I unclipped my seat belt and grabbed the pile of paperwork I’d set on the passenger seat in anticipation of my day’s grocery shop. Careful not to move so much as a paperclip from the spreadsheet, shuffle the envelopes I’d stuffed with coupons, or dislodge any strategically placed sticky notes I’d left myself, I pulled my price bible10 from the back pouch of my coupon organizing binder and opened it to the first blank page.
Mrs. Frugalicious could sniff out a mean bargain with a little ingenuity and a lot of spreadsheets. Was there any reason Maddie Michaels couldn’t do the same to help the police narrow down the killer?
I wrote SUSPECTS at the top.
When setting up a grocery shop, I would consult the master spreadsheet I kept on the home computer. Beside the hundred or so items I typically bought for my family were entries for the lowest recorded price, coupons for that item, expiration dates, common specials by store, Catalinas,11 and the supply of each item I currently had on hand. I’d then cross-reference that spreadsheet with another I’d created for stores, their current specials, coupon multiplier days, and restrictions on usage. After determining what I needed, comparing current cost, coupon, and store multiplier savings, I made a final spreadsheet of exactly what and how many of each item I would purchase. To allow for miscalculations and unexpected price fluctuations that could derail expected budget, I also printed out possible product substitutions.
Only then would I actually go shopping.
The spreadsheet I was about to create would be far simpler. But potentially so much more complicated.
I penciled in four headings—Suspect, Motive, Access, and Bulimia Knowledge.
The columns began to fill in with notes as fast as I could write:
Tara Hu/Hated working for her, about to be fired?/Access—yes/Bulimia knowledge—yes
Andy Oliver/Hated Laila for trying to break up his relationship?/Access—yes/Bulimia knowledge— said she scarfed and barfed
If either Andy or Tara was involved, couldn’t they also be in cahoots?
I created a fifth column called Potential Partners in Crime, then added Andy’s name to Tara’s entry and vice versa. The concept of collusion brought up Hailey Rosenberg. Since she and Tara both worked for Laila, they could have worked together to get rid of their boss. I wrote her name in Tara’s Potential Partners column, then added her as a suspect.
Hailey Rosenberg/Mentioned difficulties working for Laila during eulogy/Access—yes/Bulimia knowledge—mentioned Laila’s chocolate eating/ Could have conspired with Tara
If Hailey conspired with Tara, didn’t it stand to reason Andy could be in cahoots with both of them?
I added her name to his entry and his to hers.
Richard the Regional Manager/Wanted to break up with Laila to protect his marriage?/Access—?/ Knowledge of bulimia—?/Unlikely to have an accomplice
Richard’s wife/Knew Laila was having an affair with her husband?/Access—?/Knowledge of bulimia—?/ Unlikely to have an accomplice
Shoshanna/Wanted Laila’s gig as “queen bee”/ Access—Was in Eternally 21 just before I arrived/ Bulimia knowledge—did call death a suicide, so presumed/Possible accomplice(s)?
I picked up my phone thinking I’d ring up the Piggledys and ask a well-placed but vague-sounding question or two, then thought better of it. While they knew the scoop on everyone and everything at the mall, it was better not to alert them that I knew something was up before the news came out and they began to spread the word.
Which, given Anastasia’s enthusiasm about the story, could be any moment.
I looked at my watch. The mall was due to open in fifteen minutes, and I hadn’t heard back from Griff.
I dialed his number and got his voicemail again.
Griff’s reaction to the news of murder would likely be that of stoney silence, but he’d seen Laila that morning, was there when she collapsed, and had tried to save her. I had to let him know about the new murder designation before he heard some convoluted version through the mall misinformation gauntlet.
I clipped in my seat belt again.
I’d go to the mall, head directly to the security office, settle into that now familiar chair across from Griff’s desk, and square my shoulders. “Griff,” I’d say. “We need to talk.”
“What’s up?” he’d ask, question clouding his hazel eyes.
“I’m afraid Laila’s death was no accident.”
“What?”
“She was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?”
I’d nod.
He’d put his head in his hands and we’d sit in silence but for the occasional blip from his walkie-talkie.
“And you know this how?” he’d finally ask.
“Frank heard at the TV station, mentioned it to me, and I just confirmed it this morning with the police.”
“This can’t be happening,” he’d say.
“I’m sorry,” I’d say. “I wanted to tell you in person before you hear it on the news or—”
As if on cue, the phone began to ring in my hand. Griff Watson scrolled across caller ID.
I took a deep breath in anticipation of what was sure to be a difficult call and pressed Talk. “Griff.”
“Returning your call,” he said in a monotone so telling, I dreaded the effect of the words that were about to come out of my mouth.
Despite the air conditioning blasting toward my face, beads of perspiration broke out at my temples. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’ve just left the police station and I wanted to let you know that Laila—”
“Was poisoned?”
“You already know?”
“Yup.”
I felt relieved and somehow worse at the same time. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said.
