Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery (6 page)

She slid the key into the lock.

He opened the door and offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Detective McClarkey.”

“Maddie Michaels,” I said, trying not to wince from his overly firm handshake. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you in the midst of all of this, but Tara Hu told me I could come by and get my ID.”

“Your driver’s license was left at the register, which is behind the yellow tape.” He pointed a thick finger toward the back of the store. “So, technically, it’s evidence.”

“Even in a situation like this?”

“Standard procedure,” he said.

“Despite the medical nature of the situation?”

“I’m not at liberty to give out personal information about Ms. DeSimone’s demise.” He added a friendly
we’re in this together
wink. “But between us …”

I waited for the answer to the question that had looped endlessly in mind.

“This is looking pretty routine.”

“Okay.” I managed.

“And I wouldn’t want you to be breaking any laws by driving around while not in possession of a license.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out my ID.

“Thank you,” I said as he handed back what suddenly felt like my most prized possession.

Detective McClarkey winked again. “Now don’t go fleeing the country or anything.”

“Yes, we’ve heard all the rumors about what happened to poor Laila,” Mr. Piggledy said. His deep voice echoed through the store without the big top music they’d silenced out of respect. “Some of them are just wacky.”

“Which is to be expected,” Mrs. Piggledy tucked a tendril of curly gray hair back into her bun. “Given that Mercury is in retrograde.”

“And causing its typical confusion where communications and expectations are concerned,” Mr. Piggledy said.

Higgledy the monkey seemed to nod in agreement.

“Which is why it’s no surprise that no one really knows what happened,” Mrs. Piggledy said.

“Yet,” Mr. Piggledy said.

“Other than that a valued member of our mall community has crossed over,” Mrs. Piggledy

“Way too young.” Mr. Piggledy shook his head.

“And then there’s the shock of it all,” Mrs. Piggledy said, handing me a bottle of water from the 1950s refrigerator where they kept ice cream and birthday treats cool. “Look how pale our friend Maddie is, and she didn’t even know Laila until yesterday.”

“And had to help ease her transition to the other side.”

Both of the Piggledys smiled at me with concern.

Mr. Piggledy furrowed his brow. “You know—”

“Laila’s family will do something back home in Nebraska.” Mrs. Piggledy said finishing his sentence.

“I thought I heard Kansas,” Mr. Piggledy said.

“Either way,” Mrs. Piggledy said. “We should have something for everyone here.”

“To help them get the closure they need,” Mr. Piggledy said.

“Exactly.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Mr. Piggledy asked.

“I believe I am.”

“What are you thinking?” I asked, interrupting their tandem conversation.

“Mall memorial service,” they said in unison.

“You have to be there, Maddie,” Mrs. Piggledy said. “It’s just what we all need.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll need to hire a minister,” Mr. Piggledy said.

“Mr. Piggledy took a course over the Internet to get ordained.” Mrs. Piggledy, looked adoringly at her round, ruddy-faced husband. “And I’m sure the food court will cater.”

“I’ll call the mall offices and see if Sunday evening works,” Mr. Piggledy said. “A sunset service.”

“Perfect,” they said in unison again.

The phone began to ring before Mr. Piggledy had crossed the store.

“Circus Circus,” he answered.

Mrs. Piggledy and I sat beside each other on twin hippo carousel benches, while Mr. Piggledy emitted a series of
uh-huhs
,
hmms,
and
I sees
. “Yes, she’s here too. We were just discussing plans for a mall memorial service.”

“That has to be Patricia from the executive offices. So interesting that she was in tune with our non-verbal energy.” Mrs. Piggledy said. “Ask her—”

Mr. Piggledy held up a finger. “Why don’t you tell her yourself?” he said into the phone.

The bench creaked as Mrs. Piggledy hefted her girth from the bench.

“It’s not for you,” Mr. Piggledy said to his wife, pointing the handset in my direction. “It’s for Maddie.”

“Me?”

“It’s Griff Watson.”

I was off my bench and across the room before Mrs. Piggledy had resettled herself. “Griff?”

“I hear you’ve been looking for me.” His voice sounded strained and gravelly.

“It’s just … this has all been so shocking. I wanted to know what happened and no one seems to know exactly, so I figured you—”

“A stroke.”

“A stroke?” Laila may have been a lot closer to thirty-one than twenty-one but a stroke? “Are you sure?”

