Page 8 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

A t breakfast the next morning, Frank got right down to business.

“The way I see it,” he said, stabbing a bright yellow egg yolk with his fork and smearing it over the white, “is that the only way I’m going to get out of this mess is if we figure out who killed that old bastard.”

Carole stared at him. “Isn’t that what the cops are supposed to do?”

“You said it, kiddo,” replied Frank, waving his fork at her, “but they think they got their man, who just happens to be me. They’re not gonna keep looking, are they? But we’ve got an advantage because we know they got the wrong guy. We know I didn’t do it, right?”

“Right,” agreed Carole, stirring her yogurt. “But how are we going to find the real killer? Maybe we should hire a detective? Somebody who knows what they’re doing?”

“Nah,” said Frank, shoving a toast triangle into his mouth, “nobody’s gonna care like we care, right? And,” he continued, taking a big slurp of coffee, “we can hit the ground running. We know the background.”

Carole raised her expensively waxed and shaped eyebrows. “We do?”

“Sure.” Frank was busy mopping up the last bit of egg with a piece of toast. “Don’t you remember what he said at that meeting? About how he would tolerate no hanky-panky at the old manse there?”

“Yeah,” she said slowly, “he did mention something along those lines.”

“I been thinking about this. He did, and he’s not, I mean he wasn’t, the kind of guy who just throws words around. So that there is the motive. Somebody there at the condo has something they want to keep hidden, and the old bastard must’ve figured it out.”

“Do you mean to say you think one of the other residents at Prospect Place killed Hosea Browne?” she asked, incredulously.

“Yeah.”

Carole’s eyebrows rose again. “And you think we can figure out this secret, a secret that this person is so desperate to hide that they killed Hosea? How exactly are we going to do that?”

“We’re gonna investigate,” he said, reaching for his phone. “We’re gonna start with Connie over there at that fancy law firm. I’ll do the questioning, you can take notes.” He began dialing. “Go on, get something to write with.”

Carole hopped up and grabbed the pad and pencil she kept handy for grocery lists.

When she was back at the table, Frank switched to speaker phone, and Connie’s voice suddenly reverberated through the apartment.

Frank, being Frank, had the volume up to max.

Poopsie, who had been snoozing on the couch, sat up and pricked up her ears.

“So, honey, I bet Hosea Browne had Dunne and Willoughby on retainer, right? I need some info about him and the rest of that bunch at Prospect Place …”

“Sorry, Dad, but there’s this thing called client confidentiality. I’ll get in big trouble …”

“This is your father making a simple request,” said Frank, laying down the law. “Do you want to get in trouble with me?”

“Uh, no, Dad …”

“Now that’s settled. What’s the poop on this Hosea character?”

Hearing something like her name, Poopsie jumped down off the couch and crossed the living area, joining them at the dining table. She sat on the floor next to Frank, ears lifted and listening to every word.

“Well, he’s a big shot. Comes from an old Yankee family; Brown University is named after one of them, but without the e. He’s got, I mean he had, a finger in just about everything in Rhode Island: banking, real estate, politics, you name it.”

Poopsie was hanging on every word. She adored Connie.

“What about his brother?” asked Frank. “I got the feeling old Hosea didn’t think much of him, seemed to think he’s irresponsible or something when it comes to money.”

“Jonathan? I don’t know about that. He’s quite a bit younger than Hosea, maybe in his late fifties. He’s an archaeologist, he was working at a dig in Peru, but he’s coming home for the funeral and to take care of Hosea’s affairs.”

“Is he the heir?” asked Frank, as Poopsie began to scoot around the apartment, tracking Carole, who’d disappeared into the bedroom.

“I can’t say,” said Connie, putting up a weak resistance.

“You know how I feel about that word,” growled Frank. “There’s no such word as can’t.”

“Yeah, he’s the heir.”

“And what about the others? That old bat, Millie something?”

“I don’t know, Dad. Look, I gotta go. Somebody’s coming.”

“Okay. But do me a big favor. Keep your eyes and ears open. You hear anything interesting, let me know.”

“Sure, Dad,” said Connie, as Poopsie circled the table and lifted one forepaw, making a perfect point right at the phone.

“Look at that,” said Carole, proudly. “She figured out that Connie’s voice came from the phone.”

“The dog’s a genius,” said Frank, sarcastically. “Maybe she can solve the murder.”

Still pointing, Poopsie barked at the phone.

“I think she wants to hear Connie’s voice again.”

