link gate was wide open.

It was still pretty dark, for one thing, and as a contractor’s wife, she knew such places could be dangerous.

As numerous signs advised, it was a hard-hat area, meaning that an individual could fall into an open sewer or get hit on the head by a falling timber.

Accidents happened; workers occasionally got hurt when unstable scaffolding collapsed, ditches caved in, or heavy machinery toppled over.

She stood for a moment with Poopsie, surveying the site, which had a stark beauty in the early-morning light.

The rosy sky was reflected in the new windows of the apartment building, and the black, twisted branches of the leafless trees were a dramatic contrast to the lightening sky.

But the empty shell of the burned building was an unpleasant reminder of the fire that sent shivers down her spine.

“C’mon, let’s go home,” she urged Poopsie, giving the leash a little tug.

Poopsie planted her legs and pulled against the leash, straining to go through the gate.

“Come!” ordered Carole, in her best obedience-class voice.

As usual, it made absolutely no impression on Poopsie. She was pulling against the leash as hard as she could, looking for all the world like a ridiculously undersized sled dog.

“Breakfast!” said Carole, employing one of Poopsie’s favorite words. “I’ve got bacon for you.”

Poopsie wasn’t the least bit interested in bacon; she was interested in something on the construction site and was bound and determined to check it out.

She gave one last heroic tug, and the plastic catch on her rhinestone collar snapped, throwing Carole off balance and right onto her bottom.

Poopsie was a white blur, racing through the construction site with her nose to the ground and her tail up.

Carole was furious and frustrated. “Poopsie!” she yelled, stamping her foot, but she might as well have called the wind or tried to halt the tide.

Poopsie had a mind of her own, and she wasn’t going to give up the chase when every microscopic fiber of DNA, carefully refined through decades of selective breeding, was telling her to follow that alluring, irresistible scent, whatever it was.

Carole sighed and looked down at the broken collar and leash.

The dog trainer had warned her about this, recounting horror stories of dogs that broke free and ran across train tracks and superhighways with predictable results, and even dogs that ran until they got themselves lost or dropped from exhaustion.

Fortunately for her, the site was fenced, but it was enormous, covering acres of riverside property.

The only way she had any chance of recovering Poopsie was to follow her.

And now, she could see much better since the sun was rising, and, with luck, she wouldn’t stumble into an open drainage ditch or step on any live wires.

She picked her way carefully, stepping over rocks and scrap wood and broken bottles, the wind-tossed discarded snack bags and dead leaves here and there.

The air still smelled sharp and sooty from the fire.

She was headed in the direction she’d last seen the dog taking, running past the burned-out building and the almost finished apartment building, deep into the heart of the complex.

Carole scanned the area, looking through the neat rows of coiled tubing and pallets of brick and shingles, hoping for a glimpse of white tail.

She called the dog’s name a few times, but soon gave that up, realizing she was yelling into the wind, which carried her voice in the wrong direction.

She was down by the river now; she could see a little flock of ducks paddling along.

Just the sort of thing Poopsie loved, but she was nowhere to be seen in the trees and undergrowth that lined the banks.

Carole turned around, unsure whether she should continue into unfamiliar terrain or just retrace her steps, when she heard a single, sharp bark. Poopsie!

The sound seemed to come from one of the little temporary structures Frank was using as storage sheds, so she trotted toward it; as she drew closer, she noticed a Chase and Mooney stake truck with its engine running.

Odd, she thought, so early in the morning.

Very odd. She could see the C APOBIANCO sign clear as day over the door of the shed, which she now realized was wide open.

Frank would never, ever leave a storage shed unlocked; that was something she had no doubt about.

Plumbing fittings were expensive. In addition to the copper pipe, there were dozens of fancy Bye-Bye Toilets, each worth over a thousand dollars.

There was no way he would leave such valuable material in an open shed, available for any scavenger who happened by.