He sighed. “All I’m sure of is I should have done more for Laila.”

“Crazy!” Trent said.

“Still can’t believe Chili’s a mom,” FJ’s voice cracked.

Crazy
didn’t begin to describe the cat’s circumstances, much less anything else that had happened since Frank left for Miami.

After all, Mercury was in retrograde.

I wasn’t one to buy into astrological hocus-pocus, but considering I’d stepped into the mall on Friday morning intent on some bargain shopping tidbits for Mrs. Frugalicious and would be attending a memorial service Sunday night as a result, something of cosmic significance had to be going on.

Not to mention a seemingly immaculate birth in the midst of everything, which I marked by splurging on take-out—using buy-one-entrée-get-the-second-free coupons and some cash from my
Keeping Appearances Up and the Boys’ Suspicions Down
fund.

As the boys celebrated Chili’s miracle additions to our family by chowing down on her namesake’s signature baby back ribs and burgers, picnic-style in front of the upended sectional, I eyed the sweet corn soup and side Caesar I’d picked up for myself. All the turmoil had my stomach rumbling in a way no soup and salad combo could possibly satisfy. Instead of the corn chowder, I grabbed three ribs and half a burger, and sat down in front of the kitchen computer. Narrowly avoiding a barbecue sauce/keyboard accident as I took a bite, I typed in the word
stroke
and clicked on an official website of some sort.

Watch for these signs and symptoms if you think you or someone else may be having a stroke: Difficulty speaking: Inability to speak, slurred speech, or words that sound fine but do not make sense. Coordination problems: Lack of coordination, stumbling, difficulty walking or picking up objects. Dizziness: Feelings of drunkenness or dizziness and/or difficulty swallowing. Vision problem: Double vision, loss of peripheral (side) vision, or blindness. Sudden headache: A sudden, severe headache that may strike “out of the blue.”

Laila’s slurred speech, stumbling, and dizziness mimicked heavy drinking almost exactly. Combined with that sudden headache and followed by the final most telling of all the stroke symptoms,
loss of consciousness,
there could be no doubt as to the cause of death.

More important, there was little more either Griff or I could have done about it:
There are only two things you can do which are lifesaving in themselves. First, you should immediately call 911. Second, take note of the time when the symptoms appeared so clot-busting drugs can be administered within the three-hour window of opportunity.

I took a deep breath.

Laila’s tragic situation had been put to rest, as it were. Even though I’d have preferred to be the old Maddie Michaels who wouldn’t have been bargain shopping at Eternally 21 in the first place, I had a new, exciting secret identity. Judging by the length of the to-do list I’d left sitting atop the printer, I also had a not-so-thrilling and hopefully temporary role to play as Frank’s Girl Friday.

Before I got started, I crossed my fingers he’d come home with great news and logged on to Mrs. Frugalicious for a quick peek at what was brewing with the Frugarmy.

The first message, entitled,
Please, Mrs. Frugalicious?
was from that
Here’s the Deal
magazine and encouraged me to reconsider the offer of an interview.

“Whatcha doin’, Mom?” said FJ, the more curious of the twins asked, stopping to look over my shoulder on his way back to the kitchen for seconds.

I quickly clicked out of the website, plucked Frank’s list from atop the computer, and began to read:

1. Call Young Entrepreneurs of Denver to confirm speaking engagement.
   
2. Need dark socks.
   
3. Call
   Colorado Today Magazine
   to schedule meeting re: financial column…
   

“I’m just looking over some things your dad needs me to do.”

“Why doesn’t his assistant do that stuff anymore?”

“Because he’s between assistants,” I managed, hating to have to tell a lie even that lily white.

“Gotcha,” FJ said.

“I think
Family Guy
is on,” Trent said, picking up the remote from the upturned couch.

“Sweet,” FJ said.

“Quietly,” I said as FJ loaded his plate with ribs and headed back from the kitchen to join his brother. “I’m trying to focus.”

Trent pointed the remote at the TV.

The volume blared at the usual teen-happy super decibel of whatever they were watching last and a wide-angle shot of the South Highlands Valley Mall filled the screen.

“Louder!” I said.

