Wow! There were absolutely thousands of references to Stuart Poole, the guy was a road hog on the information highway. She opened up the first listing, and the computer detoured into Adobe, taking its time to load, and when the little hourglass disappeared all of a sudden, the screen was filled with dense text. She began reading; it was all about trade in colonial times and was putting her to sleep, so she hit the little red X with the cursor and got out of there.

  She obviously had to be choosier about what files she opened; she’d wasted a good ten minutes on that sucker, so she scrolled down the list of references. As it turned out, most of them were on the same subject, something called the Triangular Trade, which took place hundreds of years ago. The professor was apparently an expert on this subject, which she’d learned in high school involved sailing ships that carried goods like cotton or timber from the American colonies to Europe, where it was traded for guns and liquor. The ships then sailed to Africa, where they traded these goods for captive natives. This human cargo was then brought back to either the American colonies or Caribbean islands, where they were sold as slaves to work on plantations in exchange for sugar and rum. It was awful and disgusting, and she wondered why it held such fascination for Professor Poole. But, she reminded herself, having an interest in bad behavior didn’t mean a person would actually do anything bad. She herself enjoyed an occasional romantic novel, for instance, but it didn’t mean she’d ever consider being unfaithful to Frank. Not even with that gorgeous and very hot Bridgerton duke. No way.

  She went back to Google and typed in Angelique’s name, but nothing came up. Weird, she thought, unless it was because she’d only recently married Professor Poole. Or maybe she’d kept her family name; a lot of professional women did that these days. Maybe she could find out more if she had that name.

  She entered the names of the other Prospect Place residents, and amazingly enough, there was plenty on them all. Facebook and Instagram, X and LinkedIn, tons of citations. Celerie Lonsdale had a website for her interior design business, but although there were plenty of pretty pictures, Carole couldn’t find any mention of passementerie. Mark Lonsdale was included in a website for American Dream Mortgage Company as one of the members of Dream Team Providence, “The team to make your dream of home ownership come true.” Maybe a bit of hype, thought Carole, thinking of current interest rates. And the site actually offered little information beyond a photo of Mark’s smiling face. She stared at the picture a moment or two, wondering if he whitened his teeth, and decided he must before hitting the red X.

  Millicent Shaw was mentioned in a report of a fact-finding visit to Guatemala made by the Social Concerns Committee of the First Parish Unitarian Church on Benefit Street, but she was only noted as a member of the group.

  She figured that she knew more than she wanted to about Hosea, but she was curious about Jonathan Browne. She discovered that he, like Professor Poole, had thousands of listings. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make head nor tail of any of them. They were all obscure references in scientific journals to Section VIII or Substratum XYZ; it was enough to give a girl a migraine. She was clearly in way over her head; she needed help.

  She sat for a moment, fingering her phone, when she suddenly remembered hearing somewhere that Betty Strazullo’s kid Gary was a private eye. She googled Gary and discovered it was true. Strazullo Investigations had a nice website; they promised confidentiality in all investigations, which included divorce and custody, missing persons, background checks, and surveillance.

  Gary himself took the call and declared himself eager to help. “Frank’s getting a bum deal,” he told her, “I’ll do whatever I can to help him.” He even said he’d only charge one fifty an hour, instead of his usual two hundred.

  Carole found herself thanking him for the privilege of paying him, which she thought was screwy, but you didn’t get something for nothing, and she knew she needed help. She decided to surprise Frank and throw something together for dinner, maybe a chicken cacciatore, since they always had chicken breasts in the freezer, and it was nice and easy.

  When Polly came home, she took over, pulling an apron out of the drawer and taking the spoon out of Carole’s hand. Carole popped the top on a diet soda and sat on one of the stools at the island, and asked how lunch went with Connie.

  Polly took a wineglass out of the cabinet, got the chardonnay out of the fridge, emptied the bottle into the glass, and then tossed the empty bottle into the recycling. “She looked very tired,” said Polly. “And she was dressed like an old lady in an ugly, navy blue suit.”

