Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery (9 page)

“Then I saw on the news that an autopsy had been conducted, but that the results were inconclusive.”

“That’s correct.”

“Which made sense since I was told Laila had suffered from a stroke, which is quite rare for a woman so young.”

Detective McClarkey merely nodded.

“But then, I heard the case was being investigated as a homicide.”

He raised a bushy eyebrow. “We haven’t released that information yet.”

“I heard it from the newsroom,” I said by way of explanation.

“Gotcha.” He jotted something on his notepad.

“In any case, when I heard she’d been poisoned, I was awake all night thinking about who could of done something so horrible to her. I mean, it was no secret Laila wasn’t exactly popular around the mall.”

“That’s one thing everyone seems to agree on.” Detective McClarkey’s crew cut didn’t move as he shook his head. “I understand you may have even had an incident of some kind with her?”

Stopping by the police station was the smartest thing I could have done. I’d get the inevitable questions he had for me, a primary witness, out of the way without an unseemly knock on my door. Really, I was expediting Frank’s ability to get our family back on financial track. “I went into her store on Thursday morning to pick out some gifts. She saw me consulting a list in my purse and accused me of shoplifting.”

“Must have been embarrassing—especially considering your husband is a financial reporter.”

“At first, but Griff Watson, the head of mall security, told me it happened a lot with Laila and let me go. Then I ran into the assistant manager, Tara Hu, at the food court. She was really apologetic about the whole situation. So was her boyfriend, Andy Oliver, for that matter.”

“Was this before or after your trays collided?”

“You heard about that, too?”

“It’s quite a gossip mill around that mall.”

“I’ll say,” I said. “I learned that Tara didn’t much like Laila, that Andy hated Laila, and that they were getting Laila’s lunch because she didn’t get her own food—all in one harried conversation.”

The scritch-scratch of pencil on paper filled the room. “Sounds like the whole situation was a lot more than you bargained for when you went shopping Friday morning.”

“It was, but if Tara and I hadn’t crashed trays, we wouldn’t have cleared the air, Tara wouldn’t have invited me back up to the store, and I wouldn’t have been back at Eternally 21 when Laila collapsed to learn all the information I came in to give you today.”

He smiled. “How long would you say you were in the store before Ms. DeSimone collapsed?”

“Ten minutes maybe.”

“And who else was in the store when you got there?”

“Not counting Laila, who was supposed to be on her post-lunch break? Tara, Hailey the salesgirl, Griff the mall officer, and a couple random shoppers. Oh, and Laila’s friend Shoshanna from Whimsies was leaving when I arrived.”

“And did you see or hear anything unusual?”

“Not until Laila got a call and began to have words with a gentleman who I was told was her boyfriend.”

“Named?”

“Richard. I don’t know his last name, but he’s the regional manager of Eternally 21. He seemed to be trying to break things off with her.”

He jotted another note.

“He’s married,” I said.

“They always are,” Detective McClarkey said. “Was he in the store that day?”

“Not while I was there.”

“And you say Tara and Andy were together in the food court getting her lunch?”

I nodded.

“Did you happen to notice what they purchased for her to eat?”

“Burger, fries, pizza, baked goods, a burrito—you name it, she was having it for lunch. That’s the main thing I wanted to tell you. It was a known fact that Laila was bulimic.”

“Interesting.”

“So it isn’t a stretch to believe she was also taking something to curb her appetite and keep her weight under control.” I paused. “Something like Ephedra.”

He looked slightly alarmed. “You’ve heard about the Ephedra, too?”

“As an unconfirmed report.” I nodded. “Yes.”

“That information is supposed to be classified,” he said, “but Ms. DeSimone had a stomach full of food and very pure, very potent, black-market Ephedra.”

“My trainer told me it’s common for bulimics to seek out and often abuse any weight loss products they can get their hands on.”

“So,” he said, looking up from his pad of paper, “based on the information you’ve attained, you think Laila poisoned herself?”

“I think there’s a very good chance she may have accidentally overdosed.”

“Pretty good deduction,” Detective McClarkey said. “We did find a variety of laxatives in her personal effects at work as well as her home.”

I relaxed into my chair. It felt good to not only fulfill my civic obligation but get complimented in the process. “What about diet supplements?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing?”

“Assuming she did get a hold of Ephedra, it would appear that she ingested all of it at once and left no traces of having had any in the first place.”

“Bulimics do eat to excess—”

“Which is what I think her killer wanted us to believe.”

There was a beat of silence as I absorbed that statement. “So you don’t think she took it herself?”

“By all accounts, she was far from suicidal.”

