Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery

by Linda Joffe Hull

  “I would like to read a poem by William Wordsworth.” Dan Mitchell, the dapper mall manager cleared his throat and leaned in toward the mic set in front of the indoor rock water feature.

  “She dwelt among the untrodden ways.

  Beside the springs of Dove;

  A maid whom there were none to praise,

  And very few to love … ”

  Nina Marino, one of the few real friends Laila had in the place, looked pale, wan, and miserable as her boyfriend recited the rest of the poem.

  “That was lovely.” Mr. Piggledy wore a crushed velvet robe that must have been made by Mrs. Piggledy since it matched both his wife’s apron dress and the swanky short pants suit Higgledy the monkey wore for the occasion. He put a hand to the mall manager’s back and sent him toward his seat. “A fitting sentiment in these oh so difficult to accept circumstances.”

  In the front row, Tara Hu erupted into a dramatic high-pitched wail. As she buried her head into a red-eyed Andy Oliver’s shoulder, I couldn’t help but think about how she might have been teetering on the edge of being fired. As for him, he’d not only called Laila a beyotch but openly hoped she’d choke on her French fries.

  “We have lost one who is very near to us, and we all feel that loss deeply, painfully, and as a community,” Mr. Piggledy said. “But, be assured, the Places Beyond are pleasing, beautiful, and far from the cares of this reality. A place where a forever young, beautiful, and vital Laila DeSimone now frolics happily, waiting to greet us with open arms when our turn comes to pass on into the non-physical.”

  The man I presumed to be Richard the regional manager—on account of his salt and pepper good looks, expensive suit, and position on the other side of Tara—dabbed his eyes with a tissue. To my horror, he put his arm around the attractive, well-dressed brunette in her early forties seated beside him.

  As she wiped away one of the tears staining her otherwise flawless foundation, there was no missing the enormous diamond on her left hand.

  I looked up at Griff, who was stationed halfway up the central courtyard steps overlooking the proceedings. I tried to catch his attention for some pointing-to-my-ring-finger-and-then-to-Mrs.-Richard sign language, but the mall cop stood bolt upright and stone-faced with his back to me.

  “Oh, dear,” I whispered aloud.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Piggledy, who’d saved a seat for me, asked.

  “I’m sure I’m wrong, but the man I assumed was Laila’s regional manager and boyfriend appears to be married.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Mrs. Piggledy said. “From the way she flirted with the married men around this mall, I’d say she preferred them that way.”

  “How awful.”

  “Which is why I never left her alone with my sweetie.” She looked adoringly at squat, round, bespectacled Mr. Piggledy, who still stood in front of the crowd.

  “As I once heard said,” Mr. Piggledy said with a hint of a trill as he returned his wife’s loving gaze, “to live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die.”

  Patricia, the mall office receptionist, seated in the second row behind the Eternally 21 employees and beside her boss, nodded. “So true,” she said in a stage whisper.

  Higgledy tucked his head under the crook of Mrs. Piggledy’s arm and emitted the monkey version of a sigh.

  “Higgledy seems to be mourning right along,” I said.

  “I don’t know about that. He hasn’t been a fan of Laila since she told him he belonged on a leash,” Mrs. Piggledy whispered and pointed to the exotic bird perched on the shoulder of a man seated three rows over. “I think it’s more that he has a hopeless crush on the store parrot at Pet Pals.”

  Phil from Whatapizza stepped up to the podium with Jaynie from the French Fried. “As Euripides once said,” he said in a dramatic baritone, “death is a debt we all must pay.”

  Jaynie sniffled and took his place at the mic. “Death is life’s way of telling you you’re fired.”

  Two career apparel store types (clad in what I recognized as Ann Taylor and The Limited, respectively) crossed and uncrossed their legs, tucked their shiny hair behind their ears, and wept in unison.

  “Do you find it all odd that everyone is mourning Laila like she was their best friend?” I whispered to Mrs. Piggledy. “Particularly when so many of them didn’t seem to like her all that much?”

