Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery

by Linda Joffe Hull

  “She wasn’t all that young.” Andy Oliver shook his head. “I couldn’t believe it when Tara told me she made that crack about your age. Everyone knows she’s a lot closer to Eternally 31 than Eternally 21.”

  Phil at the pizza place said the rumor around the food court was Laila ate something bad. Jaynie at the French fry counter figured something was bound to happen given the sheer quantity Laila apparently consumed. Amber, from Heaven’s Bakery, heard she choked and then had a heart attack.

  Maybe Laila was closer to thirty-one than twenty-one and had the appetite of a sumo wrestler, but everything I’d heard so far about her death added up to nothing more than a game of telephone through the mall. She couldn’t have choked. She hadn’t died from a broken heart. Suicide didn’t ring true. Andy’s theory about her stomach blowing up was just weird. Weirder was that no one had even mentioned my theory of drugs or alcohol.

  Someone at Eternally 21 had to know what happened. After I killed a half-hour at the food court, I’d go back up there, get my ID and some answers, then leave the mall never to return. Not until after all the current employees who knew me by name moved on to greener retail pastures elsewhere, anyway.

  Carrying my tray with both hands, I made my way over to an open two-top in front of the Ben & Jerry’s at the edge of the food court. I put the tray down with care, sat, placed my napkin in my lap, and scooted up to the table as though it were covered in white linen instead of forest green melamine.

  Before I took a bite, I reached into my purse and took two Bye Bye Fat capsules from the pill case I’d replenished that morning. While it was beyond farfetched (as well as defeating the point) to expect that BBF’s supposed superthermogenic properties could make a pepperoni pizza, French fries, and cookies the caloric equivalent of a carrot, it certainly couldn’t hurt. I sprinkled my food and visualized the oversized capsules wearing capes, chasing the evil fat globules through my system, and neutralizing them before they could join the party on my outer thighs.

  I bit into my first fry.

  My cell phone began to ring.

  I reached into my purse fully expecting a psychic junk food intervention from trainer Chelsea, but for once her radar must have been jammed.

  Frank mobile popped up on the screen.

  I thought about letting the call go and ringing him back when I was away from the background noise of the mall, with ID in hand and resolution about Laila. I might have, but we hadn’t talked since he’d landed in Florida. Instead, I chewed, swallowed, and attempted a relaxed, easy, “Hello.”

  “Hi, hon.” His voice was as vacation breezy as the light wind in the background.

  “Hey,” I said. “Sounds like you’re outside.”

  “The only place I seem to have a signal is here by the pool.”

  If only I’d gone along with, I’d be on the lounge chair beside him, sipping a margarita. “Sounds rough.”

  “Actually, things are going very smoothly.”

  I sat up straighter. “As in?”

  “Meeting,” he said, his voice suddenly cutting in and out. “Afternoon … network VP.”

  “I’m only hearing every third word,” I said.

  “Lots potential,” he said, or else it was, “solve everything.”

  Either way, if Frank were to land a nationally syndicated show, the salary increase would resolve our monthly cash crunch. While it would take time to recover completely, his self-esteem would shoot back up with the viewers from all over the country looking to him for the sound advice that made him so popular locally. The strain of the last six months would soon fade into a new, improved, normal. “Can you move to a different location? I’m really having trouble hearing you.”

  “Gotta run,” he said in response and then began to break up again. “Call … later.”

  And he was gone.

  Frustrated by the connection but buoyed by potentially good news, I tossed the phone back into my bag. When I looked up, Nina Marino had appeared from behind the doorway beside the Orange Julius in her regulation South Highlands Valley Mall pantsuit.

  I raised a hand. “Ms. Marino!”

  Nina stopped and looked to figure out who had called her name.

  “Nina,” I said again, waving when she turned in my direction.

  A glint of recognition crossed her face, and she started toward my table.

  “Hi,” I said, as she arrived. “We met yesterday, after my tray collided with—”

  “Tara Hu,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Someone said you were at Eternally 21 when Laila—”

  “I was,” I said. “I heard you were close friends.”

  “We were,” she said, inflection heavy on the were.

  “Have you heard anything about what exactly happened to Laila?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Not really.”

  “I heard something about her choking from the security guard, who said he’d heard that from you.”

  “I said she probably choked.” She looked away toward Big Buster’s BBQ on the other side of the hall as if trying to compose herself. “It made the most sense, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Bad habits.” Her voice was heavy with grief. “She had more than a few of them.”

  “Where eating was concerned?”

  “For starters.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Nina?” The walkie-talkie on her waist squawked. “I need you up here ASAP. Out.”

  “On my way. Out,” she said to the male voice on the other end. “Gotta run.”

  And, like my broken conversation with my husband, she was over and out before I could quite get the full story.

  At least the lights inside Eternally 21 were back on.

  The front doors, however, remained locked.

  I knocked on the glass. A lump formed in my throat when a female police officer appeared from behind a rack of clothing. She pointed to the handwritten sign in front of me and spoke through the glass. “The store’s closed.”

  “I left my driver’s license here yesterday,” I said. “I was told by the assistant manager I could get it.”

  “Just a second.”

  I watched her head toward the back of the store and pause beside the police tape now running from the register area to the back storeroom door.

  A few minutes later, a man with a square jaw, graying crew cut, and a swagger that screamed detective appeared from the door to the backroom behind the tape. He acknowledged something the female officer said, looked at me, and followed her to the front.

  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 al
l 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:

  Call Young Entrepreneurs of Denver to confirm speaking engagement.

  Need dark socks.

  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 fro
m 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.