Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery (19 page)

“Not the weirdest reason I’ve seen.”

“Weird enough to be completely, utterly untrue! I didn’t know the food on Tara’s tray was for Laila. I didn’t know about her food issues until after this supposed switch occurred. And, even if she did get my drink, it wouldn’t have harmed her. I’ve been taking the stuff daily for weeks. Bye Bye Fat is all natural and totally EPHEDRA-FREE.”

Detective McClarkey gave me a
yeah right
look that put all of my teenager’s various expressions of disbelief to shame.

“I can prove it,” I said. “I’ll go inside and get you the bottle.”

“Sounds like a start,” he said, reaching for his phone, which was once again ringing to the
Hawaii Five-O
theme.

I made my way in and out of my bathroom medicine cabinet with the last of my Bye Bye Fat and a glass of water. I rushed back downstairs. I pointed out the “100%
Ephedra-Free
” label, swallowed one capsule to prove my point, and dropped the bottle into Detective McClarkey’s evidence bag.

When he finally left without a
don’t go fleeing the country,
I closed the door behind him, took more than a few seconds to collect myself, and turned back for the party.

Anastasia stood in the front hall, blocking my way.

She cupped my elbow and led me toward the kitchen. “We need to talk.”

I wasn’t sure what felt more ominous, the imminent threat of a breathy confession about my husband, or the threat inherent in Detective McClarkey’s lack of a signature sign-off. Was I already on some fugitive watch list where alarms would sound, my passport would be shredded, and I would be shackled before I could so much as attempt a midnight border crossing?

We reached the kitchen, where I tried to brace myself for whatever was coming next by leaning against the center island at a strategic angle to block Anastasia’s window view of Detective McClarkey getting into his police cruiser.

“This is really awkward,” she said.

There was no way to still the shaking in my knees. “Maybe right now isn’t the best time to talk about—”

“How the police consider you a prime suspect in the DeSimone murder?”

“You know?” I rasped, unable to accept the mind-boggling nightmare I was suddenly living.

“I have a source in the police department who was kind enough to give me a heads up before the doorbell rang.” She looked around me and out the window as Detective McClarkey drove away in his unmarked cruiser. “So while you were in the front yard, I was in back distracting Frank, the network execs, and anyone else who might have wondered why you were being questioned by a detective.”

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Me either,” she said.

“This is all a big, terrible misunderstanding.” My voice, like the rest of me was cracking. “The police will have toxicology tests back by Monday and everything will be cleared up.”

“I’m sure,” she said with even less conviction than I’d expected. “But that’s what I thought a couple of days ago when I heard you were merely a person of interest.”

“You’ve known for days?”

“If only you’d kept your nose out of the investigation, your name might have already been cleared.”

“You have to know I didn’t do anything!”

“That doesn’t matter right now.”

“I would never have—”

“We’ll figure out how to spin this whole thing later.” She shook her head. “What matters now is keeping this absolutely quiet until James Jarvis and Michael Perkins hand Frank a contract tomorrow and he hands it back, signed.”

“Oh God,” I put my face in my hands. “What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to keep it together!” she fairly scolded me.

I was certain a sobering slap would have followed had she seen a single mascara-threatening tear. “How do we keep anyone else
from finding out?”

“Let me worry about that,” she said. “In the meantime, you keep your mouth absolutely shut about the police narrowing down their suspect list to just you.”

Frank’s deep laugh echoed from the back patio.

“Especially to him,” she said.

We both turned toward the back patio and looked at Frank, deep in conversation with the national TV execs. A nervous, repetitive hand through the hair belied the bundle of nerves we apparently both knew lay beneath his handsome, confident demeanor.

If only she knew how high the stakes really were.

“We need to get through the taping tomorrow without giving Frank a single moment’s pause for concern,” Anastasia said.

“Agreed,” I said.

“And not a word to anyone until every last
i
and
t
of the contract is inked afterwards.”

I nodded.

“Just keep on playing Stepford Wife extraordinaire, and I’ll do everything I have to from my end to make sure no one else gets wind of this.”

“I will,” I said, too in shock to object to whatever it was she was doing on her end. “Thank you.”