“She sure didn’t seem to be,” I said.

“I think someone knew she had an eating disorder and made sure she got her just desserts,” Officer McClarkey said.

“Literally.”

“Someone who also knew it would look something like a heart attack.”

“Or a stroke?”

“Or a stroke.”

“But …
that profile fits half the people who work at the mall.”

“We’ve got quite a list to work through.” He sighed. “I mean, look at you.”

“Me?”

“You don’t even work at the mall, but you know she’s bulimic, had access to her in the hours before she dropped, and had an altercation with her.”

“You’re not saying …”

“I’m saying we’re awaiting additional toxicology tests and a report or three from CSI to narrow down exactly how and where the poison was administered. Until then, everyone’s a suspect.”

The cell phone at his hip began to chirp the
Hawaii 5-0
theme song.

“I’m going to need to take this,” Detective McClarkey said.

“But I—”

“Please don’t hesitate to stop by with any other theories you think might be of interest.” He stood, led me toward the door, and offered both his card and that wink of his. “In the meantime, don’t go fleeing the country.”

Eleven

My head was buzzing
as I left the police station. I couldn’t bounce any of what I’d just heard off Frank. I couldn’t call any of my friends without explaining far more than I’d let any of them in on in months. I didn’t want to admit to Chelsea that I’d run to the police and blabbed her theory as my own only to get shot down.

In the meantime, don’t go fleeing the country
.

And be halfway accused of having murdered Laila myself.

While I didn’t appreciate the implication in what I now knew to be Detective McClarkey’s signature sign-off, I did realize he was trying to make the point that so many people had a motive to want Laila gone, it was hard to know where to start. After all, Laila
had
practically died in front of me, and I technically
did
have access to her that morning.

But I wasn’t the only one.

I picked up my phone and was scrolling to find Griff’s number before I’d even figured out what to say to the poor guy.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news but … remember when I said I found it odd that everyone was mourning Laila like she was their best friend when so many of them hated her?

I got his voicemail.

Unable to leave Griff such a bad news message, I settled for
please call me as soon as you can
in as calm a tone as I could muster and hung up.

I dropped the phone back in my purse, pulled out the keys, and clipped on my seat belt. Detective McClarkey may have been making light of my proximity to the crime, but I certainly knew who and what I saw. I also heard way more than I should have, both before and in the days following Laila’s demise. For Laila’s bittersweet sake and my family’s financial future, didn’t I have the obligation to do something with that knowledge? If this mall murder story was solved quickly, Anastasia would have more time to perfect the financial makeover segment for Frank’s show, which would hopefully land him the syndication spot.

I unclipped my seat belt and grabbed the pile of paperwork I’d set on the passenger seat in anticipation of my day’s grocery shop. Careful not to move so much as a paperclip from the spreadsheet, shuffle the envelopes I’d stuffed with coupons, or dislodge any strategically placed sticky notes I’d left myself, I pulled my price bible
10
from the back pouch of my coupon organizing binder and opened it to the first blank page.

Mrs. Frugalicious could sniff out a mean bargain with a little ingenuity and a lot of spreadsheets. Was there any reason Maddie Michaels couldn’t do the same to help the police narrow down the killer?

I wrote SUSPECTS at the top.

When setting up a grocery shop, I would consult the master spreadsheet I kept on the home computer. Beside the hundred or so items I typically bought for my family were entries for the lowest recorded price, coupons for that item, expiration dates, common specials by store, Catalinas,
11
and the supply of each item I currently had on hand. I’d then cross-reference that spreadsheet with another I’d created for stores, their current specials, coupon multiplier days, and restrictions on usage. After determining what I needed, comparing current cost, coupon, and store multiplier savings, I made a final spreadsheet of exactly what and how many of each item I would purchase. To allow for miscalculations and unexpected price fluctuations that could derail expected budget, I also printed out possible product substitutions.

Only then would I actually go shopping.

The spreadsheet I was about to create would be far simpler. But potentially so much more complicated.

I penciled in four headings—
Suspect, Motive, Access,
and
Bulimia Knowledge.

The columns began to fill in with notes as fast as I could write:

1. Tara Hu/Hated working for her, about to be fired?/Access—yes/Bulimia knowledge—yes
   
2. Andy Oliver/Hated Laila for trying to break up his relationship?/Access—yes/Bulimia knowledge— said she scarfed and barfed
   

If either Andy or Tara was involved, couldn’t they also be in cahoots?

