Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery (17 page)

“I see,” he said, but knit his furry eyebrows into a giant uni-brow of
what the … ?

“Detective McClarkey, I realize I was at Eternally 21 before and during Laila’s collapse, etcetera, etcetera, and that sort of makes me a person of interest until you get back the reports on the food and wrappers you’re having analyzed. I also know conventional wisdom dictates that I steer clear of law enforcement until that happens, instead of waiting for you to finish interviewing Dan Mitchell and Nina Marino—who, from everything I’ve heard, appear suspicious but are likely innocent as can be.”

As I stopped to take a breath, he set his face and squared his shoulders in a posture that could only be described as classic
I can neither confirm nor deny
.

“The thing is, I think I’ve figured out something potentially crucial precisely
because
I was in the wrong place at the right time.”

“And that is?”

“I presume you’ve spoken with Richard, the regional manager at Eternally 21?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss details.”

“Of course not,” I said. “But I’m sure he had an alibi as to his whereabouts on the day of Laila’s demise.”

“I can confirm he was nowhere near the store on the day of Laila’s murder, yes.”

“But these chocolates
were
,” I said. “And Laila DeSimone ate most, if not all, of the others from the same box these came from before she collapsed.”

“Hmmm,” he mumbled, dropping the candy into an evidence bag produced and handed to him by the officer standing beside him. “And you say you got them, how?”

“They were on the counter at Eternally 21 when I was buying the clothes and accessories I’d left after the whole shoplifting debacle. Halfway through the transaction, Laila went into the back to take that call from Richard—the one I told you about when I went down to the station. Hailey took over for her to finish ringing my purchases and urged me to help myself. In fact, she insisted I take the last few because she was allergic, Tara was dieting, and Laila had already had her fill.”

“And you’ve had them in your bag since Friday?”

“In the hubbub that followed, I completely forgot about them,” I said. “Until I heard this morning that
Richard
sent these and other goodies to his bulimic girlfriend/store manager as a perk for meeting weekly sales goals.”

“He sent them himself?”

“Or authorized for them to be sent. His wife, Claudia, who works part-time at the regional offices, could have also done the actual sending. I know she sent a sympathy fruit basket to the store employees despite the fact Laila famously hated fruit.”

“If it was sent in sympathy, it wasn’t intended for Laila,” Detective McClarkey said.

“But it makes quite a statement,” I said. “Particularly if she knew her husband was seeing Laila while their marriage was temporarily on hold.”

“If she knew, being a key question.”

“Well, I know Richard and Laila were seeing each other. I know he wanted to break it off to get back together with his wife, and I know one of those two sent chocolates, most of which Laila ate on the day she died,” I said. “And now you have two she didn’t eat.”

“Interesting.” Detective McClarkey pulled out a pad and pencil. “Very.”

I couldn’t help but exhale with relief. “I thought you’d think so.”

Eighteen

“I’m just thankful no
one in your family ate those chocolates.” Chelsea’s eyes were so big I could practically see my reflection in them.

“You and me both,” I said, thankful for Chelsea, our standing appointment, and the means to blow off my nervous steam.

“I’m just amazed you were able to narrow down so many likely suspects and put everything together for the police.”

I’d done my fair share of spotting TV murderers by virtue of an eyebrow raise or the tears of a too-overwrought husband, but it never once occurred to me I might have the makings of a real investigator. Not until I managed to zero in on what seemed to be the biggest break in the investigation so far. McClarkey might be finding poison in them that he could link to suspects he’d already checked off his list. That I’d picked up enough clues along the way to impress a real-live detective with actual hard evidence was nothing short of heady.

The fact he’d be removing my name as a person of interest as a result was that much more so.

“I wasn’t about to say anything to Detective McClarkey, but Richard and Claudia even fit Griff’s
outside the mall
and Mrs. Piggledy’s
crime of passion
parameters to a T,” I said.

“Impressive.” Chelsea led me across the room toward the free weights. “Next thing you know, the police are going to hire you to work Homicide.”

“I’ll just be happy to hear they’ve made an arrest,” I said. “This whole situation has been so surreal. I mean, Laila collapses right in front of me and the next thing I know, I’m so entwined in the circumstances, I’m practically a suspect.”