  Carole sipped her soda. “She works sixty-hour weeks, and the law firm has a dress code. I got her some pretty underwear for her birthday.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Saint Joseph’s Day, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I’m planning a little do,” said Carole.

  “And when were you going to tell me?” asked Polly. “I’ll need to get something to wear.”

  “Honestly, it slipped my mind, what with everything that’s going on.”

  “I understand,” said Polly, opening a can of San Marzanos and adding them to the cacciatore. “There’s the phone.”

  Carole answered, surprised to hear Gary’s voice so soon. “It’s just a preliminary report. I haven’t gotten to everybody, but I thought you’d like to know. I was doing a routine check of birth certificates, and guess what I found out?”

  “I don’t know, Gary,” said Carole. “Suppose you tell me.”

  “Well, in 1981, Millicent Shaw gave birth to a male child, seven pounds nine ounces, name of Nelson Mandela Shaw. No father’s name is given.”

  Carole couldn’t believe it. “Millicent had an illegitimate child?”

  “Sure looks that way, and there’s more.”

  “More?”

  “Yeah, the kid was, um, African American.”

  “How could he be, if she was his mother?”

  “Well, you know, obviously the father must be Black.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Carole thinking of what Mom had told her about Millicent’s African American visitor. “So that means he’d be forty-something now, right?”

  “That sounds about right,” said Gary. “Well, I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Sure thing, thanks,” said Carole. “Keep up the good work.”

  “I will,” promised Gary. “Like I told you, I just got started. I bet there’s plenty more. There always is.”

  Carole’s mind was racing as she set the table, putting out the handwoven napkins and place mats she’d bought on Nantucket last summer and the French faience plates with roosters, in honor of the chicken cacciatore.

  “Very nice,” said Polly, as Carole lit the candles. “A table setting should always have a touch of whimsy.”

  “I’ve got more than a touch,” said Carole. “I’ve got a whammo for Frank when he gets home.”

  When Frank walked in, Carole popped the cork on a bottle of Asti and gave him a big smile.

  “So what’s the celebration for?” asked Frank, as Carole filled the flutes.

  “Well, Frank-O’s out of the hospital and on the mend at your folks’ house,” said Carole, raising her glass. “And we’re having a home-cooked dinner …”

  “That is cause for celebration,” agreed Frank, taking a healthy swallow.

  “There’s more,” said Carole. “I got a big break in the investigation today.”

  “Yeah?” Frank was all ears.

  “You remember the little old lady in the basement apartment …”

  “Mildred Something?”

  “Millicent, Millicent Shaw. Well, it turns out that she had an illegitimate child back in 1981. A little Black boy.”

  Frank’s eyebrows popped up. “You kiddin’ me?”

  “No. I got it on good authority from Gary Strazullo, who found the birth certificate.”

  “And if Gary Strazullo could find it, so could Hosea Browne, is that what you’re saying?” asked Frank.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, because if Hosea Browne found out …”

  “What is the problem?” asked Polly, refilling her flute from the bottle. “A single woman had a child forty-odd years ago, so what?”

  “You didn’t know Hosea Browne,” said Carole. “He told us he wouldn’t tolerate any impropriety in his family home, and I think that to somebody like Hosea, an illegitimate child would definitely qualify as improper.”

  “Millicent would be out on her ear,” said Frank.

  “And I think Millicent definitely wants to stay in her apartment,” said Carole.

  “Which gives her a big motive for killing Hosea.”

  “Seven pounds nine ounces of motive,” said Carole, raising her glass. “Here’s to Millicent!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  By the time they finished dinner, the Asti had gone flat, and so had Frank’s spirits. “You know, I’m not so sure that you’re right about Millicent,” he grumbled, pushing his plate away.

  “How come?”