  “Shock does weird things to people.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said, watching a woman from the mobile phone store crying tears that would make a crocodile proud.

  “A famous circus performer once said we make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give.” Mr. Piggledy looked out into the crowd. “Here to say a few words about Laila’s contribution to our community is one of her co-workers, Hailey Rosenberg.”

  The room was silent but for the clip-clip of sling-back platforms as Hailey, dressed in a questionably short but appropriately black mini-dress, approached the microphone. “So, like … ” her black chandelier earrings grazed the microphone, “Laila was my boss and stuff.” Hailey grabbed a tissue from the box set on the rock ledge beside her. “But um, then everything happened the other day and well, like, I thought I should say some things about her.”

  As someone from behind me let out a brief wail, Hailey reached into a copy of a black silk clutch I’d almost bought for Eloise and pulled out her phone. For one horrifying second, it appeared as if she was going to check her text messages.

  Instead, she began to read.

  “Laila Anne DeSimone was born and raised in Wichita, Kansas. While it turns out she was a bit older than twenty-three like she said, she did look really good for her age. She also had really great style. She worked at Payless, Claire’s, and briefly, Hot Dog on a Stick, before getting her dream job at Eternally 21, where she rose up the ladder from stockperson to manager. Laila wasn’t married and didn’t have kids, but you could say she was married to her career.” Hailey paused to click her phone over to the next page of what had to be some sort of plug-in-the-details eulogy app. “Laila devoted many hours to make sure our store was always number one in the state. She made sure our Eternally 21 maintained excellent visual presentation at all times by presenting a fashion statement herself and throughout the store. Most important, she made a name for herself in the company for always maximizing store volume in accordance with all store and company goals, policies, and procedures.”

  While Laila’s accomplishments sounded like they’d come off of an Eternally 21 employee review checklist, Hailey was doing a nice job of focusing on the positive—Laila’s attractive appearance and her effectiveness as a store manager.

  “Laila was totally picky about stuff, but she always said, if the store looks good and we look good, then everything is good.”

  While the speech was rote and she’d shared little in the way of personal stories, Hailey was doing a nice job of memorializing a boss who had to have been difficult at best.

  “It’s hard to believe that’s totally true anymore, but, in her honor, I promise to uphold Laila’s commitment to helping every girl who walks into Eternally 21 find her inner fashionista.” She raised her fist. “Fashion forever.”

  “A moving tribute,” said Mr. Piggledy. He hugged Hailey, directed her back to her seat, and took her place at the microphone. “Is there anyone else who would like to follow that up with a memory or comment about Laila?”

  Other than Higgledy, who’d left his seat and was making googly eyes at the parrot, everyone else seemed content in their silent reverie.

  “Very well,” Mr. Piggledy said after allowing a few moments. “I would like to invite you all to the food court for a post-service reception featuring Laila’s favorite fare. Before we adjourn, however, first let’s join hands while we say a goodbye to the spirit of Laila DeSimone and wish her well on her journey to that place of great peace in which she has preceded us.”

  After a moment of awkward rustling where mourners grasped hands with the friend or
stranger beside them, a mass Goodbye, Laila! echoed up into the mountain-shaped glass dome capping the courtyard.

  “We’ll miss you, but we wish you well!” Mr. Piggledy said.

  The crowd repeated his words and degenerated in a cacophony of shared tears.

  The food court reception was a Laila-style smorgasbord of everything from Philly cheese steaks to a machine dispensing chocolate soft serve. Having promised myself not to eat anything that wasn’t a member of the fruit or vegetable family, I compromised with a low-fat lemon poppy seed muffin and a plate of veggie tempura from Far East Feast. While I nibbled, teary tales of Laila’s eating skills echoed through the food court:

  One time I saw her eat four Cinnabons in one sitting.

  She just lived for these pretzel bites.

  It figures the food court people made speeches, since half their profits had to be from her.

