“Old?! I’m only thirty-nine.”
“Yeah, right,” echoed out the front door as the security guard escorted me to the one place I’d never been at the South Highlands Valley Mall.
1. Gift cards are no discount for the giver unless you can buy them in bulk at a discount. Worse, some charge processing fees. Better to find out what your recipient wants, then shop for the best quality item at the best price. You’ll save every time.
TWO
“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND,” I said to the big side of beef as he led me toward what I prayed wasn’t some sort of actual mall jail. “I did not, nor have I ever shoplifted.”
“You’ll have a chance to give your statement.” His fingers tightened on my arm as he paraded me past the courtyard waterfall and more than a few stares. “As soon as we get to the security office.”
Judging by the expressions of the store clerks and shoppers who averted their eyes to loss-leader layering tank tops, half-off skater shoes, or the quick-sale item du jour as we passed, I was as good as tried and convicted.
For a second, I was distracted by the words BACK TO SCHOOL CLEARANCE in the window of The Gap. I was quickly more distracted and distressed to discover we were approaching Circus Circus. The squatter store, as in one of those businesses that move into abandoned chain space, was a popular circus-themed memorabilia and birthday party establishment. The owners were retired big top clowns, but they were still known by their professional names, Mr. and Mrs. Piggledy. They both happened to be standing by the faux tent flaps that served as their doorway. Their disapproval turned to shock when they realized the perp being led toward security was none other than me, the woman who had decorated her twin sons’ room with the first original Barnum & Bailey posters they ever sold.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Piggledy said.
“That couldn’t be our friend Maddie.” Mr. Piggledy grasped the glasses hanging on a chain around his neck and put them on. “Could it?”
Higgledy, their monkey, squealed and curled his simian lips into a disturbing grin.
“Just clearing up a misunderstanding,” I said as we passed. “A big one.”
Misunderstanding indeed.
Adding insult to injury was Laila DeSimone’s parting comment that I was too old to be shopping, even for jewelry, at Eternally 21. “This is entirely ridiculous.”
“We’re almost there,” the man said. I peeked at his nametag: Griff Watson.
“Mr. Watson, sir, do you have to hold onto me or my purse so tight?”
“Standard procedure,” he said, as though he were a real cop.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck as my jailer led me through the bowels of the mall.
“Processing time,” he said, stopping to open a set of frosted double doors
“Once again,” I said, “I’m innocent.”
“Either way, I have to file a report whenever there’s an incident.” He led me inside to a desk in the corner of a room that thankfully looked a lot more like a human resources reception area than a jail.
Other than the ominous posters, that is:
DO THE CRIME, DO THE TIME.
SHOPLIFTERS PROSECUTED
TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW.
BETTER THINK TWICE BEFORE
STEALING SOMETHING NICE.
Would my one phone call be to the TV station? Frank would be less than thrilled, to say the least, about the potential tarnish to his golden boy image. Hopefully he was still at the gym. His super-breadwinner ego had taken a beating no amount of iron-pumping could compensate for, but he’d been keeping it together by working out more, dressing that much more natty, and pretending things were better than ever.
Even though the last months had been anything but, I couldn’t blame Frank entirely. He’d always been a great provider. How could he have known he was being flat-out lied to by a con artist with impeccable credentials, stellar references, and prominent clients all over the country?
“Sit.” The burly man pressed me into the chair opposite the desk and held up my purse.
I sat and tried not to think about the irony inherent in the fact Frank was flying out later for a broadcasters seminar in Miami, to schmooze some bigwigs interested in syndicating Frank Finance. If only we’d been able to afford the extra ticket, I’d have been home packing beachwear instead of at mall security inadvertently risking what little was left of our once comfortable lifestyle.
“You won’t find any earrings,” I blurted before he could dump the contents on the blotter and find my incriminating notes among the array of receipts, lipsticks, coins, and fuzz.
“I’m sure.”