The dull thrum of his car radio seeped through his phone, both filling the silence and filling me in on how he’d heard. Anastasia must have broken the news faster than expected.
“Have they said what kind of poison yet?” he finally asked.
“It’s supposed to be classified.”
“I won’t be telling anyone.”
I might have hesitated were he not already a security guard with police training who was simply awaiting a spot on the South Metro PD. “Ephedra—a banned diet drug that causes heart attacks and strokes—especially in large doses.”
He was silent for a moment. “But given Laila’s eating issues—”
“Maybe she took it herself?”
“That would at least make more sense than someone purposely poisoning her.”
“Which is what I went in to tell the police.”
“And?”
“They’ve ruled out accidental death and suicide.” I paused. “The police say someone knew enough about her eating issues to think they could make it look like an OD.”
He exhaled deeply. “Did the police give you any idea who they’re looking at?”
“I don’t think they know where to start yet.”
“Not surprising. They’ve got quite a job ahead of them.”
“Which is why we need to help them. I’ve been sitting here organizing a spreadsheet of possible suspects for the police and I—”
“A spreadsheet?”
“It’s more of a rough list, really, of the people I saw and things I heard in the hours preceding Laila’s murder.”
“This can’t be happening,” he said.
“I can’t believe it either,” I said. “The thing is, you and I are in the unique position of possibly being able to do something about it.”
“Maddie,” he paused. “I’m just a mall cop.”
“A mall cop who might just be instrumental in solving a murder.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Well, I know this may be your big chance to catch the attention of the police department.”
10. Never leave home without it.
11. Catalinas—those instant coupons the cashier hands you at the register with your
receipt are a goldmine of savings. Not only are they tailored to your shopping habits, they often include coupons for substantial savings off your total order.
TWELVE
GIVEN MY KNOWLEDGE OF spreadsheets, Griff’s knowledge of the mall employees, and our joint observations of everyone and everything we saw on Thursday, the police were sure to have a killer in custody in record time. Like dominoes, Anastasia would be free to work on Frank Finance, Frank would impress the national TV people, and Griff would have an impressive footnote for his résumé. As for me, I would be content in having helped facilitate swift justice and could get back to the business of secretly being Mrs. Frugalicious.
I pulled into the mall parking, made a beeline across the mall, turned the corner into the administrative wing, and opened the door to the security office.
I stepped in to an empty room and a single piece of paper fluttering in the wake of a table fan on Griff’s shared desk.
My name was scrawled across the top.
Maddie,
I know I said I’d be here to talk, but there’s been another incident.
Please leave your list. I’ll get back to you about it as soon as I can.
Griff
“There’s been another incident alright,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Can you believe it?” Mrs. Piggledy munched nervously on a piece of freshly spun rainbow cotton candy. “As if the news about Laila weren’t enough of a blow to all of us.”
My heart, which started racing the minute I saw Griff’s note and hadn’t stopped as I ran past the locked administrative offices and into Circus Circus, began to pound in my chest. “What happened?”
“Someone ransacked Pet Pals!” Mr. Piggledy said.
“The cages were opened and all the animals got loose,” Mrs. Piggledy said.
“Patricia from the mall offices should be down here any minute to fill us in on the details,” Mr. Piggledy said.
Higgledy, who lay listlessly on his nap pad beside a half-eaten banana, let out a deep sigh.
“The B-I-R-D,” Mrs. Higgledy spelled in a lowered voice, “may be amongst the missing.”
“Poor thing,” I said.
They shook their heads in unison.
“You know,” Mr. Piggledy said. “This whole unfortunate business is starting to remind me of poor, dear Delia.”
Mrs. Piggledy gasped. “Honey, you’re right. It sure does.”
Eager to hear whatever Patricia knew about both Laila and Pet Pals, I leaned against the front counter while the Piggledys readied their store for the day. “Who’s Delia?”
“She was the star attraction of our circus,” Mr. Piggledy said, handing me my own puff of cotton candy from the machine.
“Until she dropped dead in center ring during a Sunday matinee,” Mrs. Piggledy said.
“We had to drive the clown car out and haul her away like it was part of the show,” Mr. Piggledy said.
Mrs. Piggledy poured popcorn into the popper beside me. “I never thought I’d have to deal with something that awful ever again.”
“Mercury is in retrograde,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Just like it was that day,” Mrs. Piggledy said. “Which means there must be some detail we need to revisit for some reason.”
They shared the same pensive expression.
“Well, both Laila and Delia did have eating problems,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“They were different, though. Delia was starving herself because she was lovesick over the animal trainer,” Mrs. Piggledy said.
As the smell of popping corn began to permeate the store, I found myself picturing a painfully thin, raven-haired beauty swinging from the trapeze in a shimmering, sequined leotard while her trainer twirled the ends of his waxed moustache. “What did she do in the circus?”
“Elephant show,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Everyone loved her,” Mrs. Piggledy said with a wistful smile.
