Page 9 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

Back in the apartment, Carole fed the dog and cleared up the breakfast dishes.

She started the dishwasher and went into the bedroom to dress.

She was pulling a sweater over her head when she heard Poopsie barking again.

She went back to the kitchen to investigate and found the dog staring at the dishwasher, barking.

Something was loose in there, rattling a bit.

“It’s just the dishwasher, Poopsie,” said Carole. “You hear it every day.”

Poopsie clearly didn’t like the dishwasher today.

“Quiet!” ordered Carole, in the authoritative voice the dog trainer had instructed her to use.

Poopsie ignored her and kept on barking.

“Please, Poopsie,” pleaded Carole, “the neighbors are going to complain.”

“ Woof , woof ,” replied Poopsie.

“I give up,” said Carole, scooping up the dog and grabbing her purse and jacket.

Ten minutes later, Carole found a parking spot right in front of her favorite manicure salon, Happy Nails.

Poopsie, apparently soothed by the brief ride in the car, gave in to exhaustion and curled up in a ball on the back seat for a nap.

“Good dog,” said Carole, leaving the windows open a notch for air and locking the car.

The temperature was only in the forties; the car wasn’t going to heat up.

She was pulling the salon door open when she bumped into Susan Weaver, the real estate agent, who was just leaving. “Hi, Susan,” she said. “I didn’t know you got your nails done here.”

“Always,” said Susan, displaying her fresh French manicure for Carole to see. “I can’t go with colors; doesn’t look professional.”

“So how’s business?” asked Carole. “Did you sell that condo?”

“Not yet,” said Susan. “And now that Hosea’s gone, maybe I owe your husband a big thank you…

” She stopped in mid-sentence, and her face went scarlet.

“I didn’t mean, I mean, well, it’s crazy to think Frank would have killed Hosea to get an apartment, even if he did say what he said.

I don’t know what I was thinking. I didn’t mean to imply that even for a minute I thought …

absolutely not! Of course I’m absolutely positive that Frank is innocent. ”

“It’s good to know people believe in him,” said Carole, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Of course I do,” said Susan, making eye contact and assuming a sincere tone. “Everyone knows the cops have got the wrong guy.”

“Thanks,” said Carole, “that means a lot to me.” She smiled and released Susan’s hand. “What were you going to say, about Hosea being gone?”

“Just that he was the main impediment to the sale. Nobody was good enough. He turned down so many offers I wondered why he agreed with his brother to put the place on the market in the first place.”

“Interesting,” said Carole.

Susan pushed the door open and paused on the stoop to give her an encouraging smile. “Hang in there,” she said, with a little wave.

Carole continued on into the salon, where she was greeted by Sonia, her favorite manicurist. “I thought you might be in today,” said Sonia, taking her coat. “By the way, that was a nice photo in the paper.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Carole, slipping into a chair. “I thought I looked old.”

“Not a bit,” said Sonia. “You looked happy.”

“I was happy—well, relieved—but now I think we were celebrating a bit too early,” said Carole, as Sonia got to work with the polish remover. “Frank’s still got to go to trial.”

“He’ll get off,” said Sonia.

“I don’t know,” admitted Carole, dipping her fingers into the soaking bowl. “I’m beginning to worry.”

“You’re not the only one with worries,” said Sonia, assembling her tools. “You know that lady who just left …”

“Susan Weaver?”

“Yeah. She sells real estate, but she says things are not good. She’s behind in her car payments, and this month, she says, if something doesn’t happen soon, she won’t be able to make her mortgage payment.”

“Really?” said Carole, as Sonia began to work on her cuticles. “I never would have guessed.”

“I know; she looks real rich, doesn’t she?”

“She has to keep up appearances; it’s part of the job,” said Carole, reminding herself that even though she had her troubles, she didn’t have to worry about having enough money, and she ought to be grateful.

“Well, it’s all appearances, believe me. She could barely scrape up the money for the manicure, and she didn’t even tip me; she said she’d get me next time.”

“She’s an excellent realtor,” said Carole. “Things will turn up for her. I’m sure of it.”

Sonia shook her head. “She seemed real depressed. Said she came so close …” Sonia held up her own perfectly manicured hand with her thumb and forefinger almost touch ing.

“This close to selling a coupla-million-dollar condo, but some old man nixed the deal.” Sonia raised her eyes and met Carole’s.

“Not just once, but every time she had a buyer, she said. He wants to get the right person.”

This was interesting, thought Carole. Poor Susan; it would be awfully frustrating to come so close, to find buyer after buyer, and always be turned down.

“So what color are you thinking about?” asked Sonia. “Red? Pink? I have this new frost, Sunset Over Cairo …”

Carole didn’t answer. She was thinking, wondering if Susan might have taken her frustration out on Hosea with a piece of pipe.

She certainly had motive enough. If Hosea had accepted their offer of four million dollars, Susan would have netted around two or three percent, which would be eighty thousand.

Even with taxes and expenses and whatever, it would have been a tidy haul.

And even if the other offers had been less, say the asking price of two million, she would have cleared around forty thousand.

Enough to make a lot of mortgage payments.

“You want to go with the frost?” asked Sonia.

“No,” said Carole. “I’m thinking of something brighter. Something cheerful.”

“How about Chapel of Love?” suggested Sonia, looking up as a woman in a fuzzy wool cape and clunky clogs opened the door. “Can I help you?” she asked. “I’ll be free in a few minutes.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want a manicure,” said the woman, who obviously went in for the natural look. “I just happened to notice a very unhappy dog outside, left in a parked car, and I wondered …”

Carole was quick to deny responsibility. “Sorry, I don’t have a dog.”

“It’s barking its head off,” said the woman. “People are so irresponsible. Imagine leaving a dog in a car like that.”

“What can you do?” asked Carole, with a shrug. “At least it’s not hot; the dog won’t get heatstroke.”

“Even so, it’s very inconsiderate,” said the woman. “Maybe I should call the animal control officer.”

“Why don’t you try the florist next door,” suggested Carole, smiling and nodding until the woman left.

“Chapel of Love?” asked Sonia, holding up a bottle of pink polish.

“No,” said Carole, scowling. “Something stronger. Like Vampire.”