Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery

by Linda Joffe Hull

  Luckily, Tara reappeared instantly, picked up my purchases and began to bag them. “Oh my God! I’m freaking out!”

  “I know the feeling,” I said.

  “You must have had a heart attack when you saw Laila!”

  “Just about,” I said, my eyes on Griff, who loomed large and red-faced behind her.

  “He showed up at twelve twenty-nine,” Tara said. “Just before Laila was supposed to leave.”

  Griff looked down at the floor. “I had no idea you’d be coming back up here or that Laila was supposed to—”

  “Hailey was supposed to ring you up and get you out of here before Laila saw, but she spotted you on the security camera. I tried to come up front, but she insisted and left us in the back with all her half-eaten food and wrappers.” Tara paused to take a breath. “She really does feel bad about what happened, though.”

  “She was definitely apologetic and friendly.” I once again looked pointedly at Griff. “I’m pretty sure I know exactly why.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t tell her,” he said. “And I didn’t.”

  “How did she know who I was, then?”

  “By the time I came back up here, she’d already talked to some friend of hers and figured it out.”

  “How dumb could we be?” Tara asked. “I mean, you are prettier, classier, and not a total string bean like that woman supposedly is.”

  Griff and his long-lashed, innocent-looking hazel eyes met my gaze.

  “Say what?” Laila boomed from the back.

  Despite the music, the strain in her voice hung in the air.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Tara said.

  “—won’t take that lying down—”

  “Oh Lord, sure doesn’t,” Griff said.

  “Lord is right,” Tara said. “Richard’s the regional manager.”

  “She’s talking to the regional manager?” Could my complaint have already made its way through the channels and onto his desk? My stomach flip-flopped. There hadn’t even been time to think up, much less send an it’s all okay now addendum. Maybe I could offer to speak to the regional manager myself about the amends she’d made?

  “They’re also going out,” Tara said.

  “No!” Laila shouted.

  “Or were,” Tara said. “From the way things have been going today.”

  Griff looked toward the back. “I thought I heard something about her and Dan?

  “Dan’s with Nina Marino.”

  He shook his head. “It’s hard to keep who’s with who straight.”

  Their chatter couldn’t drown out the sound of blood thumping in my ears or Laila’s long, low wail.

  “Uh-oh,” Tara said over the slam of a phone.

  The door squealed all the way open and Laila reappeared.

  Looking both ashen and dazed, she neither looked at me nor made a show of ignoring me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and dull. We watched in stunned silence as she said nothing but took a long, slow slurp of the last of her soda, swallowed with what seemed like difficulty, and wobbled over to the register.

  “Are you okay? Tara asked.

  “Okay?” Laila repeated with an odd slowness. She set down her drink with a shaky hand, did nothing as it toppled sideways onto the counter, and clutched her head. “Hurts so bad.”

  “Laila?” Tara asked.

  “It’s over,” Laila mumbled and collapsed to the floor.

  4. Registering for and/or taking customer satisfaction surveys on a company website is a great way to both be heard and save money. Many stores provide information about discounts for taking surveys. As added incentive, you are often added into a pool for bigger prizes.

  5. While I don’t advocate signing up for cards unless you plan to pay them in full upon receipt of the bill and there’s no annual fee, you will not only save on your purchase that day, but get word of future sales and special customer appreciation promotions.

  FIVE

  I DIALED 911, HAILEY and Tara shooed away a couple of teenagers who looked like they belonged at summer school anyway, and Griff tended to Laila. On his knees almost as soon as she passed out, he checked to make sure she was breathing and her heart was beating, rolled her onto her side, and tilted her head to open her mouth. Despite the Mountie hat and mall security credentials, he managed to keep her stabilized for eleven panic-stricken minutes until he was sidelined by the arrival of the paramedics.

  Over the Oh my Gods of Hailey and Tara, the four of us watched in horror as Laila was quickly evaluated, loaded onto a gurney, and whisked away to the hospital.

  “Recent or known history of health issues?” the police officer asked in her absence, launching into a litany of rapid-fire questions we couldn’t answer.

  “Diabetes? Seizure disorders? Current medications and dosage? Contact numbers for family or close friends?”

  Laila’s purse and cell phone went along for the ride to the hospital, so the hospital personnel would have to piece together the medical particulars.

  “Drug or alcohol problems?”

  “I wondered if she might have been drinking,” I said.

  “She did seem sort of slow,” Griff said.

  “And slurry,” said Tara.

  The officer made a note of our observations and the timing of her collapse.

  “If she was, it’s because she was under a lot of stress.” Hailey began to cry. “I think her boyfriend broke up with her, and … ”

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” I said, putting a trembling arm around Hailey and not adding, and/or she was possibly reprimanded for the online complaint I logged not half an hour ago.

  Griff and I stayed until the officer finished asking questions, the emergency personnel left, and Tara and Hailey collected themselves enough to carry on with business (not at all) as usual.

  “I can’t believe she just collapsed like that,” Griff said as he escorted me out of the store and across the mall in the direction we’d traveled earlier that morning, but veering toward the parking garage instead of the security offices.

  “She had to be drinking,” I said.