The phone rang, and Frank snatched it up. “Maybe she’ll get her chance,” he said, but it wasn’t Connie. It was Paulie, and he sounded upset.

“Frank, I just want to let you know the cops are here, so mebbe you don’t want to rush into the office this morning.”

Poopsie was growling. She didn’t think much of Paulie.

“Screw ’em. They can’t touch me. I’m out on bail,” said Frank.

“Just thought I’d let you know. They’ve got warrants. They want the contracts for the Factory job.”

Poopsie was barking now. “So give ’em to ’em,” said Frank, turning to Carole. “Can’t you shut her up?”

Carole shrugged. “Ask him why they want the contracts.”

“I guess they think there’s something funny, I don’t know. I think Chase and Mooney put ’em on to us, complaining we squeezed ’em out.”

“Be quiet,” Carole told the dog.

“That’s crazy. We did Mitch Chase a favor, got ’em the HVAC.”

“Yeah, well, I guess they don’t see it that way,” said Paulie.

“Shut the dog up,” said Frank. “I’m getting a headache.” Poopsie was running around in circles, barking her head off.

“Turn off the speaker,” suggested Carole. “I bet that’s what’s bothering her.”

“Gotta go,” said Frank, slamming the phone down and making a grab for the dog.

She eluded him and ran down the hall to the bedroom, where she scooted under the bed.

Frank fell to his knees and tried to grab her, but she growled and snapped at his hand.

“I’m gonna kill that dog,” he threatened, as the phone rang again.

This time Carole got it. Good thing, she thought, because it was Frank-O, and Frank was in no mood to deal with his son.

“Hi, sweetie,” she cooed, and Frank gave her a look.

“What do you mean?” Carole was asking. “Didn’t we give you five thousand at the beginning of the term?”

Frank was listening, and he didn’t like the sound of what he was hearing.

“That’s all gone? And you haven’t finished your project?”

“What’s he making? The Leaning Tower of Pisa or something?” demanded Frank, angrily. Still beneath the bed, Poopsie was keeping up a low growl.

“He won’t get any credit,” Carole told him, “if he doesn’t finish the project.”

Frank was pissed. “What does he think I am, made of money?” he shouted.

Poopsie began barking.

“Enough, enough,” said Carole. “I’ll call you back,” she told Frank-O, ending the call. “You,” she said, pointing a finger tipped in Melon of Troy, “work off some steam at the gym. I’ll take the dog out for a walk.”

Frank took the elevator down to the gym, but Carole and Poopsie took the stairs.

Carole was a bit nervous that Poopsie might not make it down four flights without an accident, but the frisky dog bounded down the steps, straining at the leash.

Carole peeked cautiously through the glass window of the stairwell door into the lobby and, seeing the way was clear, made a dash for the door.

Once outside, Poopsie seemed to focus on the task at hand and began sniffing around the trees planted along Edith Street.

Carole avoided the Esplanade’s dog-walking area, where they might encounter another dog, and headed for her usual walk up Holden Street to Smith and around the statehouse.

She charged up the steep incline, until she suddenly found herself short of breath and stopped.

She inhaled a few times, leaning on a chain-link fence and taking deep yoga breaths, trying to relax.

Honestly, she didn’t know if she could take another morning as stressful as this one.

Poopsie, however, obligingly squatted and produced a big poop, which Carole bagged.

Proceeding more slowly, they headed for a trash can on Smith Street, crossing to the other side of the street when a black-and-white dog appeared.

Poopsie, who was half his size, growled and barked and pulled at the leash, letting the black-and-white dog know she’d like to rip him to pieces.

“Sometimes,” Carole found herself talking to the dog, “I’d like to let you go and see what happens.”

The owner of the black-and-white dog gave Carole a wave and continued on his way; his dog did not seem impressed by Poopsie’s theatrics and paused to raise his leg to mark a tree.

Lost in thought, worrying about Frank and Frank-O, Carole returned from the walk later than usual.

It was almost ten when she got back to the Esplanade, and the concierge had left the Journal outside her door.

She stooped and picked it up, removing the rubber band.

When she unfolded it, she saw her own face staring back at her.

The photographer had snapped the photo when they were leaving the courthouse, just as Frank whispered in her ear.

They looked happy, as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

But that wasn’t true, of course. Frank got bail, but he was still under indictment and was facing life in prison.

Maybe he was right, she thought; maybe they did have to find the real killer.