“I thought you said—”

“Shhh and don’t change the channel,” I managed, watching none other than Anastasia Chastain—of the business card in Frank’s gym bag fame—looking equal parts fetching and grim. “Memorial services will be held tomorrow for Laila DeSimone, a beloved member of the South Highlands Valley Mall community. She collapsed Friday around one p.m. after what mall officials are calling a stroke.”

“That isn’t the woman you were talking about that you helped the other day, is it?” FJ asked.

“How many people could have collapsed while Mom was out shopping?” Trent asked.

“Shh!” I said again.

“It was awful.” A woman appeared beside Anastasia who roughly fit my description—late thirties-ish, medium height, blondish shoulder length hair. “I shop at this mall all the time, and I’ve never seen anyone wheeled off like that.”

“So she did die?” Trent asked.

“Trent!” FJ said.

My delicious dinner began to churn in my stomach.

“Doctors say the chances of a fatal stroke in someone this young and healthy are highly rare.” The reporter looked into the camera and offered as serious an expression as she could muster given her Kewpie-doll looks. “Police have made no official comment yet, but sources tell News Three that initial autopsy results were inconclusive.”

Seven

I’d watched enough crime
dramas to know an autopsy was all but routine after any unexpected death, suspicious or not. And I’d been around TV stations enough to know producers were never beyond a sprinkling of good old-fashioned sensationalism on a slow news day. Still, the word
inconclusive
kept rolling through my head as I looked around at the weepy, standing-room-only crowd at Laila’s memorial service. Detective McClarkey told me himself the investigation looked
pretty routine
. Any hint of what seemed to be general antipathy for the woman was all but drowned out by the sniffles, sobs, and the occasional honk of a nose blow echoing off the glass storefronts surrounding the center courtyard of the South Highlands Valley Mall.

“I would like to read a poem by William Wordsworth.” Dan Mitchell, the dapper mall manager
cleared his throat and leaned in toward the mic set in front of the indoor rock water feature.

“She dwelt among the untrodden ways.

Beside the springs of Dove;

A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love … ”

Nina Marino, one of the few real friends Laila had in the place, looked pale, wan, and miserable as her boyfriend recited the rest of the poem.

“That was lovely.” Mr. Piggledy wore a crushed velvet robe that must have been made by Mrs. Piggledy since it matched both his wife’s apron dress and the swanky short pants suit Higgledy the monkey wore for the occasion. He put a hand to the mall manager’s back and sent him toward his seat. “A fitting sentiment in these oh so difficult to accept circumstances.”

In the front row, Tara Hu erupted into a dramatic high-pitched wail. As she buried her head into a red-eyed Andy Oliver’s shoulder, I couldn’t help but think about how she might have been teetering on the edge of being fired. As for him, he’d not only called Laila a
beyotch
but openly hoped she’d choke on her French fries.

“We have lost one who is very near to us, and we all feel that loss deeply, painfully, and as a community,” Mr. Piggledy said. “But, be assured, the Places Beyond are pleasing, beautiful, and far from the cares of this reality. A place where a forever young, beautiful, and vital Laila DeSimone now frolics happily, waiting to greet us with open arms when our turn comes to pass on into the non-physical.”

The man I presumed to be Richard the regional manager—on account of his salt and pepper good looks, expensive suit, and position on the other side of Tara—dabbed his eyes with a tissue. To my horror, he put his arm around the attractive, well-dressed brunette in her early forties seated beside him.

As she wiped away one of the tears staining her otherwise flawless foundation, there was no missing the enormous diamond on her left hand.

I looked up at Griff, who was stationed halfway up the central courtyard steps overlooking the proceedings. I tried to catch his attention for some pointing-to-my-ring-finger-and-then-to-
Mrs.-Richard
sign language, but the mall cop stood bolt upright and stone-faced with his back to me.

“Oh, dear,” I whispered aloud.

“What is it?” Mrs. Piggledy, who’d saved a seat for me, asked.

“I’m sure I’m wrong, but the man I assumed was Laila’s regional manager and boyfriend appears to be married.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Mrs. Piggledy said. “From the way she flirted with the married men around this mall, I’d say she preferred them that way.”

“How awful.”

“Which is why I never left her alone with my sweetie.” She looked adoringly at squat, round, bespectacled Mr. Piggledy, who still stood in front of the crowd.

“As I once heard said,” Mr. Piggledy said with a hint of a trill as he returned his wife’s loving gaze, “to live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die.”