I created a fifth column called
Potential Partners in Crime
, then added Andy’s name to Tara’s entry and vice versa. The concept of collusion brought up Hailey Rosenberg. Since she and Tara both worked for Laila, they could have worked together to get rid of their boss. I wrote her name in Tara’s
Potential Partners
column, then added her as a suspect.

1. Hailey Rosenberg/Mentioned difficulties working for Laila during eulogy/Access—yes/Bulimia knowledge—mentioned Laila’s chocolate eating/ Could have conspired with Tara
   

If Hailey conspired with Tara, didn’t it stand to reason Andy could be in cahoots with both of them?

I added her name to his entry and his to hers.

1. Richard the Regional Manager/Wanted to break up with Laila to protect his marriage?/Access—?/ Knowledge of bulimia—?/Unlikely to have an accomplice
   
2. Richard’s wife/Knew Laila was having an affair with her husband?/Access—?/Knowledge of bulimia—?/ Unlikely to have an accomplice
   
3. Shoshanna/Wanted Laila’s gig as “queen bee”/ Access—Was in Eternally 21 just before I arrived/ Bulimia knowledge—did call death a suicide, so presumed/Possible accomplice(s)?
   

I picked up my phone thinking I’d ring up the Piggledys and ask a well-placed but vague-sounding question or two, then thought better of it. While they knew the scoop on everyone and everything at the mall, it was better not to alert them that I knew something was up before the news came out and they began to spread the word.

Which, given Anastasia’s enthusiasm about the story, could be any moment.

I looked at my watch. The mall was due to open in fifteen minutes, and I hadn’t heard back from Griff.

I dialed his number and got his voicemail again.

Griff’s reaction to the news of murder would likely be that of stoney silence, but he’d seen Laila that morning, was there when she collapsed, and had tried to save her. I had to let him know about the new murder designation before he heard some convoluted version through the mall misinformation gauntlet.

I clipped in my seat belt again.

I’d go to the mall, head directly to the security office, settle into that now familiar chair across from Griff’s desk, and square my shoulders. “Griff,” I’d say. “We need to talk.”

“What’s up?” he’d ask, question clouding his hazel eyes.

“I’m afraid Laila’s death was no accident.”

“What?”

“She was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?”

I’d nod.

He’d put his head in his hands and we’d sit in silence but for the occasional blip from his walkie-talkie.

“And you know this how?” he’d finally ask.

“Frank heard at the TV station, mentioned it to me, and I just confirmed it this morning with the police.”

“This can’t be happening,” he’d say.

“I’m sorry,” I’d say. “I wanted to tell you in person before you hear it on the news or—”

As if on cue, the phone began to ring in my hand.
Griff Watson
scrolled across caller ID.

I took a deep breath in anticipation of what was sure to be a difficult call and pressed Talk. “Griff.”

“Returning your call,” he said in a monotone so telling, I dreaded the effect of the words that were about to come out of my mouth.

Despite the air conditioning blasting toward my face, beads of perspiration broke out at my temples. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’ve just left the police station and I wanted to let you know that Laila—”

“Was poisoned?”

“You already know?”

“Yup.”

I felt relieved and somehow worse at the same time. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said.

The dull thrum of his car radio seeped through his phone, both filling the silence and filling me in on how he’d heard. Anastasia must have broken the news faster than expected.

“Have they said what kind of poison yet?” he finally asked.

“It’s supposed to be classified.”

“I won’t be telling anyone.”

I might have hesitated were he not already a security guard with police training who was simply awaiting a spot on the South Metro PD. “Ephedra—a banned diet drug that causes heart attacks and strokes—especially in large doses.”

He was silent for a moment. “But given Laila’s eating issues—”

“Maybe she took it herself?”

“That would at least make more sense than someone purposely poisoning her.”

“Which is what I went in to tell the police.”

“And?”

“They’ve ruled out accidental death and suicide.” I paused. “The police say someone knew enough about her eating issues to think they could make it look like an OD.”

He exhaled deeply. “Did the police give you any idea who they’re looking at?”

“I don’t think they know where to start yet.”

“Not surprising. They’ve got quite a job ahead of them.”

“Which is why we need to help them. I’ve been sitting here organizing a spreadsheet of possible suspects for the police and I—”

“A spreadsheet?”

“It’s more of a rough list, really, of the people I saw and things I heard in the hours preceding Laila’s murder.”

“This can’t be happening,” he said.

“I can’t believe it either,” I said. “The thing is, you and I are in the unique position of possibly being able to do something about it.”

“Maddie,” he paused. “I’m just a mall cop.”

“A mall cop who might just be instrumental in solving a murder.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Well, I know this may be your big chance to catch the attention of the police department.”