  “Well, it’s a condo, right? Everybody owns their apartment. Hosea couldn’t make her leave.”

  Carole bit her lip and considered. “Maybe there’s a special clause in the deed, like in the hoitsy-toitsy gated community we looked at. You know, no RV parked in the yard, no motorcycles, campers, or clotheslines.”

  “No bastard babies? I never heard of a clause like that,” said Frank.

  “There might be something about upholding the moral tone of the place,” said Polly. “They wouldn’t want some madam setting up shop in the family manse; they’ve probably got a way to deal with a situation like that.”

  “Maybe Connie could find out,” suggested Carole.

  “She hasn’t been much help so far,” grumbled Frank.

  “They work her like a slave at that place,” replied Carole, eager to defend her cub.

  “So we won’t give her more to do,” said Frank. “You and Mom can go back there, do your cleaning lady routine again, and see what you can find out.”

  Carole didn’t like the sound of this at all. “Oh, Frank, it’s a waste of time …”

  “No way. They saw you there before; they’re getting to know you, so you’ll be able to chat up the residents.”

  “Celerie did say that Jon Browne is out of the hospital and has taken up residence in his apartment,” said Polly, earning an evil look from Carole.

  “That settles it then,” said Frank. “You and Mom go over there, and you find out about the Black kid, and maybe see if you can do anything for Jon Browne, and while you’re at it, just casually ask about deed restrictions.”

  “Okay,” said Carole, in a sarcastic tone, “how exactly do you suggest two down-at-heel cleaning ladies turn the conversation to deed restrictions? Hunh? And don’t forget, he might remember me from the accident.”

  “I hardly recognized you, and I’m your mother,” observed Polly.

  “See? You’ll think of something,” said Frank. “So how about some coffee and maybe a biscotti or two?”

  Angelique was surprised when she opened the door on Thursday morning and found Mom and Carole standing on the stoop with their cleaning gear for the second time in one week. She didn’t hesitate to express her displeasure.

  “I thought I made it clear that you would come on Mondays,” she said. “And frankly, I have to say that I was not happy with your work. I don’t think you even got past the hall.”

  “Emergenshy,” said Mom, nodding furiously. “Het to leeeeve and no finish.”

  Beside her, Carole joined in the nodding. She overdid it, and her wig slipped a bit, but Angelique didn’t seem to notice.

  “All right,” said Angelique, with a big sigh. “But I hope you understand that there will be no additional payment for today’s work, and in the future, I expect you to keep to the schedule we agreed upon.”

  “Yesss,” hissed Mom. “Unnerstan’ goot. Nott pwoblem.”

  “I think you should consider yourselves on probation,” continued Angelique. “If I’m not satisfied with your work today, we will not continue this relationship.”

  “Ookey-dookey,” said Mom.

  “I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

  “Ver’ kleeeer,” said Mom.

  “All right, then,” said Angelique, stepping aside and admitting them to the building. “I think you better start downstairs. Millicent complained that the hallway and stairs down there weren’t even touched.” She opened the door to the basement stairs and watched as they went down, toting the vacuum cleaner and their buckets of cleaning gear.

  When the door closed behind them, Mom whispered to Carole, “Do you think she suspects something?”

  “No,” said Carole, sticking a finger under the wig and scratching. “Help is hard to find, and she wants to keep us, believe me.”

  Carole was looking around the hall, a narrow, dark space with one door leading to the outside, another to Millicent’s apartment, and a third to what she discovered was a communal storage area used by all the tenants. She made a mental note to give that area a thorough search, but first they needed to get started on the cleaning. She could see why Millicent had complained; the carpet was soiled with leaves and dirt tracked in from outside. She got busy with the vacuum, and Mom manned the duster, whisking cobwebs out of the corners and running it along the moldings and baseboards. They were so absorbed in their work that they didn’t notice Millicent until she tapped Carole on her shoulder, making her jump.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, apologizing.

