Page 5 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

C limbing behind the steering wheel of the roomy SUV, Carole tried to think what to do.

What were you supposed to do when your husband was arrested for murder?

This was definitely new territory. She sat there for a minute, staring at her cell phone, scrolling down the list of contacts.

Then she saw Connie’s name. A no-brainer: Connie was a lawyer!

“Hi, Mom,” she said, sounding harried. That’s how she always sounded these days. They were working her like a dog at Dunne and Willoughby. “What do you want?”

“Sorry to bother you,” began Carole, “but your father’s been arrested for murder.”

As intended, that got her attention. “What?”

“You heard me. The cops think he killed Hosea Browne.”

“The venture capitalist?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“So what do I do?”

Connie sighed. “There’s not much you can do except call his lawyer, but I bet Dad’s already done that.” She paused. “When was he arrested?”

“I’m not sure. Paulie just called me.” Carole tapped her steering wheel with her nails. “You’re a lawyer. Can’t you get him out of wherever they’ve got him?”

“I can’t get him out. Nobody can.”

Carole was not used to taking no for an answer. “Why not?”

“Well, they’re probably questioning him right now. And then he has to be arraigned—you know, formally charged with the crime. After that, a judge will set bail.”

“Bail’s no problem. How much do they want? I’ll go to the bank and get it right away. Cash?”

Connie sighed again. “No, Ma. It doesn’t work like that.”

Carole was getting mad. What was with all this nonsense? “Why not?”

“Murder is a capital case. There has to be a hearing, and the judge will set bail.”

“When will that be?”

“A day or two, probably. Daddy’s lawyer will let you know.”

“A day or two! That’s crazy. Are they gonna keep him in jail?”

“Well, yeah, Ma. They think he killed somebody. They’re not going to let him go free.”

This was ridiculous, thought Carole. “Are you kidding me? The paper’s full of people getting killed every day.

The morning news is nothing but knife fights, drive-by shootings.

Like that poor pregnant lady who got shot sitting on a bus and lost her precious unborn baby.

Most of the time nobody even gets arrested.

I don’t know why they’re picking on your father. ”

“Ma, this is different. That’s street crime, mostly mentally ill people, gang fights, people on the bottom rung of the economic ladder.

Dad is accused of killing Hosea Browne. He’s a very important man.

He’s CEO of a venture capital company, a trustee at Brown University, and on the board of a couple of banks, too.

He’s got a finger in everything that happens in Providence. ”

“So you’re telling me that Hosea Browne matters more than that lady on the bus? I thought this is America and everybody’s equal.”

“Come on, Ma,” said Connie. “It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is. You know that as well as me.” She paused. “They wouldn’t make an arrest without some sort of evidence. Ma, you don’t think it’s possible Dad was involved somehow?”

Carole was outraged. “What are you saying? You think your father is a murderer!”

Connie was quick to defend herself. “I’m not saying that at all. I just want to know what you think is really going on here. The big picture.”

“Well, I know your father is innocent! And no matter what they taught you at that goofy un-American law school, everybody in America is supposed to be innocent until they’re proven guilty!”

And with that, Carole ended the call, wishing she could slam down the receiver, but you couldn’t do that with a cell phone.

Made you miss the good old days. She continued sitting in the car, staring at her phone, gradually becoming aware of a spicy, meaty scent.

The food for Frank-O! Well, Connie was pretty much useless, which was not the return you expected for paying hundreds of thousands of dollars for law-school tuition, but that’s what you got.

She might as well take the food over to Frankie Junior’s place.

He might even be home and have some ideas.

She did her best thinking when she drove; maybe something would come to her.

Frankie Junior—she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t get used to this Frank-O business—lived in a tenement on the hill behind the Esplanade.

In her opinion, it was an absolute horror, but she understood why he wanted to live independently.

Not that she liked it, not when she and Frank would be more than happy to get him one of the cute studio apartments at the Esplanade.

She was driving a bit too fast, coasting down the hill, and she had to brake hard in front of the ugly, brown-shingled building on Caverly Street that was built into the hill, with one side taller than the other.

Shaking her head over the building’s somewhat dilapidated condition, she collected the bags of groceries and the bakery box and started the climb up to the porch.

The door was unlocked, and she still had to climb another flight of stinky, rickety stairs to get to the apartment.