“Go ahead,” I said, banking on a little false bravado and a hastily conceived plan to decry illegal search and seizure if he so much as glanced at my notepad. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Is that so?” Instead of upending my bag, he grabbed my wallet from inside and went directly for my ID. “Thirty-nine, huh?”
“Well, I … ”
He flashed a dimpled smile that, under different circumstances, might have lent him a boyish charm. This guy was no Mr. Watson; he was definitely a Griff. “I’d say you could pass.”
“Thanks.” Still, I’d have to see if Botox4Less would be willing to barter product for future space on the website.
“Why didn’t you just tell Laila who you are?”
A sick lump of panic settled in my stomach. “What do you mean?”
“You’re Maddie Michaels.”
I managed a nod.
“And your husband is Frank Michaels, as in the money guy on TV, right?”
The lump began to churn. “Uh-huh.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Not one to play the don’t you know who I am card, I guess.”
Griff shook his head. “I can’t believe Laila had no idea.”
“I’ve never shopped in Eternally 21.”
“But you’re a regular around here,” Griff said.
Used to be, Mrs. Frugalicious would have said. Most of my current shopping happened in stores that featured Blue Light Specials and/or Rock Bottom Pricing. “Seems she had me confused with one of the other, less savory, regulars.”
“The Shoplifter fits your general profile—polite and nicely dressed, but she has lighter hair, she’s taller and, well, looks like she could use a good meal or three.”
“Griff,” I managed a taut smile despite the backhanded compliment. “If you knew I wasn’t The Shoplifter, and was the wife of Frank Michaels, why did you arrest me?”
“Detain.”
“Whatever.”
“I have to follow protocol.”
I put my head in my hands. “This day is not going how it was supposed to.”
“I’m sorry for that,” he said. “But—”
“But now you’re going to dig though my things?”
“That’s pretty much procedure.”
“Don’t I have to give my permission before you can do your search?”
“Not if there’s probable cause.”
“Which you’re saying there is?”
“A store manager did call in a report of a suspected shoplifter,” he said. “Even if it was Laila.”
I looked up. “Meaning what?”
“Let’s just say you’re not the first shopper I’ve been called to haul out of there,” he finally said. “And teenage clientele and shoplifting go hand in hand.”
“I’m hardly a teenager—as Laila felt compelled to point out.”
Griff shook his head. “She can be a little prickly.”
“Ya think?”
“Occupational hazard, I suppose.”
I was starting to think Griff might just be smarter than I’d given him credit for, particularly considering the intensity of his hazel eyes. “Are you saying you believe me?”
“I believe Frank Finance’s wife would never resort to stealing.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said, hoping my nose wasn’t growing. The thought had
definitely occurred to me in those first dark days, when our new budget demanded we cut all frivolous spending, unnecessary services, and memberships other than the aforementioned gym, which had already been pre-paid for the year. And, speaking of cuts, that’s exactly what happened to the credit cards. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Griff said.
For a second I thought I was imagining things when he handed me my purse. “You’re not going to look through my things?”
“How about you do it for me?” Griff gave me what I hoped was an I’m confident you’re innocent wink and not a this is going to be fun to watch play out wink.
Maybe Frank’s insistence about keeping up appearances was right. His spotless reputation had, in effect, saved itself from more damage. Not that I expected it, but Griff hadn’t used any form of the word frugal, nor did he have any reason to in the future. Aside from the indignity of being dragged through the mall—which I’d clear up with the Piggledys, who’d surely be glad to pass along a little up-to-the-minute correction to anyone who would listen—disaster had largely been averted.
I took the notepad out, turned the written side away from view, shook it just to erase any doubt, dumped the contents of my purse on the table, and spread the whole mess out to prove my innocence.
“Just like I figured,” Griff said.
“Now you know.” I began to refill my purse one receipt at a time.
“I wouldn’t have had to bring you down here if you’d have just let Laila know how big a mistake she made by emptying your purse and telling her who you were up there,” Griff said. “I certainly would have if I were married to … I mean, I love that guy. His show, I mean. His investment advice is top notch.”