  “The thing is, she didn’t smell like alcohol.”

  “Some liquors have no odor.”

  “True,” he said.

  “Maybe she has some sort of medical condition she doesn’t talk about.”

  “That could be.” He opened the glass door leading to the parking structure and held it for me to walk through.

  “I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.” I said, adjusting to the heat and dim lighting, and hoping to hear that the comments I’d left on the website hadn’t contributed to her collapse.

  “I’m sure,” Griff said.

  We walked in silence toward my car.

  “That was the first time I’ve ever really had to use my first-aid training,” he finally said.

  “You seemed like a real pro.”

  “Thanks.” His cheeks colored. “Too bad the police department doesn’t seem to take mall security all that seriously.”

  “Have them call me for a reference,” I said. “I can’t imagine what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”

  “Probably better if you hadn’t been there, though,” he said, straightening the chinstrap of his hat, which, best as I could tell, was the only discernible distinction between him and the “real” re-sponders.

  “I really should have gone about the rest of my errands like I planned.” I spotted my car, which was partially obscured by a post marked B-7, where I always parked to avoid remembering where I’d left my car after a shopping foray to the mall. Or, in today’s case, a secret bargain-hunting trip turned non-shoplifting, medical emergency. “But there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

  “You did a great job keeping the girls calm and everything.”

  “Thanks,” I said over the beep of my remote door opener.

  He nodded in the direction of the Lexus LX SUV we could barely afford the gas for, but which Frank insisted we keep for appearance’s
sake. “Nice wheels.”

  “Thanks.” I’d have argued there was as much status in a Prius or similar “green” replacement had the Lexus not been almost paid off.6 “Gets me where I need to go.”

  We stood beside my car for an awkward moment.

  Tall, husky, and strong as Griff was, he looked almost as unsteady as I felt. Had I known him a little better, and were he not functioning as an officer of the mall, we probably could have both used a hug. “I’ll get you on the guest list for the show.”

  “That would be—”

  The cell phone on his belt loop rang.

  “Griff Watson,” he answered.

  My heart raced as I awaited his response to whoever was on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, Mr. Piggledy,” he said.

  I took a deep, not-quite relieved breath of warm, exhaust-tinged parking lot air.

  “Hang on.” Griff handed me his card.

  “I’ll get you on the list for a taping soon.”

  “Thanks.” He waved kindly and turned for the mall doors, his end of the conversation echoing across the parking lot. “Yes, collapsed … at the hospital now … sure everything’s going to be … will call you first thing when … ”

  My hand shook not unlike Laila’s as I slid into the driver’s seat and put the keys into the ignition. I tried to think through the errands I was going to run for Frank before he left for the airport—pick up shirts at the cleaners, buy sample-sized toiletries, get snacks for the plane to avoid the airport convenience store prices …

  My stomach began to grumble.

  While my interest in Asian fare was DOA the second my lunch hit the floor, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Combined with the stress of the last few hours, my appetite shot into overdrive as I drove out of the parking lot and into the afternoon sunshine. As I passed the gym, I thought about grabbing a grilled chicken sandwich or the carb and calorie reduced drive-thru equivalent. I might have, had the Cold Stone Creamery just down the road and conveniently located in the strip center next to my dry cleaner not begun to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.

  Better yet, I had a two-scoops-for-the-price-of-one coupon.

  I picked up Frank’s shirts and ran next door for a helping times two of cake batter ice cream mixed with Heath bar and cookie dough. I was back in my car, licking caramel drizzle from the side of the cup before I gave so much as a thought to the fact that I’d have no calorie-burning assistance from Bye Bye Fat. I’d dumped the last two horse-pill sized capsules from my pill case into my ill-fated Diet Coke.

  One bite and I didn’t care.

  With the mall in my rearview, the sunroof open, and the sun’s rays softening my ice cream to an ideal consistency, I savored another creamy, delicious spoonful. I was starting to feel, if not better, some distance from the mall mayhem. A few more sweet, gooey mouthfuls and I was sending healing thoughts to Laila, who had to be well into the process of regaining her Jekyll and Hyde sensibilities. I was definitely worse for the wear having met her, but all that was behind me. I was enjoying a decadent treat on a hot summer day before I headed home to send my husband off on a promising business trip and see my darling sons on their way to pre-season football practice.

  Once both scoops of ice cream had disappeared and only a pool of melted caramel and cream remained, I set down the spoon, put the bowl to my lips, and began to drink. I savored the final chunk of chocolate as it slid like a cocoa island into my open mouth. I dabbed my face with a napkin, turned the key in the ignition, and headed in the direction of home. We didn’t have everything or even close to it anymore, so the old cliché, when you have your health you have everything, didn’t quite apply, but as I stopped at Target to use a $5-off store coupon and some manufacturer’s coupons with no size specifications on travel-size samples and snacks, I couldn’t help but note the abundance surrounding me.

  My state of appreciation grew as I took in glorious mountain views and navigated the wide, clean streets of my development, Single Tree Ranch. Passing the contemporary houses dotting the hillsides in every direction, I turned on our sapling-lined drive, into my neighborhood, Ever Green Estates, and waved to the gatehouse guard as I passed by.

