Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery (7 page)

Mrs. Piggledy waved. “I’m sure she’ll want to have a word with you, honey,”

“That must be my husband now,” I said pretending to hear the ping of a text alert inside my purse. “I’ve really got to run.”

As Mrs. Piggledy pushed her husband in Anastasia’s general direction, I managed to slip away to the relative safety of a fake fir tree and on into the mall. Despite the untoward combination of exercise-stiff inner thighs and stacked heels, I loped down the corridor, out the door to the parking lot, and to my car in the B-7 section. Once inside, with the air conditioning on high and pointed toward my sweat-dampened face, I did check my cell phone.

There were two messages.

The first was an automated flight status alert I’d set up with Frank’s flight number:

On time

The second, from Frank, only served to confirm the eerie accuracy of Mr. Piggledy’s predictions of travel-related delays:

My flight’s just been cancelled. Can’t get another one home until first thing in the morning.

Eight

“I agree, this whole
Mercury in retrograde stuff is a little on the freaky side,” my trainer, Chelsea, said. “But you said Frank did get back, safe and sound this morning.”

“True, but not without having to rush from the airport into a meeting at the station,” I said. Not to mention the maddening $100 rebooking fee to get on the first flight out to make said mandatory (according to Frank) meeting. “As for Laila DeSimone … ”

“You don’t really think there could be any more to it?” She looked pained. “Do you?”

Chelsea had arrived at the gym for our twice-weekly workouts at about the same time I had. If she hadn’t, I’d have been alone with my imagination and overstuffed saddlebags while I psyched up for one of her signature you-won’t-need-lipo-when-I’m-done-with-you workouts. Instead, she stood two lockers away looking maddeningly tall, tan, lanky, and stunning. At least I had the benefit of her friendly, sympathetic ear. As she shimmied into the workout shorts and bra top that would serve to both inspire and humiliate me for the next sixty minutes, I couldn’t help but speculate that her perky breasts might not be original issue. The rest of her, from toned biceps to narrow hips, however, was tan, fit, flawless, and natural.

“I’m sure I’ve just watched one too many crime shows or some-
thing.”

“But, it’s impossible not to wonder when you hear the word
inconclusive
,” she finished.

Chelsea was as kind as she was stunning and had not only become my friend and advisor on all things exercise and nutrition (thanks to my lucky fishbowl entry) but a reliable sounding board on pretty much everything else. She took it a step further and always seemed to have the perfect solution for any issue, from the occasional gripe about family life or, as was suddenly the case, the circumstances of Laila’s demise.

Chelsea rolled down the waist of her workout shorts to reveal her bejeweled navel. If she weren’t so nice, I couldn’t even be in the same room as her.

“I still can’t believe the only reason I even met Laila was because I happened to go into Eternally 21 and she accused me of shoplifting.”

“Seriously?” Chelsea’s big, blue eyes widened.
Of course, Chelsea’s eyes weren’t run-of-the-mill blue but a deep cornflower hue only found in Crayola boxes and on women who were already so beautiful that topping off the whole package with can’t-look-away peepers was just unfair. Almost as unfair as my current ratio of wide hips to small breasts.

“The last few days feel like they’ve been part of a bad dream.”

“I can’t believe I was at my mom’s pool doing nothing while you were dealing with this.” Chelsea fiddled with the closing mechanism on her locker for a few seconds before grabbing a different locker card from her purse, and moving her stuff to the open one beside it.

“I feel awful I wasn’t here for you sooner.”

“I’m just glad you’re back,” I said. “I was going crazy without someone to talk to.”

“What about Frank?” she asked.

No way was I telling Frank anything that could disrupt what clearly was a very promising weekend for him—for us. “I thought I’d wait to run it by him until he gets home.”

“There’s probably nothing more to the story anyway.”

“Laila’s symptoms
were
textbook stroke,” I said.

“Exactly.” Chelsea smiled sweetly and led me out of the locker room.