She checked her reflection in the door of the microwave and smiled at Frank, who’d spotted the two of us in the kitchen and was headed our way. “It’s my future on the line here, too.”

Twenty-One

Stepford Wife Extraordinaire.

Despite feeling more like a panicked robot than a trophy wife, I somehow upheld my end of the bargain for the remainder of the party—smiling, fielding compliments, refilling appetizer trays, and smiling at jokes I couldn’t begin to process through the thick haze of shock enveloping my soul.

The party dwindled and ended.

The patio got picked up and the dishes somehow done.

Frank took a sleeping pill to make sure he’d look and feel his best in the morning.

Exhausted from two straight days on my feet and the idea of spending the rest of my days in an orange jumpsuit while my husband cavorted with his attractive co-hostess, I was sure I’d pass out the second my head hit the pillow. Instead, I spent hours counting not sheep, but circumstantial evidence against me:

1. Altercation with Laila.
   
2. I was stupid enough to say, “You’ll pay for this.”
   
3. That damned email to Eternally 21 corporate.
   
4. Put BBF into my drink in plain sight.
   
5. Crashed into Tara’s tray.
   
6. Went to the police department claiming death was accidental.
   
7. Went back to mall.
   
8. Listening device that didn’t tape.
   
9. Chocolates to police.
   
10. Back to mall again …
    

By four a.m. I’d given up on the prospect of sleep and was at the computer poring over the suspect spreadsheet Griff had convinced me to abandon. Maybe he could summarily dismiss suspects on the basis of friendship, but I couldn’t afford to stumble past any clues. Not with Detective McClarkey racing down a wrong road that dead-ended with me.

I scanned the names/categories:

1. Tara Hu
   
2. Andy Oliver
   
3. Hailey Rosenberg
   
4. Richard the Regional Manager
   
5. Claudia—Mrs. Regional Manager
   
6. Shoshanna from Whimsies
   
7. Animal Rights Activists
   
8. Cleaning Crew
   
9. Food Court Employees
   

A.
Katia

B.
Anyone with access to Laila’s beverage

For the sake of fairness in reporting possible criminal wrongdoing, I added:

1. Nina Marino
   
2. Dan Mitchell
   

Everyone on the list hated Laila, had a motive to want her gone, and could have known she was bulimic, but I now knew whoever killed her had to have had access to her drink that morning.

Meaning the Animal Rights Activists and the Cleaning Crew were once again out; none of them were anywhere close to Laila’s drink the day of the murder. Even though the tests hadn’t been finalized on the chocolates, Richard and his wife also had to be crossed off. If they weren’t at the mall, they couldn’t possibly have poisoned her beverage.

The food court employees including Katia and even Nina Marino were a little trickier. Any one of them could have spiked her drink, but only before Tara and I collided. If neither the police nor any witnesses, including me, knew for sure if Laila had ended up with her intended beverage, wouldn’t the killer have had to add the poison after the accident?

I put a red line through several more names.

Which left four names that needed reexamining:

1. Shoshanna from Whimsies
   

Shoshanna hated Laila, knew she was bulimic, and had just left Eternally 21, where Laila’s drink was sitting on the back counter. Question was, how realistic was it to think she not only knew it was Laila’s beverage but had the opportunity to dump the poison into the cup?

On a scale of 1 to 4 (4 being most likely to have murdered Laila), I gave her a 2.

1. Hailey Rosenberg
   

Hailey definitely knew the drink was Laila’s and had the opportunity to tamper with it while her boss was in the back office, but would she have? Laila did refer to her as Whorely and gave her the slave treatment, but from everything I could tell, she was one of the few people who had positive feelings toward her mercurial store manager.

I gave her a 1.

Which left two prime suspects.

1. Tara Hu
   
2. Andy Oliver
   

Both hated Laila, knew she was bulimic, and—despite Griff’s protestations about their stellar character—were the only people who had direct, unfettered access to Laila’s drink.

Besides me.

I gave them a shared 4. If I had to guess, they were more likely in it together than not.