Patricia, the mall office receptionist, seated in the second row behind the Eternally 21 employees and beside her boss, nodded. “So true,” she said in a stage whisper.

Higgledy tucked his head under the crook of Mrs. Piggledy’s arm and emitted the monkey version of a sigh.

“Higgledy seems to be mourning right along,” I said.

“I don’t know about that. He hasn’t been a fan of Laila since she told him he belonged on a leash,” Mrs. Piggledy whispered and pointed to the exotic bird perched on the shoulder of a man seated three rows over. “I think it’s more that he has a hopeless crush on the store parrot at Pet Pals.”

Phil from Whatapizza stepped up to the podium with Jaynie from the French Fried. “As Euripides once said,” he said in a dramatic baritone, “death is a debt we all must pay.”

Jaynie sniffled and took his place at the mic. “Death is life’s way of telling you you’re fired.”

Two career
apparel store types (clad in what I recognized as Ann Taylor and The Limited, respectively) crossed and uncrossed their legs, tucked their shiny hair behind their ears, and wept in unison.

“Do you find it all odd that everyone is mourning Laila like she was their best friend?” I whispered to Mrs. Piggledy. “Particularly when so many of them didn’t seem to like her all that much?”

“Shock does weird things to people.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, watching a woman from the mobile phone store crying tears that would make a crocodile proud.

“A famous circus performer once said we make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give.”
Mr. Piggledy looked out into the crowd. “Here to say a few words about Laila’s contribution to our community is one of her co-workers, Hailey Rosenberg.”

The room was silent but for the clip-clip of sling-back platforms as Hailey, dressed in a questionably short but appropriately black mini-dress, approached the microphone. “So, like … ” her black chandelier earrings grazed the microphone, “Laila was my boss and stuff.” Hailey grabbed a tissue from the box set on the rock ledge beside her. “But um, then everything happened the other day and well, like, I thought I should say some things about her.”

As someone from behind me let out a brief wail, Hailey reached into a copy of a black silk clutch I’d almost bought for Eloise and pulled out her phone. For one horrifying second, it appeared as if she was going to check her text messages.

Instead, she began to read.

“Laila Anne DeSimone was born and raised in Wichita, Kansas. While it turns out she was a bit older than twenty-three like she said, she did look really good for her age. She also had really great style. She worked at Payless, Claire’s, and briefly, Hot Dog on a Stick, before getting her dream job at Eternally 21, where she rose up the ladder from stockperson to manager. Laila wasn’t married and didn’t have kids, but you could say she was married to her career.” Hailey paused to click her phone over to the next page of what had to be some sort of plug-in-the-details eulogy app. “Laila devoted many hours to make sure our store was always number one in the state. She made sure our Eternally 21 maintained excellent visual presentation at all times by presenting a fashion statement herself and throughout the store. Most important, she made a name for herself in the company for always maximizing store volume in accordance with all store and company goals, policies, and procedures.”

While Laila’s accomplishments sounded like they’d come off of an Eternally 21 employee review checklist, Hailey was doing a nice job of focusing on the positive—Laila’s attractive appearance and her effectiveness as a store manager.

“Laila was totally picky about stuff, but she always said, if the store looks good and we look good, then everything is good.”

While the speech was rote and she’d shared little in the way of personal stories, Hailey was doing a nice job of memorializing a boss who had to have been difficult at best.

“It’s hard to believe that’s totally true anymore, but, in her honor, I promise to uphold Laila’s commitment to helping every girl who walks into Eternally 21 find her inner fashionista.” She raised her fist. “Fashion forever.”

“A moving tribute,” said Mr. Piggledy. He hugged Hailey, directed her back to her seat, and took her place at the microphone. “Is there anyone else who would like to follow that up with a memory or comment about Laila?”

Other than Higgledy, who’d left his seat and was making googly eyes at the parrot, everyone else seemed content in their silent reverie.

“Very well,” Mr. Piggledy said after allowing a few moments. “I would like to invite you all to the food court for a post-service reception featuring Laila’s favorite fare. Before we adjourn, however, first let’s join hands while we say a goodbye to the spirit of Laila DeSimone and wish her well on her journey to that place of great peace in which she has preceded us.”

After a moment of awkward rustling where mourners grasped hands with the friend or stranger beside them, a mass
Goodbye, Laila!
echoed up into the mountain-shaped glass dome capping the courtyard.