  I was half-awaiting mention of her man-eating skills when I spotted Griff near the beverage table looking almost as wooden as he had in his official capacity during the service. Choosing to take his tight smile as a sign of we’re in this together camaraderie, I dumped the remainder of my snack in a nearby trash and headed over for a chat.

  “Nice service,” I said, grabbing a Diet Coke from a fountain dispenser.

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “Did you happen to notice the man sitting beside Tara?” I asked.

  “You mean Richard?”

  “So that was Richard, the regional manager?”

  “And his wife,” Griff said.

  “As in, he’s definitely married?” I asked.

  “Apparently so.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s a tough one to swallow.” His voice cracked. “But, yeah.”

  “So sad,” I said.

  “Yup.”

  We both took awkward, measured sips of our respective drinks.

  “I heard on the news that the autopsy was inconclusive,” I said.

  “I saw that, too.”

  “I looked up the symptoms, and a stroke really does make perfect sense, though.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Slurred speech, stumbling, dizziness, feelings of being drunk, severe headache out of the blue, loss of consciousness.”

  “Sure sounds right.” His monosyllabic answers seemed to mask a deeper pain.

  “Griff,” I said, “from everything I read, calling 911 and noting the time when the symptoms appeared are about all anyone can do for someone having a stroke.”

  How can I come back in Monday like nothing’s wrong, knowing Laila’s never coming back? someone asked from the table behind us.

  “Assuming it was a stroke,” I said.

  “What else could it have been?” Griff asked, his eyes on the main entrance to the food court where a news crew from none other than Channel Three had materialized in the doorway.

  I had no desire to appear in so much as the background of a newscast, much less be recognized as Frank’s wife and find myself with a microphone in my face: I’m here at the South Highlands Valley Mall with the wife of our own Frank Finance Michaels, who is amongst the mourners for the tragic passing of Eternally 21 manager, Laila DeSimone. Mrs. Michaels, what was your relationship with the deceased?

  “I’m on duty, so I should check in with those news people.”

  “I should probably run anyway,” I said.

  Griff and I bid each other a quick goodbye and set off in opposite directions.

  I attempted to stroll nonchalantly toward the opposite end of the food court and disappear into the mall proper, passing the Piggledys, who stood with a small group clustered around a table of baked goods.

  “Mercury retrograde definitely brings unforeseen changes,” Mr. Piggledy said. “We’d all best plan on dealing with unusual events as the order of the day for almost two more weeks.”

  “Speaking of which,” Mrs. Piggledy grabbed my hand before I could slink by and pulled me directly into the conversation. “I wondered where you’d run off to.”

  “Just enjoying the reception,” I said. “But my husband is due to fly home from Miami soon and I don’t know exactly when his plane is supposed to take off, so I’m headed—”

  “No need to hurry,” Mr. Piggledy said. “Travel and business deals always get delayed and/or derailed when—”

  “When did Mercury go retrograde?” Pete from Pet Pals asked.

  “Retrograde,” the parrot perched on his shoulder repeated.

  Higgledy smiled fondly as Pete rewarded the bird with a pellet of some kind.

  “Last Thursday,” Mr. Piggledy said, eyeing a Zebra cookie from the dessert spread.

  Anastasia Chastain appeared beside the camera crew. As she scanned the room for a spot to set up and start filming, I repositioned myself so as to be obscured by Mr. Piggledy’s substantial, robe-covered girth.

  “There’s no need to panic,” Mrs. Piggledy said in her motherly, reassuring tone. “I like to think of this as a time to reflect, review, and work through the unexpected issues that pop up.”

  “Look!” Mr. Piggledy directed us toward the front of the food court. “It’s that newscaster from Channel Three.”

  Mrs. Piggledy waved. “I’m sure she’ll want to have a word with you, honey,”

  “That must be my husband now,” I said pretending to hear the ping of a text alert inside my purse. “I’ve really got to run.”

  As Mrs. Piggledy pushed her husband in Anastasia’s general direction, I managed to slip away to the relative safety of a fake fir tree and on into the mall. Despite the untoward combination of exercise-stiff inner thighs and stacked heels, I loped down the corridor, out the door to the parking lot, and to my car in the B-7 section. Once inside, with the air conditioning on high and pointed toward my sweat-dampened face, I did check my cell phone.