Or for a rival contractor like Chase and Mooney, who could cut costs by stealing from the Capobiancos.

Deeply suspicious, Carole ducked down behind a pallet of bricks and waited, watching to see what was going on.

She didn’t have to wait long before Mitch Chase and another man—a man in a black hoodie who looked a lot like the guy who attacked her in the stairwell and who happened to be limping—appeared in the doorway, carrying a bundle of pipe between them that they heaved into the truck.

It landed with a tremendous racket; they weren’t at all concerned about making a lot of noise.

Carole’s jaw dropped; she could hardly believe what she was seeing.

How low could people go? Mitch Chase was supposed to be a friend—a business rival, sure, but somebody who grew up in Providence, just like Frank, and went to the same schools, starting with kindergarten.

They both played on the same high school football team, for God’s sake.

And even though Frank had made sure he’d gotten a contract for a big part of the project, the HVAC, here he was, stealing Frank’s copper pipe, and she gasped in shock, watching as the two carefully heaved a boxed Bye-Bye Toilet onto the truck.

She was reaching for her cell phone to call Frank and alert him to what was happening when Poopsie suddenly appeared, coming around the corner of the building.

Tony and his accomplice didn’t notice the dog; they were heading back inside the shed to pilfer more stuff, so Carole peeked out from behind the bricks and tried to catch the dog’s attention by whispering and waving.

Poopsie saw her—she stopped in her tracks and looked directly at Carole—but decided to ignore her whispers and frantic gestures.

Instead of coming like a good dog, she continued around to the rear of the stake truck and jumped onto the tailgate.

Carole sent up a quick little prayer for heavenly protection and dashed toward the truck, intending to grab Poopsie and get the hell out of there before Mitch and his accomplice came back.

She wasn’t fast enough. She’d just reached the truck when they appeared in the doorway. “Hey!” yelled Mitch, dropping his end of the bundle of pipe, making a huge clatter.

Carole figured her best option was to play dumb blonde. “My dog ran away; she’s in your truck!” she exclaimed, holding up the leash. “Her collar broke, and she got away from me.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Mitch. He sounded suspicious and was coming closer.

“Wow, Mitch! I’m so glad to see you,” said Carole, her heart thudding like a runaway train. “Can you help me get the dog?”

“Sure,” said Mitch, taking the leash.

“You could just loop it around her neck,” suggested Carole, keeping her eyes on Mitch and ignoring the other guy. She didn’t want him to get the idea that she recognized him.

The good part about all this was that Poopsie was really cornered. Carole and Mitch were both standing at the back of the truck, and she was watching them warily.

“You sure start work early,” said Carole, keeping up the fiction that Mitch wasn’t doing anything wrong in the hope of reassuring him that she was so dumb she hadn’t realized that he was up to no good.

“Yeah, early bird and all that,” said Mitch, hoisting himself up onto the truck with a grunt, leash in hand.

Seeing him coming, Poopsie began digging frantically under a tarp.

“What the hell!” he muttered, as she produced a rusty old rag, then nimbly dashed through his legs and leaped off the back of the truck.

Tail wagging, she dropped her prize at Carole’s feet and sat, giving Carole a big, doggy grin.

Carole picked up the rag, intending to give it to Mitch.

It was stiff, like a cleaning rag that was soaked in liquid and then left to dry, and she realized with horror that the reddish-brown stains she had assumed were rust weren’t rust at all, but dried blood.

Next thing she knew, Mitch and the other guy had grabbed her by the elbows and were dragging her back to the shed.

She was screaming as loud as she could and trying to dig her heels into the ground.

Poopsie was barking frantically, circling around them, and Carole was twisting this way and that, trying to break free.

She managed to get one arm free and was pulling away, but Mitch yanked her back, catching her around her neck and clamping his hand over her mouth.

Poopsie didn’t like this; she decided she’d played nice long enough and lunged at his heel, biting down on his Achilles tendon.