“We’ll miss you, but we wish you well!” Mr. Piggledy said.

The crowd repeated his words and degenerated in a cacophony of shared tears.

The food court reception was a Laila-style smorgasbord of everything from Philly cheese steaks to a machine dispensing chocolate soft serve. Having promised myself not to eat anything that wasn’t a member of the fruit or vegetable family, I compromised with a low-fat lemon poppy seed muffin and a plate of veggie tempura from Far East Feast. While I nibbled, teary tales of Laila’s eating skills echoed through the food court:

One time I saw her eat four Cinnabons in one sitting.

She just lived for these pretzel bites.

It figures the food court people made speeches, since half their profits had to be from her.

I was half-awaiting mention of her man-eating skills when I spotted Griff near the beverage table looking almost as wooden as he had in his official capacity during the service. Choosing to take his tight smile as a sign of
we’re in this together
camaraderie, I dumped the remainder of my snack in a nearby trash and headed over for a chat.

“Nice service,” I said, grabbing a Diet Coke from a fountain dis-
penser.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Did you happen to notice the man sitting beside Tara?” I asked.

“You mean Richard?”

“So that
was
Richard, the regional manager?”

“And his wife,” Griff said.

“As in, he’s definitely married?” I asked.

“Apparently so.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“It’s a tough one to swallow.” His voice cracked. “But, yeah.”

“So sad,” I said.

“Yup.”

We both took awkward, measured sips of our respective drinks.

“I heard on the news that the autopsy was inconclusive,” I said.

“I saw that, too.”

“I looked up the symptoms, and a stroke really does make perfect sense, though.”

“How’s that?”

“Slurred speech, stumbling, dizziness, feelings of being drunk, severe headache out of the blue, loss of consciousness.”

“Sure sounds right.” His monosyllabic answers seemed to mask a deeper pain.

“Griff,” I said, “from everything I read, calling 911 and noting the time when the symptoms appeared are about all anyone can do for someone having a stroke.”

How can I come back in Monday like nothing’s wrong, knowing Laila’s never coming back?
someone asked from the table behind us.

“Assuming it was a stroke,” I said.

“What else could it have been?” Griff asked, his eyes on the main entrance to the food court where a news crew from none other than Channel Three had materialized in the doorway.

I had no desire to appear in so much as the background of a newscast, much less be recognized as Frank’s wife and find myself with a microphone in my face:
I’m here at the South Highlands Valley Mall with the wife of our own Frank Finance Michaels, who is amongst the mourners for the tragic passing of Eternally 21 manager, Laila DeSimone. Mrs. Michaels, what was your relationship with the deceased?

“I’m on duty, so I should check in with those news people.”

“I should probably run anyway,” I said.

Griff and I bid each other a quick goodbye and set off in opposite directions.

I attempted to stroll nonchalantly toward the opposite end of the food court and disappear into the mall proper, passing the Piggledys, who stood with a small group clustered around a table of baked goods.

“Mercury retrograde definitely brings unforeseen changes,” Mr. Piggledy said. “We’d all best plan on dealing with unusual events as the order of the day for almost two more weeks.”

“Speaking of which,” Mrs. Piggledy grabbed my hand before I could slink by and pulled me directly into the conversation. “I wondered where you’d run off to.”

“Just enjoying the reception,” I said. “But my husband is due to fly home from Miami soon and I don’t know exactly when his plane is supposed to take off, so I’m headed—”

“No need to hurry,” Mr. Piggledy said. “Travel and business deals always get delayed and/or derailed when—”

“When did Mercury go retrograde?” Pete from Pet Pals asked.

“Retrograde,” the parrot perched on his shoulder repeated.

Higgledy smiled fondly as Pete rewarded the bird with a pellet of some kind.

“Last Thursday,” Mr. Piggledy said, eyeing a Zebra cookie from the dessert spread.

Anastasia Chastain appeared beside the camera crew. As she scanned the room for a spot to set up and start filming, I repositioned myself so as to be obscured by Mr. Piggledy’s substantial, robe-covered girth.

“There’s no need to panic,” Mrs. Piggledy said in her motherly, reassuring tone. “I like to think of this as a time to reflect, review, and work through the unexpected issues that pop up.”

“Look!” Mr. Piggledy directed us toward the front of the food court. “It’s that newscaster from Channel Three.”