With the squeal of the door, the generally male population of the free weight area, situated (inconveniently or strategically, depending on one’s perspective) right outside the women’s lockers, turned and subtly or not so subtly leered, mostly at Chelsea.

“The thing is, Laila was young, beautiful, and by all reports had the appetite of a horse.”

I didn’t mention that appetite also seemed to run toward married men.

“Hmm,” Chelsea said as we wound our way around the stationary bikes and treadmills. “Was she heavy?”

“Only if you call a size four heavy.”

“Speaking of which, I’m praying you doubled up on the Bye Bye Fat while I was gone.”

My face flushed immediately. “How did you know I … ?”

Chelsea raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

Why had I even asked?

“I’ll admit I did overdo it a little with all the stress, but I did use the Bye Bye Fat.”

“With every meal?”

“Except for one dose in my Diet Coke that spilled when I crashed trays at the food court,” I mumbled, not wanting to add to her visible consternation by admitting that I’d ingested ice cream at full strength after
slimming
the floor of the mall with what I calculated to be 64 cents’ worth of wasted BBF.

Chelsea stopped in front of the scale, which was set none too discretely on a pedestal just out of peeking range from a row of elliptical machines. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

“But—”

“
Butt,
indeed.” Chelsea smiled her flawless white smile.

“I’m scared,” I said, looking at the evil display.

“You should be more scared about the amount of fat and calories you invited for an extended visit to your hips and thighs.”

“It was just that … ”

She gave me a push in the direction of the scale. “Hop on.”

I stepped on and closed my eyes.

“Hmmm,” Chelsea finally said.

“How bad is it?”

“You gained a pound.”

“That’s it?” I tried to rein the excitement from my voice. “I mean, that’s not good or anything, but the Bye Bye Fat must have worked.”

“Not well enough,” she said, clearly put out.

I felt ashamed, like a bad before-and-after poster child. “I promise, I won’t let myself go like that again.”

She sighed. “For your penance, we’re headed for the circuit training room.”

She might as well have said
torture chamber
. “Ugh.”

“That’ll teach you not to binge on food court fare next time you get caught up in a life-or-death situation at the mall.”

“I’m never setting foot in that place again.”

“You know as well as I do there’s no resisting the siren song of the Nordstrom shoe department.”

That it was more like the 50% off rack at Macy’s these days was beside the point. “I don’t know. This whole Laila business has been so unsettling—”

“Did anyone mention anything about her having an eating disorder?” Chelsea asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“For one thing, no one can eat huge amounts of food all the time and stay that slim.”

“The assistant manager’s boyfriend made a crack about her scarfing and barfing when they were taking lunch up to Laila.”

Chelsea’s eyes seemed to light up. “Bingo.”

“I wasn’t sure I believed him because he also thought she died because her stomach exploded.”

“That’s not all that farfetched.”

“Really?”

“Eating disorders can be very hard on the system.” Chelsea sounded almost enthusiastic. “Particularly bulimia.”

“Hard enough to cause a stroke?”

“As well as heart problems, kidney failure, the list goes on and on.”

“Which would explain an inconclusive autopsy,” I said trailing Chelsea as we headed toward the front desk for my exercise file.

“I assume you’re talking about Laila.” L’Raine, the bottle blond, spray-tanned masseuse asked as we reached the file cabinet.

“You knew her?” I asked.

“Mall employees get half off monthly dues and no start-up fee, so a lot of them belong.” L’Raine shook her head. “She was all any of them talked about around here this weekend.”

“No doubt,” Chelsea said.

“And people seemed relieved to have someone nice like Shoshanna from Whimsies stepping in as the new alpha girl at the mall,” L’Raine said. “Pretty much everyone seemed to hate Laila.”

“That’s what they said?”

“It was weird,” L’Raine said. “Everyone that came in from over there was sad and freaked out and all that, but they all pretty much said the same thing.”

“Which was?”

“Good riddance.”

Thanks to a torturous set Chelsea called Bicep and Tricep Delight, I could barely lift my phone out of my purse, but I had to talk to Griff. Even my fingers seemed to ache as I pressed the buttons and waited for what would inevitably be his recorded voice.