  Carole just smiled and nodded, continuing her mute act. “Isss gooot,” said Mom, waving the duster around. “Ookey-dookey, no?”

  “Oh, yes. Absolutely. I didn’t mean to complain, but the hall was … well, now it’s just lovely, and I certainly do appreciate your hard work.”

  “Nein pwobwem,” said Mom, smiling and shrugging.

  “It’s wonderful to have you ladies,” said Millicent. “I know Angelique can be a bit exacting. I think it’s because she’s French.”

  Mom smiled and nodded.

  “Well,” continued Millicent, twisting her fingers awkwardly, “I do wonder if you might have some extra time today to give my place a quick once-over. I’m expecting some company, a rather special guest for dinner tonight, and it would mean so much to me …”

  Mom was on it in a flash. “How mooccch?”

  “It’s a small apartment, really just a studio,” said Millicent. “Fifty dollars?”

  “Ookey-dookey,” said Mom, holding out her hand.

  Millicent scurried back into her apartment and returned a moment later in her coat and hat and carrying her reusable Whole Foods grocery bags on her arm as well as five crisp ten dollar bills in her gloved hand. “Just one thing. Please don’t let Tiggles, that’s my cat, out. He’s a bit of an escape artist.”

  “No pwobwem,” said Mom, snatching the cash and pocketing it. As soon as Millicent was out the door, they were stepping into her apartment, entering carefully lest Tiggles make a break for freedom. The cat, however, took one look at them and scooted under the bed.

  As Millicent had said, it was little more than a studio. A large front room served as living, dining, and kitchen, all in one. A curtained alcove contained a twin-size bed, and a tiny bathroom was tucked behind the kitchen area.

  “Not what I expected,” said Mom, taking in the colorful African dashiki-cloth curtains and vibrant sofa cushions.

  Carole was looking at the collection of framed photos that hung on one wall. She recognized many of the faces: Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, a young Jesse Jackson, Rev. Al Sharpton. A beautiful young woman with long, flowing hair appeared in some of the photos, too, and Carole realized she must be the young Millicent. “Wow,” she said, “it’s no wonder she got knocked up.”

  “Yeah,” said Carole. “I wonder why she never married?”

  “Maybe it was like Obama’s mom, you know, a grad school romance that ended when her boyfriend went back to Africa.”

  “Or maybe he got killed,” said Mom. “Like those cop killings you hear about.”

  “Like poor George Floyd,” said Carole, as grim images from the TV newscasts replayed in her head. She turned to Millicent’s desk and flipped through a little stack of bills and letters that were piled under a small wooden sculpture of a very pregnant woman used as a paperweight. “I guess she’s got a sense of humor,” she observed, holding it up for Mom to see.

  “A fertility figure,” said Mom, surprising Carole. “I saw an exhibit over at Providence College when I was taking a class in stagecraft.”

  Carole put it right down, as if it were a hot potato, and went back to the mail. A photo of a fortyish Black man fell out of one letter, and she showed it to Mom. “Is this the guy you saw?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Carole unfolded the letter and read the neat, squarish handwriting. “He is her son, and get this, he says he hopes to meet her; he’s been searching for her for years.”

  “Like one of them stories you see on TV.”

  “Even better,” said Carole, chuckling. “You’ll never guess who he is.”

  “Who?”

  “Nellie Shaw!”

  “The football player?” Even Mom recognized that name. Nellie Shaw’s career started at Brown University, but he was picked up by the Buffalo Bills before graduating. He went on to break records and collect Superbowl rings, ending up with the New England Patriots before retiring. The Providence Journal had followed his career closely, considering him a favorite son of the city, and had recently trumpeted his admission to the Football Hall of Fame.

  “Yeah, and I bet he’s coming to dinner tonight,” said Carole. “I wonder what Hosea would think of that?”

  “He’d probably be waiting by the door, hoping for an autograph,” said Mom.

 

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