A matter of pedigree, p.19
A Matter of Pedigree, page 19
“But everybody thinks Frank killed Hosea Browne,” declared Polly.
“Oh, no,” protested Angelique, “I don’t think that. Not at all.”
Carole was on her quicker than a hungry flea on a sleeping dog. “Who do you think killed him?”
“I don’t know,” said Angelique, going all wide-eyed innocent over her martini glass.
“When we were interviewed about buying into Prospect Place, I got the feeling that Hosea wasn’t too popular with the other owners,” said Carole. “Is that true?”
“I can only speak for myself,” said Angelique. “I found him old-fashioned and reserved. My husband explained that Hosea is, I mean was, a particular sort of New Englander, a traditional Yankee, that’s all.” She giggled. “He said people like Hosea are an endangered species, so no, I didn’t dislike him.” Angelique gave her a cool smile and put down her glass. “I see what you’re doing. You’re looking for the murderer, no? And you think it might have been my husband. Why do you think that?”
“I don’t, not at all,” protested Carole. “But he did write a book about the slave trade that I don’t think Hosea would have liked very much. And Hosea was in a position to scuttle your husband’s work.”
“That’s true, but we are civilized people …” Angelique was on her feet, reaching for her coat.
“Did Hosea try to block publication of the book?”
Angelique finished buttoning her coat and was slipping on her gloves. “I don’t know. You would have to ask my husband,” she said, picking up her purse and sliding it over her arm. She gave Polly a little smile and a nod. “A bientot, and thanks for the drinks.” Then she turned and trotted across the bar and out the door.
“You were so rude,” chided Polly.
“Me? She’s the one who stuck us with the tab,” said Carole.
“Stuck you,” said Polly. “I haven’t had a chance to change my money. All I have is euros.”
By the time they got the car out of the garage and were headed over to Mom and Big Frank’s to check on Frank-O, Carole had regained her good humor. “I’m going on a green tea detox,” she declared. “Nothing but green tea for three days.”
“Bonne chance with that,” said Polly, when they opened the kitchen door and were met by the familiar scent of herbs and tomatoes. “What is that delicious aroma?”
“Just gravy,” said Mom, dropping her spoon and hugging them in turn. “Big Frank hasn’t been cooking much lately; he’s been down in the cellar helping Frank-O with his project.”
Carole was worried, listening to the clangs and bangs issuing up through the heating vent. “Isn’t Frank-O supposed to do it on his own?”
“It’s all Frank-O’s ideas,” said Mom. “Big Frank just helps with the heavy lifting.”
“You think he’ll mind if I take a look?” asked Carole.
“Why should he mind? Go on! Your mama and I will have a cup of coffee.”
“I could use some coffee,” admitted Polly, apparently feeling the effects of three blue martinis. She collapsed onto a chair at the kitchen table, which was covered with a plastic cloth and littered with newspapers and sudoku books.
In the cellar, Carole was relieved to see that Frank-O looked much better. His cheeks were rosy from the exertion of working on the sculpture, and his voice and breathing were almost normal. His hair was still bright blue.
“So what exactly is this?” asked Carole, once the hugs and greeting were over. She gestured to the assemblage of copper pipe that was taking up most of the free space in the cellar workshop. “What’s with all the copper pipe?”
“Offcuts,” said Big Frank. “From the Factory job.”
“Yeah, Mom. This whole sculpture is made from recycled pipe that Big Frank salvaged from the trash pile. It all would’ve been thrown away.”
“Really?” asked Carole. “Isn’t copper pipe expensive?”
“Yeah,” replied Big Frank. “For sure. But this is all little bits, too small to use.”
Carole studied the sculpture, which was indeed pieced together from many small lengths of pipe, some measuring only a couple of inches. “I can see that you were able to make a very intricate design,” she said. “It’s really complicated, like a puzzle.”