Too bad Frank hadn’t followed his own number one rule: If it sounds too good to be true …
“Thank you from him,” I managed. “As for me, I guess I was so blindsided, I just didn’t know exactly what to do.”
“Too bad,” he said. “The look on her face when she saw your ID would have been priceless.”
“Sounds like you don’t much like her.”
He glanced longingly at two slices of pizza on the corner of the desk. The cheese was more congealed than fresh and hot, as the lettering on the to-go box promised. Ice cube sweat dripped down the sides of his beverage. “She just makes life more complicated than it needs to be.”
“I’m sorry this whole business has kept you from lunch,” I said.
“No worries,” Griff said. “Other than getting your signature on some paperwork, we’re about done.”
“And that’s it?”
“For you.” He sighed. “I’ve got one more trip back upstairs to let Laila know the matter is settled.”
“Can’t you just call her or something?”
“I’ve gotta do things by the book.” He shook his head. “The last thing I need is a bad rap from her when an opening comes up in the police department.”
“You want to be a cop?”
“I’ve been through all the training. I’m just waiting to be called for an interview.”
“Gotcha,” I said. “But can I ask you a favor?”
“Ask away,” he said kindly.
“Since she doesn’t know who I am, any chance we can keep it that way?”
“Hmm,” he rubbed at his close-cropped goatee. “I think we can pretty much keep this between us.”
“Pretty much?”
Those dimples reappeared. “Any chance I can get tickets to be in the audience for one of your husband’s shows?”
THREE
WHAT I PLANNED TO do after being dismissed from mall security was head straight through the fiberglass tent flaps and into the circus for the there-theres only a friendly pair of former clowns could provide. And I would have, had a birthday parties’ worth of wild-eyed eight-year-olds not beaten me to the punch. While they giggled in delight over Higgledy the monkey and his balloon passing antics, I marched past to the beat of tinny big top music. I veered into Pottery Barn—the nearest grown-up bliss equivalent.
Intent on, well, anything I could have bought five months ago, I took a calming, comforting inhale of pomegranate potpourri, vanilla candle, and brand-spanking-sparkling-new housewares. The next thing I knew, I was holding a for your convenience basket. Pretending for a moment that I still lived a life where shopping didn’t mean being detained for shoplifting while trying to stretch $100 into six gifts, I proceeded to work my way through the store. I plucked Tuscan block print placemats, green patina cache pots, paper crochet pillow covers, and anything else that caught my eye from the shelves.
I’d surrendered into my former reality to the point where I almost reached into my purse for one of the credit cards that no longer graced my wallet. But then my inner Mrs. Frugalicious emerged and took note of some ceramic Parmesan shakers marked down from $19.99 to $7.99.
Since Frank and I could no longer afford hostess gifts of pricey wine or fresh-cut flowers when we were invited to someone’s house for dinner, I was always on the lookout for thoughtful, original, but much less costly alternatives.
Checking that no one had noticed me approach the register area or was about to ask if I needed help, I quickly circled back and began to replace everything else I’d loaded into my basket. As soon as the last candleholder was back on the shelves and I’d purchased the Parmesan shakers, I skedaddled out of Pottery Barn.
I needed to go back, if not to Eternally 21, then to some other stores like American Eagle, Urban Outfitters, or Old Navy on the outskirts of the mall to complete my teen back to school bargains research. I also needed to pick up both Frank’s dry cleaning and some travel-size toiletries I’d promised to grab for his trip.2
Greeted by the heady aroma of McDonald’s fries, Starbucks brew du jour, and an international array of culinary choices, however, what I really needed was a trip to the food court. Stuffing my face post-workout was definitely counterproductive, but the extra pounds keeping me out of my skinny jeans could wait until I’d assuaged the morning’s stress with some comfort food.
