A Matter of Pedigree

Book 1: Carole and Poopsie Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The author of the popular Lucy Stone mysteries returns with this brand-new series about two newly wealthy Rhode Island empty-nesters.

Carole Capobianco has always counted her blessings, but it’s even more fun now that she and her husband Frank are finally making serious money, thanks to Frank’s newly patented Bye-Bye Toilet. With the kids finally on their own, Carole and Frank are empty-nesters, which will give her uninterrupted time to add to her impressive shoe collection—and lavish care on Poopsie, her beloved, very spoiled Brittany spaniel. The cherry on top is a hefty bid on a luxury co-op in a prestige building . . .

But that dream is quickly flushed when the offer is refused by venture capitalist Hosea Brown. Hearing the claim that the Capobiancos won’t fit into their wealthy, snooty community, Frank is outraged enough to roar something about killing that “old Yankee” on his way out the door.  Three months later, Carole is shocked by the news that Hosea has been bludgeoned to death.

When Carole learns Hosea was one of the backers of a big new construction project for which Frank’s company has also been contracted, she’s worried. And that worry grows with every new twist in the case that’s discovered. Armed with her favorite Jimmy Choos and her beloved, if quirky, Poopsie, Carole sets out to clear Frank’s name—and just maybe save their lives . . .

Release date: September 30, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

December 2023

“You’re going to kill them,” she said, making eye contact with her two companions. “You’re going to blow them away.”

As if providing emphasis to the tense situation, a stiff December wind kicked up, bending the bare branches of the trees and clattering the tightly curled leaves of the enormous rhododendron bushes on either side of the grim mansion’s impressive and rather intimidating portal.

“Follow me,” she said, charging up the steep stone steps. “Don’t be nervous; you’ve got this,” she added, crossing her fingers for luck. Real estate agent Susan Weaver had high hopes for this deal; she stood to make a killing if the owners agreed to accept Frank and Carole Capobianco’s generous offer. “You’ve got plenty of ammo.”

Frank Capobianco had reason to be optimistic. The four million he was willing to pay for the condo at prestigious Prospect Place was double the asking price. But money was no object to Frank; he was rolling in the stuff. It hadn’t always been that way, of course. He’d grown up in the Italian Federal Hill section of Providence, Rhode Island, and after graduating from high school, he’d taken his place in the family business, Capobianco and Sons. He’d made a good living working in the plumbing and heating business, but it wasn’t until his patent for the Bye-Bye Toilet was purchased by Wexler Industries that he began to see serious dough. Frank’s invention of the low-flow fixture, which was guaranteed to work as well as traditional water-guzzling models, was seen as a genuine breakthrough by the industry. The Bye-Bye Toilet technology was quickly embraced by the green building movement, and the royalties had started pouring in. Global warming was the best thing that ever happened to Frank.

And now, his pockets stuffed with money, Frank was ready to take his rightful place in the city of his birth. He wanted to let everyone know he’d arrived, he was a success. A big deal. A very big deal. And the best way to do that was by moving out of Federal Hill and buying into Prospect Place, the absolute primo address on College Hill in the city’s most exclusive neighborhood, the extremely hoitsy-toitsy East Side.

Unlike on Federal Hill, where the cramped wood tenements were jammed together in the streets around Atwells Avenue, the substantial brick and stone houses in the East Side stood in spacious gardens, rising out of professionally landscaped green lawns dotted with leafy trees and flowering shrubs. And none was grander than Prospect Place, built of sturdy ship’s timbers and carved blocks of stone, its wooded acre securely walled off from its neighbors.

Erected in the eighteenth century, the edifice was a tribute to the daring and financial success of its builder, Jonathan Browne. One of the first to join the fight for independence from Great Britain, his fortune had grown along with the young nation as his ships plowed the waves of the vast Atlantic Ocean, reaping profits from the notorious Triangular Trade. Jonathan’s ships brought human cargo from Africa to the West Indies, trading men, women, and children into slavery for the molasses and sugar the hungry new nation demanded. And although Jonathan lived hundreds of years before Frank, his motives for building Prospect Place were exactly the same as Frank’s. From his lofty perch on the high hill overlooking the city and its bustling harbor, the massive stone structure announced to the world that Jonathan Browne was a man of wealth and importance.