“Yeah, Mom!” agreed Frank-O, enthusiastically. “It’s called que, spelled with a q.”
“Oh,” said Carole, not much the wiser.
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“Well, cu is the scientific notation for the element copper, and que is pronounced the same way and is a common word in several languages, including French where que is a question. It means what.”
Carole thought about this. “Q-u-e is the beginning of the word question.”
“Right, Ma! I didn’t think of that.”
Carole was beginning to doubt that her son was as smart as she liked to think he was. “So this whole piece is a kind of copper question mark?”
“Wow, Ma. You’ve got it!” Frank-O was beaming at her. “You’re really cool.”
“Thanks,” she said, heading back upstairs. “I’m starting detox tomorrow,” she explained to Mom. “In the meantime, I’d love a glass of chianti.”
At the table, Polly pursed her lips and gave her a disapproving glance. “You’re driving,” she said, “and I’d like to get home alive.”
“I guess I better have some Pellegrino,” said Carole.
After leaving Mom and Big Frank’s, they stopped on Atwells Avenue and picked up some groceries, some nice lemon chicken and pasta salad from Venda Ravioli for supper, and some cannoli for Frank from Scialo’s.
Polly wasn’t happy about the cannoli. “Why don’t you make some profiteroles, like you learned in class?” she asked. “French pastry is so much better than Italian.”
“Try telling that to Frank,” said Carole, ordering a dozen, assorted.
Then they were back in the car, passing the Factory, on their way home. A big sign had gone up announcing that apartments would soon be available and the rental office was now open.
“Let’s stop,” said Polly, impulsively. “I’d like to see what it’s all about.”
“You want to look at apartments?”
“Sure,” said Polly.
“How come?”
“Just curious.”
“I thought you loved living in Paris.” Carole wasn’t sure how she felt about her mother moving back to Providence.
“I do love living in Paris, but the dollar doesn’t go very far there these days,” said Polly.
Carole wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this. “So you’re really thinking of moving back here?”
“Don’t panic,” said Polly, chuckling. “I’m just thinking about it. Exploring my options.”
“I’m not panicked,” Carole was quick to say as she pulled into a parking slot. “I’m just surprised.”
Getting out of the car, she noticed that, except for a few pickup trucks belonging to contractors, the partly finished parking lot was empty. People weren’t exactly flocking to the rental office. And when they followed the signs that pointed the way to the office, which was located in the lobby, they found the door was locked tight. They cupped their hands around their eyes and peered in, observing a tastefully designed waiting area, but couldn’t get inside.
“It looks nice,” said Polly. “What’s the deal here? Mixed use?”
“Yeah,” said Carole, waving her hand. “As you can see, there’s a number of buildings. They’re rehabbing them for various uses: offices, residences, retail. They’re also opening up access to the river and landscaping the grounds. It’s going to be real nice.”
Polly looked around, as if she was imagining how it would all look when the project was completed. “Where was the fire?” she asked, suddenly, surprising Carole.
“Over there,” said Carole, pointing across the parking lot to the blackened brick building.
“I want to see,” said Polly, marching across the fresh asphalt. It soon ended, and they had to make their way across raw, rubble-strewn earth to the shell of a building. As they got closer, they could smell the lingering scent of the fire and could see the yellow tape that had been strung across the door. Polly ignored it and ducked under, stepping inside, where she paused. “Poor Frank-O must have been terrified.”
“I imagine so,” said Carole, whose heart was beating faster as she looked around and imagined the black smoke he had said filled the building. “He was in a hallway; he said he was confused and disoriented. It was a miracle the firemen found him in time. He could’ve died from smoke inhalation.”
“How did the fire start?” asked Polly, stepping farther into the building.
Carole grabbed her by the elbow. “I don’t think we should go any farther; the building might be unstable.” In the distance, she could hear voices, probably workmen involved in demolishing the damaged sections. “Besides,” she added, pointing to a smoke-blackened sign, “this is a hard-hat area.”