“Unlike Laila,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Laila was challenging, but no worse than say, Andre the Acrobat or that one nasty bearded lady that quit after a year. What was her name? Caprice or—”
“What happened to Delia?” I asked, to keep her from detouring into a side (show) story.
“Some thought the poor thing died from a broken heart.” Mrs. Piggledy opened a drawer filled with balloons, slid one onto a nearby helium tank, inflated it, and tied on a string. “Most were sure she collapsed from starvation.”
“At first,” Mr. Piggledy said, accepting the balloon from her and releasing it into a half-filled holding net beside him.
“Then they did an autopsy,” Mrs. Piggledy said.
“And?”
“Someone slipped her a mickey!” Mr. Piggledy said.
The cotton candy in my hand began to congeal into a sweat-sticky mess of food coloring. “This sounds almost exactly like Laila.”
“Of course it’s hard to imagine what it’s like to autopsy an elephant.”
“An elephant?” I stopped short of stuffing the now gooey wad of candy into my mouth. “Delia was an—?”
“Only the smartest, most beloved, most beautiful creature we ever met in all our years working with animals,” Mr. Piggledy sniffled.
Mrs. Piggledy handed him another balloon, gave him a stern look, and pointed with her head at Higgledy, who listlessly rolled a ball back and forth on his mat.
“Except for our dear lovesick boy over there, of course,” Mr. Piggledy said loudly.
Higgledy perked his head up, not in acknowledgement of the Piggledy’s praise, but at the arrival of Patricia from the administrative office.
“I can’t remember a worse morning!” She entered the store and collapsed onto a bench from a defunct zoo train. “One minute, we’re hearing the horrible news about Laila DeSimone and the next we’re running upstairs on a Code Red.”
“Dreadful,” Mrs. Piggledy said.
“And that just describes the mess. You wouldn’t believe what a pet shop ransacked by animals looks like.”
“No one was hurt though?” I asked.
“Thankfully not,” she said. “Of course, someone’s liable to have a heart attack when they come upon one of the animals that escaped into the mall.”
“I’m sure they’ll locate the missing critters,” Mr. Piggledy said.
Higgledy whimpered.
“What about the parrot?” Mrs. Piggledy asked.
“She’s okay—a little stressed out, but no more so than him,” she said, pointing to Higgledy. “Or me, for that matter.”
Mrs. Piggledy handed Patricia a bottle of water and a bag of popcorn.
“Thanks.” Patricia took a swig. “Damn animal rights fanatics.”
“Animal rights people were behind the breakin?”
“There was no money taken, just cages let open. It just stands to reason … ” She shrugged.
“They have been picketing around here on and off all summer,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Just like that year before Delia—”
“I’d forgotten about that!” Mr. Piggledy said.
Patricia looked thoroughly confused. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“The uncanny similarities between Laila’s death and the passing of a circus elephant named Delia,” I said, cutting to what I saw as the salient points of the story.
“Who was poisoned by a rival circus trying to kill our profit margin,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Like those protesters are trying to do to businesses like Pet Pals,” Mrs. Piggledy said.
“At least that’s where the similarities end,” I said.
Mr. Piggledy furrowed his bushy brow. “It’s interesting you should say that.”
“It sure is,” Mrs. Piggledy said, nodding her head.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Laila certainly loved to rile those folks up by parading across their picket lines in whatever short little leather or fur getup suited her that day,” Mr. Piggledy said.
Patricia’
s eyes grew wide. “You two can’t possibly think she riled them up enough for one of them to …”
“I worried that attitude of hers was going to bite her one day.” Mrs. Piggledy said.
Higgledy hoo-hooed in apparent agreement.
Patricia’s walkie-talkie beeped. “I’m afraid I’ve gotta run.”
With the word run, a group of children with gifts, a cake, and harried parents in tow came bounding into the store.
“Well,” Patricia said as she started for the door, “Dan always said she was like the great big elephant in the room.”
The Piggledys nodded in knowing agreement.
I should have left the mall right then and there. I’d have been safely grocery shopping when Griff found the note saying his name was on Frank’s VIP list in lieu of a suspect list I couldn’t leave on his desk for anyone to chance upon. I might have, were my hands not so sticky from cotton candy that I had to stop at the ladies’ restroom to scrub the mess from my fingers before I could even think about reaching into my purse for my car keys.
I’d washed and was reaching for a paper towel when two women in matching black cosmetic counter smocks came out of their respective stalls and met up at the washbasins.
“I hate to say it,” one said to the other. “But Laila deserved what she got.”
“Totally.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“Not sure, but as soon as I narrow down who I think it is, I’m headed over to Gadgeteria to place my bet with Andy Oliver.”
Andy Oliver was taking wagers over who’d killed Laila?
“We do football, basketball, and current events pools.” Andy pulled a straightedge from his pocket and slit open a box with a flourish that sent chills down my spine. “Why not a whodunit pool?”
Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery Page 10