Now, more than two centuries later, Frank identified with Jonathan Browne, apart from the reprehensible and disgusting human trafficking, of course. Like Jonathan, he was a man of vision who’d risen above the common mass. It was time to proclaim his ascension to the upper class, the one percent.

Carole, Frank’s wife, didn’t share his enthusiasm for the massive mansion, but she had dressed carefully for this interview in hopes of making a good impression. She was beginning, however, to think the taupe Ferragamos with the four-inch heels may have been a mistake. They were far and away the best shoes in her extensive collection, but she was having trouble negotiating the steps, which tilted this way and that. Nearly losing her balance, she grabbed Frank’s arm. He responded by taking her elbow to steady her and then squeezing her hand, and Carole felt a sudden surge of affection for him. She hoped he wasn’t in for a big disappointment.

Unlike her husband, who’d gone to work straight from high school, Carole had spent a year at Mount Holyoke College, one of the highly selective Seven Sisters. It was there that she’d had her first brush with the East Coast snobbism practiced by the daughters of the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant elite, or WASPs, as they were called by the other scholarship students. It took only a question or two for these privileged girls to identify their own kind: “Where did you prep? Where do you summer? Did you bring your horse?” If you didn’t have the right answers, you were clearly not a member of the tribe and not worth knowing.

At the time, Carole had been stung by their attitude, and she’d been relieved when Frank got her pregnant during summer vacation, a vacation spent working as a waitress in one of the restaurants on Federal Hill. A hasty marriage was arranged, Carole and Frank settled into the third-floor apartment at the top of his parents’ tenement, and Carole was warmly embraced as a young wife and mother by the Hill’s traditional matriarchy. There was always someone to mind the kids, someone to gossip with over coffee and biscotti, someone’s shoulder to cry on. Now, looking at the forbidding structure Frank was determined would be their next home, Carole was afraid they would encounter the same snobbish attitude she had faced at Mount Holyoke.

Susan rang the bell, and they huddled together on the stoop as the cold wind blew around them. They’d dressed to impress instead of for the weather, and Carole was freezing in her beautifully tailored Armani suit; she didn’t like to think what the wind was doing to the hair she’d had styled that very afternoon. Frank was getting restless as they waited on the doorstep. “What’s taking so long?” he fumed, rubbing his hands together.

The door was finally opened by a very slight woman with thinning, faded red hair, dressed in a pleated plaid skirt and a threadbare cashmere twin set topped with a truly fabulous string of pearls. Carole’s heart sank, as she knew the look, but the woman’s welcome was warm.

“Come in, come in,” she urged, “we’re all waiting for you. Oh, my goodness gracious, haven’t I forgotten my manners? This is Susan, of course, and you are the Capobiancos, and I am Millicent Shaw.” She grabbed Carole’s and Frank’s hands in turn. “I am so happy to finally meet you.”

Somewhat reassured, Carole smiled at Frank and straight ened his tie. He was built like a fire plug, there was no denying it, but in a blue oxford-cloth, button-down shirt, a conservative tie, and a Harris tweed sport coat with leather patches on the sleeves, he could pass for a college professor who enjoyed his dinner a bit too much. Carole hoped she hadn’t overdone it when she chose his outfit at Brooks Brothers.

They hardly had time to take in the worn Oriental rug, the stately grandfather clock, the hand-painted antique wallpaper, and the staircase with elaborately carved mahogany balusters before Millicent opened one of the massive doors on either side of the hall and ushered them inside. They found themselves in a spacious sitting room with wood-paneled walls and long, red velvet curtains hanging on either side of the tall, paned windows. Five people were seated on the leather sofas and chairs arranged in front of the fireplace, and from the looks of them, Carole knew they were in enemy territory. She gave Frank’s arm a pinch, warning him to let Susan introduce them.

“You all know me, I’m Susan Weaver from Prestige Prop erties, and I’m representing the vacant unit, Unit 3, which is owned by Jon Browne. Tonight, I’ve brought two exceptionally well-qualified buyers, Frank and Carole Capo bianco.” She paused. “Millicent, could you please do the honors?”

“Oh yes, oh yes,” said Millicent, nodding and fluttering her hands. “Let me introduce the other owners. First, of course, is Hosea Browne.” She indicated a tall, thin, elderly man seated in a massive leather wing chair. Wire-rimmed glasses were perched on his hawkish nose, his gray hair was thinning above a high forehead, and long parentheses ran from each side of his nose to his thin slit of a mouth. Like Frank, he was wearing an oxford-cloth shirt and tweed blazer, but his were soft and worn from years of wear, unlike Frank’s crisp new togs. Hosea tented his hands in front of his chest and nodded.