“Oh,” said Polly, looking down at the wooden floor planks, black with soot. “Do they think somebody set the fire?”
“I don’t know.” What Carole did know was that she didn’t understand her mother’s sudden interest in the site of the fire, and she didn’t much like poking around in a dangerous, burned-out wreck of a building. Just being there was giving her PTSD. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Do you feel it, too?” asked Polly. “There’s something evil here.”
Carole stood still, noticing that the sun had disappeared; the afternoon had turned dark and cloudy, but that’s what happened in New England. The weather changed all the time. And there were occasional voices and noises; some workers were obviously on site, and that was to be expected. But evil? She didn’t think so. She preferred to think that a guardian angel had been looking out for Frank-O and saved him from a bad situation. “Nobody was killed, you know. Frank-O was the only one who was injured, and he’s going to be fine.”
Polly wasn’t convinced. “Okay, I know you think I’m crazy, but there is definitely a bad vibe here.”
Carole took her arm and led her back to the car. “So I guess you won’t be getting an apartment here?”
She gave her head a firm little shake. “No way.”
They were approaching the Esplanade when Polly admitted her psychic episode might have been the result of all the rich pastry plus the martinis. “Maybe it’s like Scrooge in that story when he thinks Marley’s ghost is a fragment of undigested beef. I know one thing for sure. I have really got to pee.”
“That’s a relief. You really had me freaked out there,” said Carole, laughing as she turned onto Edith Street. “I can let you out at the door if you want. There’s restrooms right off the lobby.”
“I want,” said Polly.
Carole pulled to a stop, and Polly ran for the door, waving the fob that unlocked it, and dashed inside. Carole continued on down the street and turned into the garage, winding her way up through the levels. Somebody must be holding an event, she thought, observing that the garage was a lot fuller than usual. Her favorite spot was filled, of course, and she was kind of picky about parking the Cayenne. It was big, and she didn’t like to squeeze into a tight space where it could get dinged. On the other hand, she didn’t want to go up to the very top level because that was uncovered. She finally found a suitable spot on the last covered level and hurried over to the elevator, toting her groceries and discovering she could use a pee, too.
She was tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for the elevator, but it wasn’t coming. There was no familiar groan as the mechanism answered the call and began moving, and the little lights above the door were dark. She pushed the button harder, but it didn’t light up.
It must be out of order. She was going to have to use the stairs and in these heels, too. It was only a flight or two down to the pedestrian bridge, and she clattered along, hanging on to the metal handrail, going as fast as she dared. She was almost there when a stocky guy in a black hooded sweatshirt passed her, going up. She didn’t think anything of it; he was probably one of the college kids living in the building, and she was focused on her need to pee when she was suddenly yanked from behind by her hair and thrown down onto her back as her bags of groceries and her Prada bag went flying.
Adrenalin surged through her body, but before she could scream, the guy was on top of her and pressing a gloved hand over her mouth. “Shut up!” he hissed at her.
She was rigid and wide-eyed with fear, and noise was coming from her mouth; she couldn’t seem to help it. His face was inches from hers, but he was wearing a black Covid mask and all she could see were his eyes, dark and glittering as he pressed his arm against her neck. “I said shut up,” he said, looming over her.
She managed to stop the noise, struggling to breathe and squirming uncomfortably against the metal-edged concrete steps pressing against her back. She watched him warily. What was she supposed to do? Talk to him and try to make a connection? A human bond, that’s what you were supposed to try to create. But what did you say?
“You’ll never get away with this,” she whispered. “Somebody’s sure to come along.”
“Shut up and don’t move,” he said. His voice was muffled by the mask, and she knew she ought to study what she could see of him in order to identify him later. She obediently froze, then gasped in terror, catching a glimpse of something shiny. Metal. A knife? Was he going to cut her? A closer look revealed it wasn’t a knife, but scissors. A huge pair of shiny scissors. What was he going to do with them?