Once again, I began to list suspicious facts, but this time about Tara and Andy:

1. Bought, saved, and delivered Laila’s drink.
   
2. Andy’s comment that she’s just going to scarf and barf it.
   
3. Laila didn’t approve of their relationship.
   
4. Tara HO.
   
5. Laila’s threats to let Tara go.
   
6. Andy considered Laila’s death justifiable homicide.
   
7. Andy’s whodunit wager—subterfuge … ?
   
8. The Eavesdropper—did Andy give it to me so I could spy for him … ?
   

Had the sun not come up, I might have finally dozed off confident that the police had at least two other people to whom they needed to turn their attention.

The biggest question was, would they?

Twenty-Two

Not having slept, I
was “up” early enough to have eggs, bacon, toast, and steaming coffee ready for my husband on his big day. I woke the boys, showered, and dressed in a pale-pink cap-sleeved designer dress I’d worn more than a few times, but never to the station. I accessorized and applied makeup, all the while trying to convince myself I was and had been asleep, just trapped in a horrible dream.

I continued to tell myself I was still mid-
day
mare as we drove to the TV station, parked in the visitor’s lot, and entered the building. I feigned calm, cool, and collected as we made our way through the newsroom and down the hallways of Channel Three toward the green room for a quick hello to various friends, acquaintances, and other assorted VIPs.

As soon as an intern arrived to usher a studio tour, the boys descended on the leftover donuts and I rushed down the hall to Frank’s (thankfully empty) dressing room, where I hid in his bathroom under the auspices of checking my hair and makeup.

I emerged looking what I hoped was somewhat nonplussed, but then I saw Griff Watson standing in the doorway of Frank’s dressing room.

“You made it,” I said.

“And already had a tour of the studio.” Griff looked like I felt, both comforted by a familiar face and rattled just the same. “I came in here thinking Frank might be around so I could shake hands with him before the show started.”

“You haven’t seen him yet this morning?”

“I did, but—”

A commanding, masculine sneeze rang down the hall.

And again.

“Maybe that’s him,” I said.

Griff peered down the hallway. “No one seems to be out there.”

“With everything going on this morning, I may have to introduce you
after
the show.”

“I’ll need to take off as soon as it’s over,” Griff said, “but this has already been so great. Thanks for getting me on the VIP list.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, glad to have been able to provide him a glimpse into a part of what I feared would soon be my former life.

A life that included the distinctive nails-on-a-chalkboard giggle emanating from Anastasia’s brand-spanking-new dressing room directly across the hall.

“I owe you one for this,” Anastasia said in a barely audible voice that, to me, might as well have been broadcast with a bullhorn. “In fact, how about I promise to pay you back three or four times?”

The sneeze—distinctive in that it was more
haukchoo
than
achoo
—wasn’t familiar, but could it have come from Frank, who’d escaped detection by slipping into Stasia’s dressing room instead of his own? I put my head down to will away the pins and needles of the impending tear flood I simply could not allow to break free.

“Are you okay?” Griff asked.

I forced a nod, thinking about Anastasia’s warning not to talk to anyone about my situation.
It’s my future on the line here, too.

Her future with my husband while I did time for a crime I didn’t commit?

“You sure?” Griff asked.

I wasn’t sure about much of anything beyond my promise not to say anything to anyone until the show was over and the deal signed. Concern filled Griff’s hazel eyes while I blinked away the tears trying to fill mine.

Didn’t Griff qualify as more than just anyone?

I didn’t relish the idea of telling him or anyone else my suspicions about Frank, much less that I’d erroneously risen to the top of the police suspect list, but considering I’d finished our last conversation offering more information on the Laila DeSimone case, he was bound to have a few questions.

Would it really make a difference to anyone but me if I provided a few answers now, as opposed to an hour or so from now?

He wanted to see justice served almost as badly as I did. He was practically in law enforcement himself, and he already knew I was a person of interest. Most important, wasn’t Griff the one person who might be able to help make sense of what was going on and what, if anything I could do about it?

Anastasia’s sexy laugh echoed down the hallway and her door clicked closed.

There was no denying that I needed all the help I could get.