“The police couldn’t ever think that you—”

“Of course not,” I said, which was technically true. “But, I’ve been so right in the middle of everything, how could they not have an interest, at the very least, in what I’ve seen and heard?”

Thank God, there was no longer any need to add
fleeting person of
before the word
interest.

My phone rang.

“This could be Frank,” I said, hopeful, since I hadn’t heard from him in hours. I pulled my cell from the hidden pocket in my yoga pants.

The call wasn’t from Frank, but Griff Watson, who I needed to speak with just as much (if not more than) my husband. “Sorry, I’ll only be a minute.”

“Hi, Maddie,” Griff said almost with my hello. “Got your note. I’m not sure I can make it to the taping on Friday, but I’d hate to miss it, so I’m trying to rearrange my schedule.”

“I hope to see you there,” I said, “In the meantime, there’ve been some developments on the Laila DeSimone case.”

“As in the chocolates you turned into the police?”

“You heard?”

“You know how it is around here.”

“I’m learning.”

“Nice detective work,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, assuming his compliment was also his acknowledgement of my innocence. “I’m sure there’ll be more to talk about by Friday if you make it to the taping.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he said.

“I assume that wasn’t Frank?” Chelsea asked as I hung up and tucked my phone away.

“Nope,” I said. “But I also needed to tie up the loose ends at the mall.”

“Promise me you’re done with all that nastiness.”

“Definitely—I was done the second I handed off my information and the candy to Detective McClarkey and left the place to come here.” I was also relieved it was all behind me so I could focus on the crucial task of making sure the TV execs were wowed by all things Michaels.

“Good,” she said. “Although I’ll bet all that sleuthing really burns calories.”

I warmed up with a hamstring stretch. “I’m here covering my bases if it doesn’t.”

“Way to be committed.”

My text alert chirped again.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m afraid I may have to
be
committed by the time this day’s over.”

Chelsea flashed her dazzling smile. “No worries.”

My tummy butterflies fluttered in disagreement, especially when I read the text, which wasn’t from Frank, but from Robin at Manscapers:

Anything for Frank. Tell him I’ll fit him in whenever he can come.

I tried not to take the words out of context as I forwarded it on, but seeing as I hadn’t heard back from him with so much as an errand request, the niggling feeling I’d ignored while I was at the mall was back with a vengeance. I felt sure Frank was up to something.

“Not Frank again, I take it?”

“He’s having a completely crazy day,” I said as much to myself as her.

“Must be. I figured he’d gone out of town again or something when he wasn’t here at his usual bright and early workout time.”

“But it’s all good,” I said, once again as much to myself as her. I hesitated before saying anything else, but knowing my husband, he’d soon be telling everyone he knew to come to the taping to make sure it was standing room only. “Frank just found out some people interested in taking
Frank Finance
national are coming into town tomorrow to meet and then watch Friday’s show.”

“Seriously?” Chelsea squealed.

“Which is why I may need a hall pass on the workouts for the next couple of days.”

“Only if I can get on the guest list for the taping.”

“I’ll put you down as a VIP.”

“Awesome.” She led me toward an incline bench equipped with an imposing set of dumbbells. “Sit. We have work to do today to make sure we have you looking your very best!”

There was no arguing with her logic—until she added another weight to each side of the bar and motioned for me to start lifting. “Three sets of eight.”

For the first time since I’d committed to Chelsea’s fanatical fitness regime, I barely felt the weight as she began to count out the first set.

“I can’t believe our own Frank Finance Michaels is going big time,” she said between counts. “You have to be so excited!”

“I am.” The potential boost to both Frank’s career and the insta-repair to our financial situation were almost too heady to consider. “If the execs are as jazzed up after they get here as they were when he pitched them this new segment, I think there’s a good chance it’ll happen.”

“I think I may have overheard him mention it when he was in last,” Chelsea said. “Something about looking for families who need help with their financial issues?”

“Exactly,” I said, feeling vindicated Frank had already started to pass along his news.

“He’s doing it with Anastasia Chastain, right?”

I almost dropped the weights onto my chest.

Chelsea grabbed the bar just in time and hoisted it onto the stand. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said, taking a deep breath and the opportunity to check my phone.

No messages, emails, or texts.

“Nothing from Frank?”

“Not yet,” I said, glancing at an inquiry that had come in via email for Mrsfrugalicious with a re: line of
I want to advertise on frugalicious.com.
“But he’s totally swamped trying to pull together that new segment in time for Friday’s taping.”