Then suddenly, his body weight shifted slightly as he pressed his arm across her chest, pinning her down as he rose slightly, and she felt cold metal against her belly under the waistband of her jeans. “This’ll teach you to mind your own business,” he growled, starting to work the scissors inside the jeans.
She understood in a flash. He was going to cut her jeans because it took too long to pull tight jeans off a resisting woman. She’d read about this: rapists with scissors. He was going to cut through her nine-hundred-dollar jeans that were identical to Meghan Markle’s and rape her!
The hell with that! It wasn’t a decision; it was an automatic response, like a reflex. Before she knew what had happened, she had driven her stiletto heel into the back of his leg, causing him to yelp with pain and reach for his wound. She took advantage of this change in position to slip her hand down to his groin, where she grabbed as much as she could and gave it a squeeze, using every bit of strength she had. He rolled off her, curling into a fetal position, moaning and clutching himself. Still on her back, she used the railing to haul herself onto her feet and clattered down the stairs as fast as she could go, screaming all the way. She didn’t have time to mess with the fob at the pedestrian bridge; she kept going all the way down and through the door to the safety of the street, with its steady steam of passersby. Then she stopped, leaning against the door, panting and sobbing, gulping the fresh air as warm pee streamed down her legs.
Chapter Nineteen
The first person to approach her was a large Black woman who worked in one of the nearby office buildings. Carole knew her by sight; they always exchanged smiles, but didn’t know her name.
“What happened to you?” the woman asked, removing the large pashmina she always wore over her coat and wrapping it around Carole’s shaking shoulders.
“He tried to rape me,” stammered Carole, through her chattering teeth.
The woman looked up at the stairwell, then gave Carole a reassuring hug. “Are you okay, honey?”
Carole took inventory and discovered she was more frightened than anything, and, of course, she’d wet herself. “I peed my pants,” she confessed, horrified. “My new jeans.”
The woman gave her another hug. “Never you mind. That’ll wash right out,” she said, as a couple of other women approached. “Some guy tried to rape her,” she told them.
“In the garage?” asked one. “My friend’s purse got snatched last week,” said another. “Down on Promenade Street.”
Soon a group of clucking, cooing women had surrounded her, mostly office workers and a few neighbors. One man she recognized, a young, super-fit guy she often saw jogging when she walked Poopsie, also joined the group and offered to run back upstairs to retrieve her purse and groceries. He was gone before she could warn him to watch out for the guy who assaulted her, and she waited anxiously for his return. He was back in minutes, reporting that the rapist had gone, leaving her things where they’d fallen. When he handed over her Prada bag, she discovered nothing was missing, not even her wallet, which was stuffed with close to a thousand dollars. “Thanks,” she told the guy, as he handed her the bag of groceries. “That was really brave of you.”
“No big deal. I was hoping he’d still be there. I was gonna give him a—well, never mind.” He gave her a wave and jogged off.
Carole discovered that while she was still shaken by the experience—her hands were shaking and she was trembling, struggling to catch her breath—she was also growing increasingly furious. Who did her attacker think she was, to treat her like that? To knock her off her feet, grabbing at her and pawing her. It was outrageous.
“I’m okay,” she said, in a quavery voice and pulling out her keys with the entry fob. Then, remembering the pashmina, she shrugged it off and returned it to its owner. “Thank you so much for helping me. I’m Carole, by the way. Carole Capobianco.”
“Beverly Robinson,” said the woman, introducing herself.
“Well, thank you so much for helping me, Beverly. But now I can take it from here.”
One of her neighbors, a gentleman she often met in the elevator but didn’t know by name, insisted on taking her elbow and escorting her into the building. “You should report this to the concierge,” he said, as Carole headed straight for the elevator.
“Maybe later,” said Carole, who suddenly just wanted to get behind the locked door of her apartment and out of her clothes and into the shower.