“I’m afraid that Fr … ” I took a deep breath. “I’m afraid whatever’s going on across the hall may be the least of my current worries.”

Griff looked almost as confused as I felt.

I took another, deeper breath and forced myself to formulate the gut-wrenching combination of
they, think, I, did, it.

Griff looked as though he hadn’t heard or couldn’t absorb what I’d just managed to utter.

“Detective McClarkey showed up at my house,” I started. I found myself recounting every detail of the encounter, beginning with his untimely appearance at the cocktail party and including everything from the revelation that Ephedra was found in Laila’s drink to the police’s theory of how I’d avenged her shoplifting accusation by spiking my diet soda and crashing my tray into Tara’s. I left nothing out, ending with the Bye Bye Fat I’d swallowed before handing off the remainder of the bottle for analysis and Anastasia’s self-interested warning to keep my mouth shut and sit tight until the contract was signed.

When I finished, Griff simply shook his head.

The silence that followed was so deafening I was afraid I could hear his judgment over the thump of my heart.

“That’s a lot to process,” he finally said.

“Griff, you have to know I had no idea Laila was bulimic, or that the food was even intended for her until
after
I supposedly smashed into Tara and made it so Andy would switch out our drinks. How could I have assumed she would die from consuming my metabolism booster anyway? Bye Bye Fat is EPHEDRA-FREE for goodness sake!”

“And you’ve been taking that stuff?”

“For weeks.”

Another forever of seconds passed before Griff finally shook his head. “I agree. Something doesn’t add up.”

“Which is why I need your help,” I said, beyond relieved. Thankful he still believed, at least theoretically, in my innocence. “Detective McClarkey didn’t seem to hear me when I tried to tell him what I’ve just told you.”

“That much circumstantial evidence is hard to overlook.”

“I know. I was sure Richard and Claudia were involved until I heard the Ephedra was found in Laila’s drink,” I said. “I spent at lot of last night looking over the spreadsheet again.”

“Of people we already narrowed down?”

“We narrowed them down before we knew how and when the poison was administered.” I paused to make sure the rustling I thought I heard in the hall was just my imagination. I needed to figure out exactly how to couch my suspicions in a way that wouldn’t offend Griff’s loyalties. “The last thing I want to do is pile up false circumstantial evidence like Detective McClarkey is doing against me, but there were four people who had access to Laila’s drink after our trays crashed.”

He thought for a moment. “Hailey?”

I nodded. “She was up front alone with the drink.”

“I still think it’s unlikely she’d have poisoned Laila.”

“Agreed, but worth a second look,” I said. “And, there’s Shoshanna, who was in the store right before Laila collapsed.”

“It seems unlikely she’d have access to that drink without Hailey noticing.”

“But not impossible.” I was glad Griff was objective about rethinking the possibilities. Still, I dreaded saying the next two names. “Which leaves—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Griff, I’d love to rule them out,” I said, hating his pained expression. “But if you add Andy and Tara’s knowledge of her bulimia to the comments he made about her, combined with Laila’s disapproval of their relationship and the fact they delivered the fatal drink, they look every bit as guilty—”

“As you?”

I willed myself not to break down into a sobbing heap. “I didn’t do it, Griff.”

“I don’t think
they
did it, either.”

“But I wasn’t taking money in the form of wagers that would ultimately help the killer’s defense fund, like Andy is doing.”

Griff closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a nightmare.”

“A nightmare I can’t wake up from or go to sleep because of,” I said. “Around four thirty, I realized … ”

“What?”

“I realized it’s even more likely that Tara crashed into
me
on purpose than that I ran into her.”

Before he could respond, our conversation was halted by the distinctive click of high heels approaching from down the hallway. The next thing I knew, Chelsea appeared in the doorway, entered the dressing room, and was embracing me in a big, badly needed, conversation-ending bear hug. “I thought I’d find you in here!”

“Chelsea,” I said, smoothing my hair and now certain her C-cups were of the store-bought variety. “This is—”

“Hello, Griff!” She treated him to her dazzling smile.

“I forgot, you two must know each other from the gym.”