Amidst the clang and throb of dueling fast-food establishments, the throbbing in my head began to dull. Griff promised to let Laila know I was innocent without telling her exactly whom she’d falsely accused—for the low, low price of two tickets to one of Frank’s tapings. I could re-buy everything I’d set aside at a different Eternally 21 or online and complete my shopping mission at other stores. Other than losing a little time, no particular harm had been done. If only I could have thrown around my wife of a local celebrity status, if not for my sake, for that of future customers Laila would think twice about having dragged unceremoniously from her store …
“Teriyaki chicken sample?” a voice called out from beside me.
I wasn’t sure how exactly to reconcile the last few hours, but after one toothpick’s worth of marinated meat, I knew exactly how I’d spend my lunch hour.
“Fried rice or lo mein?” the Hispanic counter girl at China Express asked.
“A little of both, please.”
“You want two-item combo or three?” she asked as though trying to pass as vaguely Asian.
A ray of sunshine shone through the courtyard skylights, highlighting the 50-cent price difference to upgrade on the menu board. The leftovers would make a filling, before-practice snack for my twin teenage boys. “Better make it three.”
I pointed, she scooped, and together we assembled a plate of orange chicken, Mongolian beef, and sweet and sour pork. Before leaving the counter, I dropped a double dose of Bye Bye Fat3 into my guilt-free diet soda and watched the powder dissolve. Paired with the soreness from my morning workout—a brutal combination of squats, tricep pushups, and a particularly sadistic little set Chelsea called Happy Abs and Tush—how much harm could a good comfort meal do?
For a moment, I lingered by the food counters and waited for the husband and wife wiping off their toddler and the gooey mess she’d created along the edge of their table near the Chick-A-Rama. I should
have snagged their place, sat down, and eaten in peace. Instead, I spotted Mr. Piggledy and headed in his direction, although he didn’t see me for the stack of pizza boxes he was carrying toward his store. Nibbling on an egg roll and now halfway across the food court, I balanced my tray with my free hand and headed for an open table near the enormous hearth in the center of the hall.
My text message alert buzzed.
You must never text and drive, I always warned my nearly sixteen-year-old sons.
You must never text and walk with a tray filled with Chinese food in a busy food court, I should have told myself.
A smart version of me would have reached the table, set down her plastic tray, and checked her phone then. Instead, I put down the egg roll, reached into my purse with my slightly oily hand, and glanced at the text, which read:
REMEMBER: YOU CAN’T HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT TOO. A BITE OR TWO IS THE SECRET TO SATISFACTION—STOMACH, SCALE, AND SOUL.
Chelsea, who had somehow assumed the role of friend, confidant, and my dietary conscience when she’d picked my name from the fishbowl, sent motivational texts with such perfect timing, I was starting to suspect she was psychic—at least where high sugar, fat, salt, and caloric consumption were concerned.
I turned away from the window facing my gym, which was located on the other side of the parking lot from the mall, tried to clear any and all bad culinary intentions from my thoughts, and typed back:
NO WORRIES.
WHAT ARE YOU ABOUT TO EAT?
HOW DID YOU KNOW?
I ALWAYS KNOW.
NOTHING A LITTLE BYE BYE FAT CAN’T NEUTRALIZE.
ATTA GIRL! FORGOT TO TELL YOU MY SCHEDULE IS SCREWY ON MONDAY. ANY CHANCE WE CAN MEET AFTERNOON INSTEAD OF LATE MORNING?
NO PROB.
But, there was definitely a problem—and not just because I’d lied to my stunning slave driver of a trainer about what I was going to eat. As I tossed my phone back in my purse and looked up to see someone snag my table, I collided with the person coming toward me.
“Oh, no!” emerged from both of our mouths and echoed off the vaulted ceiling as our trays clanged. My Mongolian beef and orange chicken pieces collided in mid-air with a tinfoil-wrapped burrito, curly fries, beverages, and myriad other edibles. Worse, the food was not that of just some random stranger, but Tara Hu, assistant manager of Eternally 21 and the second to last person in the world I ever wanted to see again.
Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery Page 2