Black Thursday (19 page)

twenty-eight

I slumped down in
the driver's seat of my parked car.

Laying low—as it were.

Very low.

It was 9:07 and I had just enough time to get home, freshen up, and be ready when Anastasia and crew arrived—except that I couldn't get myself to put the key into the ignition.

Not with the utterly distressing scenario coming together in my head:

There was now no question in my mind about the onslaught of Michaels family members appearing for Thanksgiving. There was never a delayed cruise, no unexpected layover in Denver.

Frank's family had come for a purpose.

While I still believed that purpose was
to support their brother/uncle/son clean up the terrible mess he'd made of his marriage and his life, the murkiness of the plan seemed to be growing clearer and clearer.

Frank, who didn't want a divorce in the first place, had to have been monitoring my budding business and website from the moment he learned I was Mrs. Frugalicious. He knew about CC and was aware of my concerns about her potentially negative impact on my happy, growing Frugarmy. A nagging issue he filed away for future reference until he found out I was going to live-blog at Bargain Barn and seized the opportunity to get rid of the scourge known as Contrary Claire.

First, he'd mobilized his suddenly sweet, solicitous family to help implement his solution, then looped in Anastasia, for what I had to believe was a preplanned, on-camera shopping expedition complete with Black Friday
incident
.

While I couldn't be sure how he'd known CC was Cathy Carter, everything else seemed to line up like dominoes:

1. Frank's family, including Craig,
volunteered
to come along with me to shop on camera.

2. Anastasia met us there to document the big night for Channel Three, complete with a cameraman and a
big scoop
gleam in her eyes.

3. Everyone in the Michaels clan disappeared moments before the pallet was pushed off the upper shelf, but reappeared on camera almost immediately afterward to help with the rescue effort.

4. All but Craig, who'd already created an excuse to be in the back of the store by claiming he was headed to the flat-screen TV line. Craig had been assigned the dirty work of pushing the pallet.

5. A task he'd accomplished, as planned.

Or had he?

Had they really intended to kill her, or just scare her off ?

And why?

I found it hard to believe Frank would intentionally kill anyone. It was even harder to believe that Anastasia, whose fiancé was in law enforcement, would knowingly conspire to harm anyone—even for guaranteed huge ratings. I also didn't believe Frank was trying to sabotage Mrs. Frugalicious or frame me, as Alan had postulated. However, given my husband's enormous ego, the embarrassing blow it had suffered these last few months, and the fact that he'd called his whole family in to talk me into staying with him, I had to think the whole idea had been to stage a scare so Frank could come riding in on his horse (or leased black Mercedes, as it were) to redeem himself in both my eyes and those of his formerly adoring public.

In light of this theory, Frank's on-camera appearances throughout the evening at Bargain Barn seemed entirely intentional:

Assisting in the rescue effort.

Comforting his estranged wife, Mrs. Frugalicious, his family, and shocked shoppers in the aftermath of Cathy Carter's death.

Mounting a brave and valiant campaign to save
the store from closing with the help of his family.

In retrospect, there was nothing that had simply just
happened
—not the producers suddenly wanting to run a weekend's worth of Mrs. Frugalicious bargain hunting segments, not Joyce's suggestion of a grocery-shopping expedition, not Anastasia's appearance to film a Friday segment there. And hadn't the mysterious Frugarmy member who'd suggested we all band together for Small Business Saturday been named Barbara M.?

As in Barb Michaels, who only used her given name for official purposes?

Frank had to have masterminded this entire scenario. And while he might not have intended for Cathy to die, her death was a problem that might not have been a problem at all had Alan Bader and I left well enough alone.

Upsetting as the unexpected deadly turn of events must have been, they had still worked to Frank's advantage, allowing him to show up when I needed comforting after CC left a note on my car or just before Alan was seemingly about to abduct
me.

My guts churned as I sat waiting for Detectives McClarkey and Reed to emerge from the store, weighing whether I should come clean with my suspicions or simply call Griff and have him verify that Craig had never gone to TV line—that he'd somehow found a spot out of the camera or anyone else's watchful eye just before the store opened, climbed into the upper shelves, and waited for the right moment to push the pallet off the shelf.