  There were two messages.

  The first was an automated flight status alert I’d set up with Frank’s flight number:

  ON TIME

  The second, from Frank, only served to confirm the eerie accuracy of Mr. Piggledy’s predictions of travel-related delays:

  MY FLIGHT’S JUST BEEN CANCELLED. CAN’T GET ANOTHER ONE HOME UNTIL FIRST THING IN THE MORNING.

  EIGHT

  “I AGREE, THIS WHOLE Mercury in retrograde stuff is a little on the freaky side,” my trainer, Chelsea, said. “But you said Frank did get back, safe and sound this morning.”

  “True, but not without having to rush from the airport into a meeting at the station,” I said. Not to mention the maddening $100 rebooking fee to get on the first flight out to make said mandatory (according to Frank) meeting. “As for Laila DeSimone … ”

  “You don’t really think there could be any more to it?” She looked pained. “Do you?”

  Chelsea had arrived at the gym for our twice-weekly workouts at about the same time I had. If she hadn’t, I’d have been alone with my imagination and overstuffed saddlebags while I psyched up for one of her signature you-won’t-need-lipo-when-I’m-done-with-you workouts. Instead, she stood two lockers away looking maddeningly tall, tan, lanky, and stunning. At least I had the benefit of her friendly, sympathetic ear. As she shimmied into the workout shorts and bra top that would serve to both inspire and humiliate me for the next sixty minutes, I couldn’t help but speculate that her perky breasts might not be original issue. The rest of her, from toned biceps to narrow hips, however, was tan, fit, flawless, and natural.

  “I’m sure I’ve just watched one too many crime shows or something.”

  “But, it’s impossible not to wonder when you hear the word inconclusive,” she finished.

  Chelsea was as kind as she was stunning and had not only become my friend and advisor on all things exercise and nutrition (thanks to my lucky fishbowl entry) but a reliable sounding board on pretty much everything else. She took it a step further and always seemed to have the perfect solution for any issue, from the occasional gripe about family life or, as was suddenly the case,
the circumstances of Laila’s demise.

  Chelsea rolled down the waist of her workout shorts to reveal her bejeweled navel. If she weren’t so nice, I couldn’t even be in the same room as her.

  “I still can’t believe the only reason I even met Laila was because I happened to go into Eternally 21 and she accused me of shoplifting.”

  “Seriously?” Chelsea’s big, blue eyes widened. Of course, Chelsea’s eyes weren’t run-of-the-mill blue but a deep cornflower hue only found in Crayola boxes and on women who were already so beautiful that topping off the whole package with can’t-look-away peepers was just unfair. Almost as unfair as my current ratio of wide hips to small breasts.

  “The last few days feel like they’ve been part of a bad dream.”

  “I can’t believe I was at my mom’s pool doing nothing while you were dealing with this.” Chelsea fiddled with the closing mechanism on her locker for a few seconds before grabbing a different locker card from her purse, and moving her stuff to the open one beside it.

  “I feel awful I wasn’t here for you sooner.”

  “I’m just glad you’re back,” I said. “I was going crazy without someone to talk to.”

  “What about Frank?” she asked.

  No way was I telling Frank anything that could disrupt what clearly was a very promising weekend for him—for us. “I thought I’d wait to run it by him until he gets home.”

  “There’s probably nothing more to the story anyway.”

  “Laila’s symptoms were textbook stroke,” I said.

  “Exactly.” Chelsea smiled sweetly and led me out of the locker room.

  With the squeal of the door, the generally male population of the free weight area, situated (inconveniently or strategically, depending on one’s perspective) right outside the women’s lockers, turned and subtly or not so subtly leered, mostly at Chelsea.

  “The thing is, Laila was young, beautiful, and by all reports had the appetite of a horse.”

  I didn’t mention that appetite also seemed to run toward married men.