  I had been happy in the just about big enough house we moved into right before the twins were born. We were cozy, the neighbors were friendly, and I loved the architecturally consistent houses and maturing trees.

  Frank, however, had his eye on the gated community going up not far away.

  One tour of the Tuscan-style custom, complete with gourmet kitchen and master suite steam shower, and we were both sold. He put down a deposit and began to negotiate a built-in back yard barbecue center that day and we moved in ten months later, almost five years ago. The mortgage was a big nut, but Frank was so confident we’d made a sound long-term real estate decision that also provided extra safety for the children of a known community figure. I didn’t mention that a bathroom for each kid was excessive, or that we didn’t need a four-car garage. After all, the house was beyond beautiful.

  Besides, Frank always made wise financial decisions.

  If only we had known we were getting into a second mortgage based on false financial statements showing fake income we thought we had—or that we might have to close off half the house this winter and sell by next summer if this meeting in Florida didn’t go well …

  I wiped away the perspiration that suddenly dampened the nape of my neck and forced myself to smile. I couldn’t do any more than I was doing; I could only appreciate the many blessings in my life right now.

  I pulled up to our house and clicked open the garage.

  As I got out of the car, Frank’s muffled baritone echoed from inside the house. “You’ve got to be kidding, right?”

  Grabbing my goodies, Frank’s laundry, and the toiletries, I started toward the door into the back hall.

  “I can’t miss my flight over this,” Frank said.

  Applebee, one of our two cats, appeared on the step and mewled as if in warning.

  Instead of dreading what seemed to be getting-out-the-door mayhem, I welcomed the familiar family hubbub of it all and stepped inside. Frank, Frank Jr., and Trent stood together in the front hall, the boys in their team-issued black and green workout gear, Frank in his business-casual travelling khakis and polo shirt.

  Before I could utter a nonchalant over what? Frank gave me a peck on the cheek and reached for his shirts and toiletries. “Where’ve you been?”

  Ever since he came home with the news that scheming mastermind Stephen Singer had been paying for his cars, boats, art, and over-the-top lifestyle with money that not only wasn’t his but was partially ours, daily life had become defined by what someone couldn’t say. The police couldn’t say where Singer had run off to with our money. Neither Frank nor I could say anything about our financial woes to the boys; not only would they be worried, but we couldn’t risk them telling someone in a moment of weakness. And I couldn’t say anything about Mrs. Frugalicious to my husband. Frank knew I was scrimping and saving, but neither his reputation nor his psyche could handle my secret identity or the growing success of the Frugalicious website.

  “A woman collapsed right in front of me while I was doing errands,” I hedged, not willing to divulge all. “I had to help and wait for the ambulance to come.”

  “Did she croak?” Trent asked.

  “Really, Trent?” FJ asked.

  Frank looked at his watch. “We gotta roll, kids.”

  “I’m not leaving until we find her,” FJ said.

  “Find who?” I asked.

  “The cat,” the three of them said in unison.

  “Applebee just rubbed against my leg in the garage.”

  “Not Applebee,” FJ said. “Chili.”

  “She’s missing?”

  “Since last night.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Trent said. “She’s a cat.”

  “Exactly what I said,” Frank said. A ray of sunlight shone through the great room windows and backl
it what looked like copper streaks in his dark brown hair.

  “I put food out this morning and it’s all dry and crusty, so she never touched it,” FJ said.

  “I thought I saw her in the basement,” I said instead, walked to the door leading downstairs. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

  “Today?”

  “It might have been yesterday,” I said.

  “We’ve gotta find her,” FJ said.

  “We’ve gotta get to practice,” Trent countered.

  Like Applebee and Chili, named after the boy’s favorite restaurants, FJ and Trent were nearly identical looking. The cats, brown and gray Tabbies, could only be told apart by the white markings around their mouths. The boys were handsome with wavy brown hair and blue eyes like their father, but taller. They were both six one, two hundred pounds, and built for football.

  According to Frank and Trent, anyway.

  “Hate two-a-day practices,” FJ muttered under his breath.

  For years, while Trent and Frank tossed the football back and forth in the park, FJ hid under the play structure putting on imaginary plays and creating sand sculptures.

  “Worries me,” Frank would whisper.

  “Don’t,” I would say and shush him before he could elaborate. That his namesake had developed an early passion for make-believe and the creative arts meant nothing.

  Nothing that mattered, anyway.

  When they came home as the only two freshmen on varsity football last year—the streak FJ had just bleached into his hair notwithstanding—Frank nearly stopped raising a suspicious eyebrow about any remotely effeminate traits.

  Of course, Frank had little room to talk if … Couldn’t be.

  “Did you … ?” I began

  “Did I what?” he asked.

  I pointed to his hair and made a streaky motion.

  He looked thoroughly confused.

  “Nothing,” I said, not wanting to start anything in front of the boys. I was his personal assistant, meaning I’d made his last hair appointment, which didn’t include extra time for highlights he would never have asked for and we couldn’t afford.

  “I’m not even sure I want to play this year,” FJ said, derailing my highlight inquiry anyway.