That door was also unlocked, and she nudged it open with the pointed toe of her Jimmy Choo, grimacing at the sour smell that filled her nose.

Frank-O definitely needed to do some laundry and change the sheets on his bed.

“Anybody home?” she called.

Nobody answered.

Sighing, she made her way through the clutter of dirty clothes, shoes, and books that littered the floor and went into the kitchen.

Dirty dishes were stacked everywhere, the garbage was overflowing, a giant bluebottle fly buzzed at the window.

She opened the refrigerator, which, thank goodness, was empty, and put the food containers inside, along with the soda and bread.

She sure wasn’t going to leave the bread out on the counter where whatever else lived in the place might get at it.

There were some takeout menus stuck on the fridge door with magnets; she took one and, digging an eyebrow pencil out of her bag, wrote a note in giant letters over the notation for Family Dinner A: “Call me! Emergency! Love, Ma.”

That ought to do it, she thought, hurrying out of there.

She had more important things to do than worry about Frank-O’s disgusting lifestyle.

Back in the car, she had a sudden inspiration, remembering that kid Tom who lived next to Mom and Big Frank.

Hadn’t she heard somewhere he was a cop in the homicide division?

It was worth a try. She had to call Mom and let her know what had happened anyway.

Mom’s reaction was predictable. “My bambino!” she wailed. “My baby Frank! This can’t be happening!”

“I know, it’s all a big mistake. But in the meantime, I need some info. Remember that kid, Tom, used to live next to you? Isn’t he a cop or something?”

“Little Tommy Paliotto. What a cutie. He’s all grown up now. I thought he and Connie might’ve got together, both being interested in the law and all …”

“Right, Ma,” said Carole, cutting her off. “Didn’t I hear he works downtown in homicide? Something like that?”

“Yeah, he went to Northeastern up in Boston, got a degree in criminal justice.”

“And he’s a Providence cop now?”

“Yeah, a detective. I talked to his mother just the other day. He’s married now and expecting a baby. Connie really missed her chance there.”

“Yeah, too bad,” agreed Carole. “Look, I gotta go. Give Big Frank my love, and don’t worry; it’s all a big mistake, and we’ll get it straightened out.”

Carole still had a couple of bars left on her cell phone, so she called 411 and got connected to the Providence Police Department’s homicide division. “Detective Paliotto, please.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

Carole hesitated, wondering if she should give her maiden name. If she said Capobianco would she be labeled some sort of criminal, too? Then she reminded herself that even if Frank was accused, he wasn’t convicted of anything. “Carole Capobianco,” she said, in a firm voice.

The response was polite. “Sorry, Mrs. Capobianco. He’s on another line. Can you hold?”

Carole checked her bars. She was down to one. “Okay,” she said.

A minute or two later, little Tommy picked up, only now he sounded all grown up.

“Hi, Mrs. Capobianco. I bet you’re calling about Frank.”

“I sure am. What’s going on?”

“Well, he’s going to be charged with murdering Hosea Browne down at the Factory construction site.”

“I know that. But why Frank?”

“Because the evidence all points to him,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“What evidence?”

“He was at the scene …”

“Well, sure. He’s got the plumbing contract. He’s got to be there some of the time, right? Making sure the guys are doing a good job.”

“Then there’s the weapon, which the coroner thinks was a standard piece of copper tubing.”

“So Frank is not the only plumber in the world, and there’s lots of copper tubing around.”

“Yeah, but Browne’s secretary says he had an appointment with Frank, yesterday, at four o’clock, and nobody saw him after that until his body was discovered by the night watchman.”

“Somebody could’ve killed him after the appointment, right?”

“Then there’s the neighbors. We interviewed them first thing this morning, and they all remembered Frank saying he’d like to kill Hosea Browne.”

“That was months ago, back in December,” said Carole. “Frank was upset because we didn’t get that apartment at Prospect Place.”

“Exactly,” said the detective. “In my business, we call that a motive.”

Carole was about to say something she would have regretted, but that’s when the phone gave a long beep and died. She sighed, tossed it in her purse, and started the car.

When she got back to the apartment, the landline was ringing, and she hurried to answer it, fending off Poopsies’s frantic efforts to greet her.

“Hello,” she said, putting the receiver to her ear and falling to her knees so Poopsie could lick her face. It was Vince Houlihan, Frank’s lawyer.