He answered on the first ring.

“Griff, it’s Maddie Michaels,” I said, as soon as he said hello. “I mean, we were both there when Laila collapsed, and a stroke makes perfect sense in light of her symptoms.”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Did you happen to know anything about her having an eating disorder?”

“There were rumors,” he said.

“That she was bulimic?”

“I try not to listen much to the mall gossip.”

“All I’m trying to say is if she was for sure bulimic, that increases her risk and explains why someone so young could have … ”

“Died?” Despite his still stoic demeanor, his voice trembled.

“Griff, there really wasn’t anything you could have done.”

“I appreciate your trying to make me feel better, but—”

“I didn’t call to make you feel better,” I said. “You told me she had a stroke. My trainer told me bulimia could contribute. But, then, L’Raine from my gym just said everyone at the mall hated her.”

“Hate’s a strong word.”

“Meaning?”

“You dealt with her.”

“If she treated a lot of people the way she treated me I still can’t help but wonder …”

“If there might be more to it?”

“Do you think there could be?”

“I think I’m just a mall cop who couldn’t help Laila when she needed me most.”

Nine

To keep my mind
off the goings-on at the mall, I spent the remainder of the afternoon clipping coupons, comparing store specials, and creating a master spreadsheet in advance of my Tuesday triple coupon grocery shop. Even with the total concentration required to compare store prices, specials, and multipliers against the coupons I had in my binder and what I planned to purchase, a wave of relief rolled through me with the sound of the garage door rolling open.

In a few seconds, Frank would finally step inside the back hall, drop his suitcase, and if the promise in his morning call en route from the airport to the TV station was any indication (
I’ll fill you in on everything when I get home
), there’d be a prolonged kiss. “Something smells great,” he’d say, taking in a whiff of the pot roast with potatoes, garlic bread, and salad I’d prepared as a welcome home meal.
8
He’d ask about the boys. I’d report they’d made varsity as expected. While we waited for the twins to finish showering and join us for what was becoming that increasingly elusive phenomenon known as family dinner, I’d pour us both a glass of wine and enjoy Frank’s loving, muscled embrace. Unable to contain his enthusiasm any longer, he’d recount the various highlights of his weekend including the details of an all-but-finalized national TV deal. We’d toast to the shiny light at the end of our black financial tunnel. For superstition’s sake, I’d put a finger to his lips as he started to tell me how everything was going to be even better than before.
There’s plenty of time for that kind of talk once you have that contract in hand
, I’d say, thinking how much more fun Mrs. Frugalicious was going to have once she didn’t have to scrimp but chose to just because it was so incredibly satisfying to save.

“With all my news I almost forgot to ask,” Frank would ask. “What’s been going on with you?”

I’d sigh, shake my head, and say, “You’re not going to believe this … ”

His attention piqued, I’d weave my weekend tale, omitting my false arrest, the Mrs. Frugalicious aspects, and any other details that might ruffle him, but playing up the intrigue and my Good Samaritan role. Relaxed, carefree, and engaged now that his deal was all but done, he’d pick up the phone and check in with the Channel Three newsroom to see what, if any, updates there’d been on the Laila DeSimone situation.

I’d sit beside him while he listened, nodded, and repeated tidbits of Laila’s tragic but ultimately non-nefarious cause of death:

So she was a total bitch?

Bulimic?

Coroner says he hasn’t seen a stomach lining like that in how many years?

“Stroke, just like you heard,” he’d say, hanging up just as the boys ambled down the stairs. One of them would point him into the family room and over to the upturned sectional for the weekend’s other unexpected development. He’d look inside, see the downy fur and still-closed eyes of those adorable baby kittens, and (despite my initial concerns over his reaction) fall in love just like the rest of us had.

I’d mention that I’d looked into the neighborhood covenants and while cats needed to be spayed or neutered, there was no specific mention of a fine for kittens, so there’d be no issue while they grew big enough for us to find them good homes.