“I can’t imagine everything that has to get done.”

“The details are endless,” I said. “Which is why I’m surprised I haven’t heard from him for a couple of hours.”

“You’ll hear from him soon, I’m sure.” Chelsea rolled the bar off the hooks and handed it to me. “In the meantime …”

She led me through another set.

“I can hardly believe it,” Chelsea said in the thirty-second break before the final set. “By this time next year, Frank Finance Michaels and Anastasia Chastain could be household names!”

“Stasia,” I mumbled under my breath.

“Stasia?”

“That’s what Frank calls her.”

Chelsea counted to eight and motioned me off the incline bench. Then she led me over to the squat machine, set the weight stack, and situated me between the shoulder pads. “Am I sensing some angst on your part about Channel Three’s pretty young reporter?”

I bent then straightened without locking my knees. “Not at all.”

“You sure?” she asked.

“Positive,” I said, but as I lowered into another squat, I couldn’t miss Chelsea’s raised eyebrow. “I guess I’m still hanging on a little longer than I should to a conversation I overheard him having with what had to be her last night.”

“And?”

“And … ” I couldn’t quite bring myself to admit I’d been listening in with my faulty Eavesdropper. “I know I heard whatever he was saying wrong, but when he went off this morning with her and hasn’t been in communication … ”

“Your imagination started to play tricks on you?”

“Maybe a little,” I admitted.

Chelsea corrected my form. “What do you think you heard wrong?”

I heard myself sigh. “I think I may have overheard him saying something to the effect of
love it
or
I love it
… ”

“Sounds pretty run of the mill to me.”

“I know.” I cleared my throat to keep my voice from cracking. “It’s just the L word somehow keeps tumbling around in my brain.”

She counted silently before stopping me at fifteen. “But what does your gut say?”

My gut, which despite the exercise, was threatening to spill over the top of my roll waist yoga pants grumbled in response. “That I shouldn’t be overthinking one side of a very muffled conversation.”

Hip-hop background music and the clang of weights filled the dead air between us for the entirety of the third and final squat set.

“I totally understand why you might be concerned about an attractive, ambitious young reporter circling Frank,” Chelsea finally said. “I’m sure I’d feel the same way, if it were me.”

“You would?”

“But you shouldn’t. He’s too committed a family man and far too smart to even think about risking such an incredible opportunity by mixing business with pleasure.”

The word
pleasure
sent the most unpleasant of shivers down my spine. “I’m sure you’re right, but … ”

“But assuming the worst leads to frowning, which we know causes wrinkles.”

My text alert pinged.

Chelsea squeezed the handle releasing the weight stack from my shoulders. “I’ll bet that’s your handsome husband now.”

As my psychic fitness guru promised, it was indeed Frank:

Just out of a meeting with staff and crew.

“Is it?” Chelsea asked.

I nodded. “He was in a meeting with the
Frank Finance
team.”

“I’m not one to gloat over such an accurate I told you so.” Chelsea smiled. “But …”

Everything’s in motion.

I wrote back. My fingers were still shaky, but I felt much less so:

Terrific!

Except for one great idea.

Which is?

A cocktail party to meet and greet the execs.

That is a great idea!

Glad you agree.

When?

Tomorrow night.

Where?

How does our house grab you?

Our house?

That is if you’d be willing/able to put on one of your killer parties.

“Everything okay?” Chelsea asked.

Despite the shock and simultaneous tsunami of panic the idea of pulling a party together in a little more than twenty-four hours gave me, I managed to nod. “He wants me to have the network execs over for cocktails tomorrow night.”

“Sounds fun,” Chelsea said.

More like
fun
damentally impossible given the time frame.

I assume the tab’s on us?

Exactly.

Meaning it was also financially impossible for Frank to host such an event anywhere but our house.

Please say you will?

We did have liquor on hand I’d purchased at various stock-up sales, and the storage room and basement freezer were full of food.

Would mean everything to me.

The truth was, I really liked that Frank both needed and wanted me to help pull out all the stops for the national TV people.

I finally typed back:

Six-thirty pm on the back patio?

My text alert pinged and the display filled with Xs and Os from my loving, appreciative, doing everything he could to get us back on track
husband.