“As you no doubt know, Prospect Place was built by Mr. Browne’s ancestor, Jonathan Browne,” said Susan. “It was the Browne family home until 2008, when it was converted into five luxurious units and became the premier address in Providence.”

“A lot of folks took a hit in 2008 when the stock market tanked,” observed Frank, with a knowing nod.

Hosea was quick to put this notion to rest. “The place was too big; there’s just myself and my brother now. Made no sense for us to rattle around in here all by ourselves.” Left unsaid was his rock-solid belief that failure to capitalize on a potential source of income was a sin of the highest order.

“Absolutely,” agreed Millicent. “Times change, and we have to change with them.” She indicated a well-dressed young couple with blond hair, seated together on one of the sofas. “This is Celerie and Mark Lonsdale; they have the charming unit on the top floor.”

“The attic,” said Celerie, giving a broad smile that revealed a dazzling set of very white teeth. “So nice to meet you,” she said, speaking through her teeth as she extended a pale, slender hand. Carole couldn’t help noticing the decidedly unimpressive diamond and slim gold wedding band on her other hand.

“Same here,” agreed Mark, also rising and offering a firm but dampish hand.

Once the handshakes were completed, Millicent continued her introductions. “Last, but not least by any means, we have our lovely professors, Stuart and Angelique Poole.”

Angelique, a dark-haired woman of a certain age, chicly dressed in black, remained seated beside her husband on the second sofa but offered her hand. Her nails, Carole noticed, were neatly trimmed but free of polish. “Enchanté,” she said. Her husband, Stuart, casually dressed in a cardigan with leather buttons, rose and also shook their hands.

Introductions completed, Millicent indicated three straight-backed dining chairs with elaborately carved backs and urged them to sit. She herself perched on a hassock shoved beside Hosea’s armchair. Frank and Carole sat down, but Susan remained standing.

“As you all know,” she said, “the Capobiancos have put forward a very generous offer, which is actually double the asking price of two million dollars.”

“That is, unfortunately, of no importance to us,” said Hosea, sounding regretful. “The unit is owned by my younger brother, and none of us have any financial interest in the sale. Our concern,” he said, including the other owners in a sweeping gesture, “is whether the Capobiancos will fit into our tight little community.” He paused. “We want to know if they are the right sort. As Mrs. Weaver mentioned, Prospect Place will be forever associated with the Browne family name, and therefore we absolutely cannot tolerate the least hint of impropriety.”

Frank shifted in his chair. Like trafficking in human lives wasn’t improper, he thought, biting his lips.

A touch of color rose in Susan’s cheeks. “I can assure you that Mr. and Mrs. Capobianco will be terrific neighbors. Mr. Capobianco’s business is extremely successful, and they will have no problem at all assuming the financial obligations of ownership, such as maintenance fees and taxes. In addition,” she added, with a nod to Celerie, “I know Mrs. Capobianco is eager to decorate the unit in the style it deserves.”

“I’m certainly glad to hear that,” said Celerie, nodding and tossing back her stylishly long, wavy, blond hair, hair that Carole was sure was not naturally blond. “You may know that I have a little decorating business, and I already have some ideas.”

“Terrific,” said Carole, more enthusiastically than she felt. She somehow doubted that Celerie’s taste matched hers, but she was willing to play along.

“I think we all understand that Mr. Capobianco has been remarkably successful, thanks to his ingenuity with toilet fixtures,” said Hosea, adding a sniff. “What we are interested in is the Capobiancos themselves. What are your interests?” he demanded, fixing them in his hawklike gaze.

“Thanks for asking,” said Frank, placing his hands on his knees and leaning forward. “I’m a big sports fan, love the Pats and the Sox, and what about those Celtics, hey?” He looked around, but didn’t get any response from the professor or Hosea and only a small nod from Mark Lonsdale. “I love fishing. I’ve got a boat, Royal Flush, I call her. It’s, you know, one of them double entenders.”

Millicent smiled at this, as did Angelique, but the men in the group were not amused. Hosea, especially, seemed offended and pressed his narrow lips together. Carole shifted nervously in her seat, worried that things weren’t going their way.