The kittens would mewl in protest over their inevitable departure from this good home, and we’d laugh and shake our heads over the events of the weekend, telling the boys for the first time in months not just nothing, but potentially very positive news about daddy’s exciting new career move. We’d sit down to dinner. The guys would feast on pot roast while I enjoyed a sensible portion of meat sprinkled with Bye Bye Fat. We’d celebrate over the brownies (59 cents a box with in-store buy-one-get-one-free plus a manufacturer’s coupon) and ice cream (free after double coupon and mail-in rebate offer) that I wouldn’t touch but would watch them eat with satisfaction.

There was no doubt it had been a weekend of unforeseen changes, especially for poor Laila, but ultimately not for me. Aside from the new pets in the house. In fact, because things had been so topsy-turvy in our house beforehand, maybe this whole Mercury retrograde business signaled we were headed in a new, positive direction for the first time in months.

I glanced at my watch, eager for the curtain to go up on my anticipated domestic scene.

If only Frank would step through the door.

I walked onto the mud porch leading to the garage, heard the tick of the cooling engine, and finally opened the door to check and see.

Frank, still in his car and talking into his phone, raised a
wait a minute
finger and continued with what looked to be an animated but not necessarily happy conversation.

I waited for a lot longer than a minute and was about to turn and go back inside when he hung up and opened the driver’s side door. He emerged from the car looking both sun-kissed and that weird shade of ashen I hadn’t seen since the night he came home to tell me he’d cracked the nest egg. Worse was the faint oily shimmer in the corners of his mouth meaning he’d stopped somewhere, likely for fries. Frank only ate fried or fast food when he was upset about something.

My blood pressure blipped upward. This was not going as planned. “What’s going on?”

He popped the trunk, grabbed his suitcase, and seemed to forget to hug much less kiss me hello. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Applebee appeared in the doorway and meowed in answer.

“Uh,” I said, trying not to give anything away until I knew exactly what he did or didn’t know. “The boys made varsity.”

“That I expected,” he said. “What I didn’t expect was to spend the weekend being wined, dined, and courted only to find out I’m not the only one.”

The relief I felt in realizing he wasn’t referring to my mall adventures was instantly overshadowed by a familiar sense of dread. “You’re not?”

“Apparently, there are two other candidates, both from bigger markets.”

“Oh.”

“More like, oh shit!”

“Didn’t they fly someone down to Florida specifically to meet with you?”

“Which is why I assumed this deal was a dotted line away from mine.”

“Maybe it is.”

“They flew down a
junior
VP.”

“So you think they’re going to go with someone else?”

“I think the ratings for
Frank Finance
are higher than both of the other two combined.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Until the ink’s dry, we both know there’s plenty to worry about,” he said.

Before the butterflies that had taken up permanent residence in my stomach months ago could flutter in ominous agreement, he added, “Which is why I pitched them on a segment I thought up.”

“Which is?

“I’m calling it ‘Family Finance Fixes.’ I’m going to send a reporter out to interview a family in need of a financial intervention and we help them get back on their feet.”

“
Extreme Makeover
financial style!” The feeling of weight bearing down on my chest began to lift. “Honey, that’s brilliant!”

“That’s what they said,” he said. “So I told them it was ready to shoot even though I’d just come up with the concept after I got off the phone with my agent.”

“How long will it take you to pull it together?”

“I spent the day scrambling to get a family, a camera crew, and a reporter lined up.”

“Perfect.”

“Not perfect at all.” Frank shook his head. “I just got a call that Anastasia’s caught up on a special assignment.”

The butterflies flapped their wings. “Anastasia?”

“Anastasia Chastain’s the ideal sidekick—new, young, feisty, and has a head for finance.”

His description—which sounded not unlike how he used to describe me back in the day—might have niggled me a bit, had he not added the next sentence.

“If only her dance card wasn’t full because of some murder that happened at the South Highlands Valley Mall over the weekend.”

“Murder?”

“Apparently some woman was poisoned.”