Sweetheart Deal

by Linda Joffe Hull

  “That she got married?”

  “That she’s a star, you’re a star, and they’re just extras,” he said. “In their sister’s wedding, no less.”

  While Frank and I were friendly with the bride and groom, I was well aware that our primary qualification as matron of honor and best man was that their gratis wedding was taking place on our reality show and thus needed to include us in key roles.

  “Stasia asked me to be matron of honor, in part, so she wouldn’t have to pick one of them over the others and cause a rift.”

  “No doubt,” he said. “You ready to wrap up this bargaining segment?”

  As I nodded and got into place, I forced myself to ignore the three sisters, who were huddled together and whispering once again.

  “Where appropriate, venders expect and welcome negotiations,” I said. “When incorrectly approached, bargaining can not only be fruitless, but downright offensive.”

  Eloise, who’d been negotiating a price for her handbag, shook her head and began to walk out of the store.

  “Don’t be afraid to walk away if you cannot reach a price you are happy with,” I said, watching her go. “This is an expected move and vendors will often respond with a new offer, either now or the next time you stroll by. If not, you know that they have given you the final price and you can take it or leave it.”

  Before Eloise made it out of the shop, the vendor had, of course, accepted her new price. The camera rolled as she turned back to finalize the transaction.

  “Just as a note, backing out of a sale once a price has been accepted is considered extremely rude.”

  As I wrapped up by explaining that bargaining is truly a cultural experience and that one shouldn’t deny a vendor the chance to show off his or her bargaining skills, the owner of the leather store came over to me.

  “Gracias Señora. It is most helpful and enjoyable to have tourists who understand the way things are done here.”

  “De nada,” I said, distracted by a flash of red from just outside the store. I looked to see if Sombrero Lady had chanced by again, but it was, as I’d just said, nothing.

  “I imagine it was a relief to get away from the Hacienda de la Fortuna for the afternoon,” he said shaking his head. “Awful.”

  “You heard about what happened?”

  “My sister works up at the resort.”

  “We came into town to give everyone a break from dealing with guests so they could mourn privately.”

  “Tequila.” He shook his head once more. “It’s the devil’s drink.”

  “The store owners were all so nice,” I said, over guacamole, chips, and the cold cerveza I’d ordered in lieu of anything containing tequila. “The man in the leather place actually thanked me for taping in his store.”

  “They seem to love having your show down here, Mrs. Frugalicious,” Liam, whom FJ and Trent had invited to sit with us, said.

  “Everyone loves their fifteen minutes of fame,” Frank said, pointedly not looking in Liam’s direction.

  “The exposure has to be good for their business too,” I said, giving Frank a warning stare and noting that Hair, Face, and Body were seated right in front of the camera assigned to do random shots (as it were) from inside the cantina while the entire wedding party enjoyed tapas, cocktails, and some decidedly loud 1980s pop music.

  The waitress came by to offer refills.

  “Any reason why we can’t, you know, enjoy a local cerveza in the company of our parents?” Trent suggested with a little wink. “I’m technically almost old enough down here.”

  Frank winked back. “Nice try.”

  “Especially since he doesn’t even like the taste of beer,” FJ said.

  “Oh but he definitely needs a prop to attempt and fail to meet girls in a real live bar,” Eloise added.

  Trent smiled. “Me encantan las señoritas.”

  “Atta boy,” Frank said too loudly, patting both boys on the back and pretending to push his beer in Trent’s direction.

  “Need I remind everyone we’re shooting a family show that takes place in the States, where you’re not even close to technically old enough?”

  “I wish we didn’t have to stay here until eight,” Eloise, who was of legal age in Mexico, sighed. “With everything that’s going on, I don’t know when I can see Ivan, except for tonight.”

  “How do you know he’s available tonight?” Frank asked.

  “He’s been texting me,” she said, unable to contain her smile.

  “You are aware that we don’t have an international data plan, right?” I asked.

  “My bad,” she said, with a giggle. “I’ll pay the extra charges.”

  The boys rolled their eyes once again at their sister and the knowledge that Frank, who had a notorious soft spot where his daughter and her expenses were concerned, would forget about her financial misdeed as soon as it was time to put the monthly check into her account.

  Not wanting to play wicked stepmom and chime in, nor further condone Eloise’s ability to wrap Frank around her finger, I excused myself and headed to the ladies’ room.

  “I gotta go too,” Eloise said over the beginning bars of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

  We got up and followed the sign to a hallway in the back of the cantina, but instead of an interior bathroom along the back wall, we proceeded through a door and found ourselves in an interior courtyard overlooked by three or four stories of apartments.

  “This is kinda weird,” Eloise said as we followed yet another sign to a small freestanding building that housed both men’s and women’s rooms that were apparently shared by a number of the local storefronts.

  Ignoring the dripping sink, the hum of an automatic hand dryer stuck on low, and a not-quite-fresh odor that bode poorly for the condition of the stalls themselves, we each set about doing our business. I was finished and unlocking the stall latch with a tissue from my pocket when a flash of red once again caught my eye.

  I opened the door to Sombrero Lady standing in front of the sink. Facing me.