All at the behest of my ex-ex, soon-to-be-ex-again-husband, Frank.

Who'd been aided and abetted by his mother, sister, father, and possibly even his daughter—my stepdaughter, Eloise.

I couldn't very well put the key in the ignition and head home to the murderous Michaels clan and complicit Anastasia Chastain and pretend nothing was wrong. Maybe I was decent in an interview format, but I was no actress.

I also couldn't drag the entire Michaels family through the mud once again on a hunch, even a strong one, until I knew for sure they were behind Cathy's death—intentionally or otherwise.

I sat, unable to move, until the sound of a delivery truck door rolling closed gave me an a idea of one thing I could do in the hopes of finding out.

Mr. Piggledy had returned to Mrs. Piggledy and the Frugarmy right before the accident with a voucher for a 42-inch flat-screen TV he was having delivered—meaning he'd been one of the first twenty people in the TV line.

I dialed his number.

And was greeted by voicemail.

With the beep, I left a concise but pointed message:

Hi Mr. Piggledy, it's Maddie Michaels. I'm hoping you might remember seeing a man with dark curly hair and blue eyes who looked a lot like my husband at the front of the TV line before the pallet fell on Thursday night? I know it was chaotic, especially for you, that evening, but anything you can recall would be of great help. Can you please let me know as soon as you get this? It could be really important.

Oh, and my best to Mrs. Piggledy
, I added.
I'm thankful her injuries weren't much worse.

Which gave me another idea …

twenty-nine

“I'm on my way,”
I said, talking into my hands-free device as I headed north on I-25, way north of home. “Almost.”

“What do you mean by
almost
?” Anastasia asked.

“I'll meet you at the house, but if I'm a few minutes late, the boys can kick things off for me.”

“As in, your boys?”

“They did all the research for what I'm planning to discuss this morning, anyway.”

“Which is?”

“The top Cyber Monday deals for people under twenty-five,” I said. “And how to get them at the very best prices.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “Very interesting.”

“I thought so,” I said.

“And more than a little surprising,” she said. “Here I thought Frank was the one with all the big ideas in your family …”

_____

“I need you to go into my office and log on to my computer,” I said to FJ, trying not to read any more than I had to into what Anastasia meant by Frank's
big ideas.

“Okay …” FJ said.

I exited the highway and headed west. “My password is—”

“Frugaliciousbargain1,” he said. “Already logged on.”

I made a mental note to change my password to something completely random next time. “There should be a Word file called
Cyber Monday Talking Points
on my desktop.”

“Got it,” he said.

“Please print it out.”

“Done,” he said, over the whir of the printer in the background.

“I should be home in time to go on the air,” I said, pulling into an older, tree-lined neighborhood. “But if I'm running a little late—”

“I should give this to Anastasia?”

“Or you and Trent use it for reference.”

“Us?” he asked incredulously.

“You wanted to be on TV today, right?”

“Yeah—in the background, pretending to buy stuff online while you do your thing.”

“Which you will be unless I'm caught in traffic or something.” I pulled up to the curb beside John Carter's house and killed the engine. “In which case, you have the talking points.”

“You're saying you want Anastasia to interview us?”

“Only if I'm not back in time.”

“Is everything okay, Mom?
”

“I just need to check on something before I head home.”

“Must be important,” he said.

“That's what I'm trying to find out.” I'd promised John I'd visit him again at some point on Monday. John had insisted he and Cathy go to Bargain Barn so he could be one of the first twenty people in the flat-screen-TV line.

If he confirmed that he'd seen Craig ahead of him, I would still need to contact Griff and somehow clue him in on my suspicions so the police could look into things further.

If he couldn't confirm Craig had been there, though, I'd be heading straight home to confront Frank in the relative safety of my news crew–filled home.

“Mom,” FJ asked. “Does this have to do with the CC comments I found last night on all those other websites?”

“In part,” I said.

“What's the other part?”

I sighed. How exactly did I tell him I suspected his entire family of a drawn-out conspiracy?

The front door of the Carter home swung open.

“I promise to fill you in when I get there,” I said as John appeared on his front stoop. “Gotta run.”

“Mom, do you need me to—”

“What I need is—”

A smile lit up John's otherwise sad face.