“I’m not much of a churchgoer,” continued Frank. “I get to Holy Ghost on the big holidays, Easter and Christmas, but Carole here goes regularly, and she always puts plenty in the collection plate.”

The others all nodded approvingly, but Hosea’s back stiffened.

“And I don’t mind admitting I have a fondness for Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun,” added Frank, naming two casinos located over the state line in Connecticut. “O’ course my favorite is Bally’s here in Little Rhody; might as well keep that money in the state, no?”

The others laughed, apparently amused at Frank’s forthrightness, but Hosea remained expressionless. “And what about you, Mrs. Capobianco?”

“Well, I attended Mount Holyoke College,” she began, going straight for her biggest gun. Unfortunately, it didn’t have quite the bang she’d hoped. Going to a Seven Sisters school was par for the course with this crowd. “But I left to marry Frank. I’ve been a homemaker my whole life; we have two children, a son and a daughter. Connie is a first-year associate at Dunne and Willoughby,” she said, naming one of the city’s top law firms. But once again, these folks were not impressed. “And our son, Frank Junior, is a sophomore at RISD.” On the Hill, admission to the Rhode Island School of Design was a feather in anyone’s cap, but of this group only Celerie seemed interested. The others considered RISD as somewhat inferior to its Ivy League College Hill neighbor, Brown University.

“I’m active in the Altar Guild at Holy Ghost,” continued Carole, plugging away. “I try to keep in shape at Curves. I help Frank’s folks; they’re getting on now and have trouble with their health insurance and driver’s licenses, things like that.” Carole was aware she was running out of ammunition. “And I’m always happy to bake something for a good cause; anybody who’s having a bake sale only has to call,” she finished.

“Very laudable, I’m sure,” said Hosea, not meaning a word. “Well, would you prefer to step outside while we vote, or would you prefer to remain?”

Carole was half out of her seat when Frank grabbed her hand, restraining her. He was never one to run from a challenge. “We’ll stay,” he said.

“Very well,” said Hosea, once again tenting his hands and surveying the room. “Does anyone feel the need for discussion?”

There was a bit of an awkward silence until Millicent spoke up. “I do. First of all, I want to thank Mr. and Mrs. Capobianco for coming tonight and for their interest in joining our little community.” She smiled warmly at Frank and Carole. “I think the Capobiancos are a lovely couple and would be a terrific addition to Prospect Place.”

“I agree,” said Angelique, speaking in a charming French accent. “In France, you know, life is richer because people of all sorts intermingle. No one looks down on the waiter; he is a master of his craft, as is the boulanger, and the boucher, and the artiste. Sometimes you have all these different people in one family, gathering on Sundays for the big family dinner, along with the avocat, the docteur.” She looked to her husband for confirmation, and he gave a firm nod. “I would like very much for us to open the doors to Prospect Place wide and to welcome the Capobiancos. “Bienvenus,” she added, concluding.

Hosea turned toward Mark and Celerie, and Mark began speaking. “As for Celerie and myself, well, we also feel the Capobiancos would be a terrific addition. I mean, how often do you need a plumber, but you can’t get one?” he demanded, getting a little round of laughter. “If Frank moves in, that definitely won’t be a problem. And I don’t know about you, but I can’t remember when I last had some home-baked cookies.” He took his wife’s hand. “Celerie is awfully busy with her business …”

“Too busy to bake,” added Celerie. “That’s for sure.”

“So we think it would be great to come home to decent water pressure and the smell of something delicious baking in the oven,” said Mark.

“This is wonderful news,” said Susan, hopping to her feet and setting her briefcase on the chair. “I happen to have a purchase and sales agreement all ready for signing, and I understand that you, Hosea, have power of attorney for your brother, Jon, who is out of the country. Is that correct?”

“It is indeed,” said Hosea.

“Wonderful,” said Susan, producing the paper and carrying it across the Persian rug to him. But instead of taking the proffered document, Hosea brushed it aside.

“I will not sign that.”

“But I thought everyone was agreed?” said Susan, stammering a bit. “What possible objection could you have?”

“I do object,” said Hosea, “and I’m sure my brother would also object. In his absence, Jon has given me his power of attorney. As is stipulated in the deeds, all sales must be approved unanimously by all the owners.”

“But you’re turning down an offer that is double the asking price,” said Susan, unwilling to watch her commission go down the drain.

“As I mentioned, I’m acting for my younger brothe. . .