“I didn’t get a chance to say hi yet,” Griff said.

“Blame it on Frank,” Chelsea said. “Your husband was so sweet, he came right over as soon as he saw me and showed me around himself.”

“I’m glad,” I said.

“More glad about that party last night, I bet,” Chelsea said. “Word is, it was a huge hit.”

“That it was,” I managed, not making eye contact with Griff.
Lights flashed and an announcer’s voice reverberated down the hall: “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats in preparation for the show.”

As people began to file into the hall, a staffer knocked on Anastasia’s door.

“Coming,” she said.

I felt faint.

The feeling got worse when the boys popped their heads into the dressing room.

“Where’s Dad?” Trent asked.

“Not sure,” I managed, praying the boys wouldn’t be standing there when Frank answered the question by opening Anastasia’s dressing room while straightening his tie.

“Last I saw him, he was headed for a lighting check,” Chelsea said, heading into the hallway.

I held my breath as the door to Anastasia’s dressing room clicked open.

Thankfully, she was alone.

There was no missing how business savvy she looked with her blond hair pinned into an up-do and tortoise shell glasses, or how stylish the skinny lapel on her tailored suit was—or the
keep it together
look she shot in my direction on her way toward the stage.

“Break a leg, Ms. Chastain!” Chelsea said, turning to wink at me.

Before the boys took off for backstage and Chelsea and Griff disappeared out the doorway to the audience seating area, he pulled me aside. “I’ll look into a few things and get back to you.”

“Welcome to
Frank Finance
.” My husband smiled into the camera, looking as primetime as I’d ever seen him in a trim-fit, two-button Italian suit; navy tie; and French blue shirt. “Today we’re devoting the show to a special segment we’re calling ‘Family Finance Fixes’ … ”

From my spot in the wings, I located both Griff and Chelsea in the audience. Thanks to his offer of help and her support, my panic had been downgraded from red into a more Stepford Wife–suitable high orange.

Anastasia was seated in the chair beside Frank’s set desk looking younger, prettier, and more color coordinated with my husband than I cared to admit. I’d have to face that situation soon, but luckily there’d been no mortifying scene in the hall outside her dressing room to disrupt anything.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Frank looked out into the studio audience. “Anastasia and I would like to introduce you to an ordinary American family facing some extraordinary financial challenges.”

As the camera panned the front row and settled on the moist-eyed recipients of Frank’s financial grace, I noted the pleased nods of the network execs.

A taped segment of the family standing in front of their suburban split-level began to roll.

“Meet the Wilsons.” Anastasia’s prerecorded voice filled the studio. “They’re really just like you and me. Two kids. Two cars. The trappings of a very good life …”

The scene on the studio screen shifted to Anastasia standing ag
ainst the backdrop of an oak cabinet and granite tile kitchen. “Who could have predicted that a few financial fouls could so quickly derail this normal American family from the path of plenty and onto the rockiest of roads?”

I’d been to enough tapings of
Frank Financ
e to feel the positive energy in the air and sense the road was about to get smoother. For him, anyway.

A contract would be presented after the show.

The details would be hammered out.

Signatures and handshakes would follow.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilson—teary-eyed, holding hands, and seated on folding chairs where their couch had presumably been—looked into the camera. Mr. Wilson cleared his throat. “It all started when we refinanced to get the equity out of our house.”

As Mr. Wilson began to describe the timeshare they’d been strong-
armed into purchasing and a half-dozen other financial pitfalls that left them weeks away from foreclosure—not to mention the repossession of one car and the destruction of their credit score and future as they knew it—I began to relax about at least one aspect of my own future. Once the deal was inked, I could have Chelsea confirm I’d been taking Bye Bye Fat for weeks. I’d check in with Griff as to what he’d learned about Hailey, Shoshanna, Andy, and Tara. Regardless of their guilt, Andy and Tara would surely corroborate that I didn’t know about Laila’s bulimia or that the food and drink was intended for her until after our trays collided.

“If my husband hadn’t gotten laid off in the middle of everything … ” Mrs. Wilson began to weep softly. “You have to know we’re just not the kind of people to let things pile up like this.”