  “Hola,” I said, somewhat startled.

  “Hola,” she said in return, but with a seeming sense of urgency.

  Unlike my boys, I’d taken French in school and basically only knew how to say hello, good-bye, and order to my heart’s content off a menu in a Mexican restaurant. Everything else required assistance from cue cards, a member of the camera crew, or a dictionary.

  “We’re already done for today,” I said, far too slowly and loudly, making a motion like I was operating an old-time camera. “Um, finito …?”

  She shook her head. “No finito.”

  “I’m glad to buy some of your sombreros,” I said, wondering just what it was she wanted. “Cuanto sombreros?”

  “No,” she said definitively. “Big problemo.”

  “Sorry?” I said. “My español is no bueno.”

  She motioned me closer, then whispered in my ear, “Alejandro.”

  “Alej—?” I started to say, then stopped as Eloise emerged from her stall.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said.

  The woman shook her head as Eloise started for the sink.

  “What?” I managed.

  “Fue asesinado,” she said, starting for the door. “Fue asesinado!” And then she disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared.

  “What was that all about?” Eloise asked.

  “She was looking to get on camera,” I said, unsure exactly what the woman had said but sure Eloise, who’d barely gotten a C in high school Spanish, would have no idea what the words meant. “And some money for the stuff she’s peddling.”

  “Oh,” Eloise said, rubbing her hands under the ineffective hand dryer. “I mean, I love it down here and everything, but you have to admit, it really is different.”

  “No question,” I said, washing my hands and pulling my smart phone out of my purse. Pretending to check for messages, I consulted the Spanish/English translation app I’d install
ed on my phone before the trip and keyed in my best guess for her words. A few tries led me to a rough translation:

  He was murdered.

  21. Rice fell out of favor when it was erroneously rumored that if birds ate the rice, it would expand in their stomach and kill them. Given the fact that birds eat dried rice, corn, and other grains from fields all the time, this turns out to be an urban myth.

  nine

  “I could really use a cup of coffee,” I said the moment we arrived back at the hotel. It was the only thing I’d said during the ride back from town. “Care to join me, Frank?”

  Without waiting for his answer, I grabbed his hand and led him toward the kiosk in the middle of the lobby. I took the liberty of ordering us each a café con crema, accepted both cups from the barista, and led us over to a table and chairs. Specifically, a secluded table where no one was close enough to eavesdrop.

  “Listen,” I said, “I’ve been through far too much from you to put up with any more lies, deceit, or, for that matter, petty nonsense.”

  “Oookaaay …” Frank said, assuming his de facto bad dog face.

  “I agreed to this whole reality TV business because it made sense to get back on track financially, and to make sure there was money for the kids’ education. I’m even willing to admit there was some ego involved since I created Mrs. Frugalicious in the first place.”

  “Of which you should be proud,” he said.

  “I’m not entirely proud that I agreed to do this show under dubious pretenses.” I sighed. “And if I had known how dubious the premise really was …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cut the bullshit, Frank.”

  Seeing as I rarely swore, Frank sat up straighter in his chair.

  “You get a mystery stomach ailment just in time for me to spend an afternoon alone with Alejandro, but reappear the moment I hesitate to sign the paperwork. You materialize once again, and with a camera crew, just before Alejandro asks me out.”

  His surprise looked vaguely genuine. “He asked you out?”

  “Wasn’t that part of the story line all along?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Are we going to continue to pretend you knew nothing about the note he left under my pillow that you conveniently didn’t find or ask about, and that asked me to meet him at exactly the time he was found floating in the pool?”

  “I didn’t.” Frank looked truly shocked now. “The only Alejandro story line I knew they were adding was the whole timeshare element that would plump up the episode and promote sales for the resort. I was told to be scarce so the segment could focus on Mrs. Frugalicious during the timeshare presentation, and to reappear when you started to balk, which you inevitably would.”

  Having been fed more than a few true untruths over the last year, I could only shake my head. “Seriously, how stupid do you think I am?”

  “Apparently not as stupid as me,” he said, his face draining of color under his burgeoning vacation tan. “I didn’t expect to have to face the thought of you dating for quite a while.”

  “You should have thought of that before you—”

  “I know,” he said, shushing me. “I know.”

  The awful silence that permeated so many of our conversations over the last year fell between us once again.

  “So you didn’t hear anything about a romantic complication?” I finally asked.

  “Not a word,” Frank said, adding, “I swear.”

  “And you didn’t say a single thing about our marital situation to anyone?”

  “Why would I?” he asked, his tone somewhat convincing for the first time in a long time. “It would compromise everything I’m trying reestablish with viewers by doing the show.”

  “Don’t you mean we?”

  “We,” he said. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get my head around all this.”

  “Me too. Especially with a suspicious death in the mix.”

  “Maddie, Alejandro’s death was an accident.”

  “Just like the pallet of toasters that crushed Cathy Carter turned out to be on Black Thursday at Bargain Barn?” I asked, referencing my last inadvertent sleuthing assignment. “Or the salesgirl who dropped dead in front of me at the mall last summer?”