“—for you and Trent to just go ahead and take the mic today.”

“You can't be serious,” he said. “What's Anastasia going to say about that?”

“My guess?” I paused for the briefest of seconds. “The show must go on.”

_____

“So many well-wishers,” I said, trying my best to make pleasant conversation as John led me into his front hall, now much more crowded with flower arrangements, gift baskets, and even boxes.

“The packages were ordered by Cathy before …” He shook his head as if trying to shake away his thoughts. “I guess I need to dig through and figure out what to do with it all, but I don't even know where to start.”

“Maybe I can help,” I said.

“Really?” His face seemed to brighten.

“Whatever I can do.”

“I'd really appreciate it,” John said. “But aren't you supposed to be on the news soon?”

“I have a few minutes,” I said. “The boys had an idea for this morning's segment so I'm letting them run with it until I get there.”

“Interesting,” he said.

“I hope so,” I said. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

I took a deep breath. “It's about Thursday night.”

“Okay …” he said, like he wasn't entirely sure it was.

“The thing is, there've been some developments.”

“As in?”

“Well.” I took another breath. “The police are sure they have their man, but—”

“But you're not?”

“Not entirely,” I said. “When I was here yesterday, you mentioned that you'd decided to go to Bargain Barn mainly for the flat-screen TV.”

With his nod, a teapot began to whistle in the kitchen.

“Sorry,” John said. “Can you excuse me for a moment?”

“No problem,” I said.

He had already ducked into the kitchen.

“You'll have some tea, right?” John asked a few seconds later.

“Sure,” I said, mainly to be polite but also because my mouth was parched from stress.

“Cathy kept a drawer full of pretty much every type there is,” John said. “What do you want?”

Mostly, I wanted to be living in a reality where I wasn't about to have to admit to a grieving widower that my extended family belonged on the FBI's Most Wanted list, nor to have to rush home and confront them all about what I planned to do about it. “Whatever you're having is fine by me.”

“Ginger Peach something-or-another is on top.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, setting my purse on the front hall table and venturing into the dining room/coupon command post.

“So why the interest in the line for the flat-screen TVs?” he asked from the kitchen.

“I have reason to believe the killer said he was there at the time of the incident.”

“As an alibi?”

“Something like that.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Definitely couldn't have been Alan, then.”

“No,” I said.

“But wasn't he already identified on that security tape?”

“A man that closely matched Alan's description was ID'd on the tape.”

“And it wasn't him?”

“Alan's maintained his innocence all along,” I said, “Which has been harder and harder to buy, except that I was just at Bargain Barn and the employees found surveillance tape of someone tossing a black shirt into a locker right after the pallet was pushed.”

“Seriously?” John asked over the clank of silverware dropping into the sink.

“The tape didn't show as much as the other video, but there was a clear shot of the right hand of a man who wasn't wearing a soldered-on gold medical alert bracelet,” I said. “Which Alan does.”

“I see,” he said. “What do the police have to say about all this?”

“They're over at Bargain Barn checking into it right now, but I'm afraid it's just going to be considered more circumstantial evidence,” I said. “I was hoping that by coming to talk to you, I might be able to help figure out who else could have been behind this.”

He reappeared beside me looking as pale as I felt.

“Thanks,” I said as he handed me a mug.

“Thank you for filling me in,” he said. “I hope I can be of help.”

“Did you happen to see a man ahead of you in the line with dark hair that maybe fit the description of Alan?” I took a sip tea to somehow gird myself with the bitter sweetness but was still unable to quite get myself to utter the name
Craig
. “Or my husband?”

“Your husband?”

“
Like
my husband.” I nodded. “Generally.”

“And you think this person was really the one responsible for my wife's—”

“If he was in line, no.” I sighed. “If he wasn't, then it's possible.”

“I see,” he said again.

We sipped our tea together in silence.

While I awaited his response, I distracted myself by looking at the neat stations Cathy had set up on the dining room table for collating, organizing, and clipping what was an admittedly impressive pile of Sunday circulars, printed online coupons, in-store flyers, and mailers.

“Cathy was a really adept couponer,” I finally said.

“That she was,” he said, then shook his head. “Maddie, I'm afraid that evening is still mostly a blur.”