  Frank looked startled. “What the—?”

  “I’m not sure, but when I went to the ladies’ room at the cantina, a woman I’d seen selling sombreros during the shopping segments followed me in to share a very unsettling message about Alejandro.”

  “Which was?”

  “Fue asesinado,” I said, repeating her words.

  “Meaning what?”

  “He. Was. Murdered.”

  “Oh shit,” said Frank, who did swear, but primarily only when he pretended to tinker at his garage workbench. “Not again.”

  “Exactly.”

  ten

  “You okay, Mom?” the boys asked after Frank set off on what we agreed would be a very clandestine preliminary fact-finding mission and I made our way back to our suite.

  “I’m just really tired,” I said to the boys before heading off to lock myself away in the master bathroom for a long soak.

  I was also anything but okay. At least I wasn’t entirely alone in my concerns this time around; Frank had listened intently while I recounted my findings about the realities of reality TV. He admitted that a certain amount of story manipulation was, in fact, par for the course. While he didn’t believe anyone associated with our show could be behind anything truly sinister, he did agree there were ­“issues” to look into and that we shouldn’t worry the kids until we figured out what they were.

  If only Sombrero Lady had stuck around another minute, I could have sent Eloise on and figured out how to bridge the language barrier long enough to find out what the woman thought she knew and why she felt the need to tell me.

  If it turned out she was right, and given that The Family Frugalicious had been sold to the network on the strength of the pilot, which featured me as a savings sleuth who survived death while sniffing out sales, wasn’t it logical to presume the show might actually involve me solving crimes?

  Crimes that would be supplied as necessary?

  A long, soapy bath did little to ease my sense of déjà vu. Particularly with the melancholy mixture of music and mourning filtering through my open window from the spontaneous poolside velatorio (wake) that had started as we left the hotel that morning and seemed to be building steam as the night wore on.

  I finally forced myself out of the bathtub, slipped on a robe, and went out to the family room to grab a bottle of water in advance of what was threatening to be another sleepless night.

  “I mean, I didn’t bring anything fancy and black to wear,” Eloise said as she, Frank, and the boys stood huddled around the next day’s call sheet.

  “We just wear the suits we wore yesterday,” Trent said. “Right?”

  “I hate going to funerals,” FJ said.

  “We’re going to the funeral?” I asked.

  Frank nodded. “To pay our respects.”

  “Okay,” I managed, despite the frenzied flutter of butterflies in my stomach. “When is it?”

  “Ten a.m.,” FJ said.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Management doesn’t want to delay, and Alejandro’s whole family lives nearby, and it is Sunday, so it all just makes sense,” Eloise said. “At least that’s what Ivan told me.”

  “And because we’re leaving tomorrow,” FJ said.

  “Which means our trip to the water park is canceled,” Trent said, grumpily.

  “Worse,” Eloise whined, “I have no time to find something to wear.”

  “Wardrobe will come up with something for you,” Frank said. “Apparently Mexican funerals are a big deal and we need to look—”

  “They’re going to shoot footage of Alejandro’s funeral?!” I asked, warning bells now clanging in my head.

  “Alejandro and timeshares were part of the story line,” Frank s
aid.

  “I see,” I said, giving him a look that said I didn’t see at all.

  The second the kids dispersed, he motioned for me to follow him back into the bedroom.

  “I ran into Geo in the lobby right after you left to go back upstairs,” Frank said, closing the door behind us. “He handed me the call sheet and told me were going to shoot some footage at the funeral.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “What could I say?”

  “Were you able to ask him anything about anything to do with—”

  “Not without clueing him in that we might be suspicious,” he said. “But the more I think about this, the more I believe there has to be a completely logical explanation for wanting to film the funeral.”

  “Which is?”

  “For one thing, the resort has a potential PR nightmare on their hands, and they insisted we shoot the funeral so the public can see how much they care about their employees,” he said. “Besides, our concern will make us that much more sympathetic to viewers.”

  “And none of this makes you feel like the tail is wagging the dog?”

  “Maddie”—Frank put his hands on my shoulders—“you have my promise: we are going to get to the bottom of whatever is or isn’t going on.”

  “Okay,” I sighed.

  But was it? Not only were promises and Frank something of a juxtaposition, so was the jarring reality that he and I were suddenly, once again, legitimately united as a we.

  eleven

  Unfortunately, I’d all but come to expect attending unexpected funerals for people I’d just met. Somehow though, willing away the rubbery feeling in my legs while we entered the candle-and flower-filled church to view Alejandro in his final resting position was not at all how I’d anticipated spending this particular south-of-the-­border Sunday.

  “I feel so awkward being here,” I said, watching Frank wipe away a showy tear while we made our way past the cameraman lurking behind a carved wooden pillar in the simple but stunning local church.

  “It’s good public relations all around.”

  “I guess,” I said. “Everything feels like it’s happening so fast.”

  “Here in Mexico, we bury loved ones as quickly as possible,” Felipe, our ever-informative driver and guide said from behind us. “When someone dies, we gather everyone immediately, and the body goes into the ground within forty-eight hours.”