“And I'm so sorry to ask you to try and recall anything about it,” I said. “But if he was there, he'd have been at the very front, or close to—”

“I was toward the back of the line,” he uttered, and again there was silence punctuated by the sounds of sipping. “Do you think I could show you something while I'm trying to remember who was ahead of me?”

I needed to get back soon, but the poor man had been through too much for me to dump my story in his lap and simply take off, leaving him alone to try and process it all. “Sure.”

“Thank you,” he said, tears choking his voice as he stepped across the room to the hall and opened a door leading to the basement. “Cathy would have given anything for you to see this.”

I glanced surreptitiously at the wall clock again before I followed him downstairs. 9:27. I figured I had fifteen minutes to admire what was surely going to be her stockpile room and ooh and ahh enough to hopefully jar his memory before I absolutely had to leave.

As I made my way down the steps behind him, I was the one who was jarred.

The basement, typical in its mid-century layout, consisted of a rec room and a hallway that contained a guest bedroom, bathroom, and what looked to be a utility room.

That was where the similarities to all other ranch-style basements ended.

The main room had essentially been transformed into a warehouse—complete with merchandise-filled, floor-to-ceiling shelves lining all four walls. Inside the open guest bedroom was the equivalent of a small, overstuffed clothing store, complete with multiple racks and rounders.

“Oh my gosh!” I said, even before I reached the bottom step and attempted to maneuver around the various lamps, end tables, and still-tagged furniture filling the room like a bargain showroom.

“Everything was bought on close-out, final sale, or using multiple discounts,” John said.

“This is incredible.”

“You know what they say,” he said. “One man's trash … ”

Maybe it was just claustrophobia from the sheer volume of stuff crowding the relatively small space, but I suddenly felt light-headed.

John made his way over to a computer in the corner and jiggled the mouse. “She coded everything by where she got it, retail price, and what she actually paid for it all,” he said. “Average savings of over seventy percent.”

“That's amazing,” I said.

“I'm glad you think so, because she followed your advice religiously.”

“She accumulated all of this merchandise by following Mrs. Frugalicious?”

“She followed a lot of other websites, too,” he said pointedly. “A lot of them.”

“Like?”

“Let me see,” John said, checking the browser history. “Deals Galore. Saver's Station. I Love a Bargain … Oh, and she talked about
Here's the Deal
quite a bit.

I was definitely dizzy.

“But Mrs. Frugalicious was her far and away favorite.”

Clearly, pleasingly plump Cathy with her sweet, heart-shaped face, bobbed hair, and neon pink sneakers, was as big a fan as she proclaimed. One look around the basement and it was also clear she had a major bargain-shopping addiction.

The warning signs rattled my brain like an alarm:

Compulsive bargain shoppers head for the sales and clearance racks when they feel angry or down.

And/or wrote online complaints on bargain-hunting sites when the shopping didn't turn out quite as planned?

“Did she ever, by any chance, have any particular criticisms about Mrs. Frugalicious or any of the other sites?” I asked.

“Cathy?” He seemed incredulous. “Never.”

Compulsive bargain shoppers see sales as opportunities that can't be passed up.

“This really is incredible,” I said, trying not to sound as weird and off-balance as I was feeling. “What did she plan to do with all this merchandise?”

“I think she had it in her mind that she would open some sort of store of her own.” His voice sounded somehow tighter. “But she couldn't seem to part with anything.”

Compulsive bargain shoppers routinely forget what they've purchased and find unused things in their closets.

“Everything seems very organized,” I heard myself say, like I was somehow trying to talk my way out of believing what I was seeing.

“By make, model, and size,” he said. “It's even color-coded.”

Compulsive bargain shoppers spend so much time tracking down deals that they compromise time with family and friends.

“I can't imagine how much time she spent down here,” I said, now feeling as tingly in my arms and legs as I was dizzy.

“Way too much,” John said. “Not to mention money.”

Compulsive bargain shoppers spend more than they can afford.

“You know.” My throat felt tight. “Since everything is all catalogued, it would be easy to put anything you don't want up on Ebay or one of the auction sites.”

“Do you think I might recoup my costs on some of this?”