Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery

by Linda Joffe Hull

  “That girl wouldn’t hurt a fly,” he said.

  Another irrefutable bit of proof. “Even if she was about to be let go?”

  “To move on to become a manager at another store,” he said.

  His insistence on Tara’s and Andy’s innocence had me starting to question my faith in Griff’s judgment, which, I was coming to realize, was based primarily on one encounter in the security office and his commanding presence in uniform. “What about Hailey Rosenberg?”

  “Logical,” he said. “But no.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s because she idolized Laila?”

  He looked genuinely surprised. “She did?”

  “So much so she set up a mannequin shrine to her.”

  “That’s more than a little weird, but it just confirms my theory.”

  “That she’s crazy?”

  “That she had no good reason to want Laila dead.”

  Perhaps Hailey wasn’t the only one a little touched in the head. “What about Shoshanna from Whimsies? She was slinking away from Eternally 21 when I went back there on Friday.”

  “She hated Laila all right,” he said, pausing long enough for me to think maybe we were finally getting somewhere, then added “But … ”

  “Let me guess. Too religious?”

  “Way too religious.”

  Could it actually be that none of them were guilty of anything more criminal than a legitimate hatred of Laila DeSimone? If so, was someone or some dubious cluster of someones from one of the other catchall groups responsible for Laila’s demise? “The cleaning crew?”

  “I heard that one while I was searching for the iguanas,” he said. “But my buddy works for them and told me anyone who cleans at Eternally 21 gets paid extra.”

  My list was rapidly devolving into nothing. “I did hear something about the girl who works at the smoothie place.”

  “Katia?”

  “Purple hair?” I asked.

  “And lots of eye makeup.”

  “That’s her.”

  “The police were all over the food court this afternoon asking questions, so I’m not sure what point there is in leading them where they’re already looking.” Griff slowed down on his bike. “In fact, they’ve already talked to pretty much everyone you’ve mentioned.”

  If the police were already looking into everyone I’d thought of or heard anything about, at least I didn’t have to worry about any further involvement on my part. “And ruled them out?”

  “They will.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, still hoping for an answer that started with the word elementary and was substantiated by fact.

  “Despite how challenging she could be, I refuse to believe anyone who works at the South Highlands Valley Mall hated her enough to commit a premeditated murder like that.”

  Mr. Holmes, Griff was not. I had to wonder why he had even asked to see my list in the first place if he just knew everyone was innocent? To shoot it down like he’d originally shot down any suggestion that Laila’s death was anything more than an accident? I suppressed a sigh and asked what was likely to be the dumbest question of all: “Who do you think did it, then?”

  He shook his head yet again. “I guess I only know who I think didn’t do it.”

  Which was, apparently, everyone on my suspect list. “I assume you spent a fair amount of time talking things over with the police today.”

  “Way too much, I’m afraid.”

  “So what do they think?” I asked in a last ditch effort for some kind of answer that made sense.

  “That’s just it.” Griff slowed to a flat spin. “Their Persons of Interest list looks a heck of a lot like yours.”

  It was too bad my budding career as a sleuth was over before it had even started. I feared Griff’s was too. “Except for?”

  “A few other people I also know in my heart didn’t kill Laila.”

  If he weren’t such an unexpected combination of sweetly naive and lineman stocky, I’m sure I would have been that much more annoyed by his earnest but simplistic conjecture. “Like?”

  Griff stopped pedaling entirely. “You.”

  “Me?”

  FIFTEEN

  ME?

  Detective McClarkey told me himself everyone was pretty much a potential suspect until the evidence was processed, but the thought of my name among them, no matter how ludicrous or temporary, sent a chill down my spine as I unloaded the non-perishable groceries from shopping bags.

  I thought about calling down to the police station for assurance that I was only on the list as a technicality, but I thought better of it. The last thing I wanted to do was draw any more attention to myself. Instead, I stacked my purchases on the floor of my storeroom and checked them against the register tape to determine how much of the price discrepancy was due to store mistakes and not user error.

  For the police to do their job properly, everyone who had been at the mall and in any way associated with Laila the day she was murdered had to be ruled out.

  I highlighted the shredded cheddar cheese that was part of the buy-seven-get-the-eighth-free promotion, then compared it to the store circular, realizing only colby-jack and mozzarella were on special.

  Really, considering my proximity and involvement that day, I would have put my name on my own list, too.

  If it weren’t me.

  I checked item by item and found a total of ten computation errors, nine of which were my fault. The tenth—four packages of cookies at $2.99 per pack instead of two for $5—added up to a total of 98 cents in my favor. Hardly worth returning to the store and waiting in line at customer service to have credited back.

  What was there to worry about when I hadn’t done anything wrong?

  I ran a feather duster across the boxes, cans, and bottles already lining the shelves,25 circled the expiration dates26 on each item, and put everything away by category. Repeating No worries like a mantra, I grabbed a lasagna from the freezer, popped it in the oven for the boys, headed upstairs, and took a quick post-workout shower.

  After a dose of soothing hot water and the discovery that I could zip a pair of my not-quite-fat jeans, I felt slightly more relaxed. Before I set about a relaxing blow dry and a youth-restoring touch of feel-pretty makeup, I clicked on the small TV Frank insisted we install in the bathroom.

  I’d originally been against such a luxury, but Frank argued it was a business expense where he was concerned. I quickly learned to appreciate the chatter of Ellen, the ladies on The View, or whatever happened to be on while I got ready. Especially on those flat-iron the hair and full-strength war paint days.

  “When diet supplements kill!” the promo announcer’s voice echoed off the tumbled granite tile. “Tune in all next week on News Nine Investigates.”

  I clicked off the TV.

  I’d already been down to the police station and given my account of what I knew to Detective McClarkey. If he’d had more questions for me, surely I’d have heard from someone again already. Right?

  I put a dab of styling gel into my hair.

  No worries. No worries. No worries.

  With only the most cursory blow-dry and foregoing the makeup entirely, I headed downstairs to my office, powered on my computer and attempted to still any further rapid-cycling thoughts by putting on my Mrs. Frugalicious cap. After answering two new email inquiries, one about the best way to use 20%-off coupons at bed and bath stores (save them up and use them in multiples, watching the expiration dates), and another about online shopping (wait for special promotions or free shipping days), I started on the blog post I’d promised the Frugarmy.

  The title came far too easily:

  Never Grocery Shop on an Empty Stomach or a Full Mind—A Cautionary Tale

  I took a deep breath and began to peck at the keyboard.

  Today was triple coupon Tuesday and I, Mrs. Frugalicious, was looking forward to a grocery savings spree where I planned to pay no more than $50 for $300 worth of groceries. To prepare,
I clipped and organized my coupons well in advance. I surfed the net and combed the local circulars for the week’s best bargains. I made a spreadsheet of exactly what I’d buy and in what quantities. I had my price bible, smartphone, coupon folder, and reusable bags (for which many stores offer a rebate) in tow.

  My fellow bargain shoppers, I want you to know I was organized down to the last paperclip and sticky-note.

  So, how did it go?

  I took another deep breath.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Frugalicious made a few fatal foibles.

  With the word fatal, my brain zipped back into overdrive. Maybe if I just organized everything I knew about the DeSimone murder, Mrs. Frugalicious style, I’d have all the information I’d amassed at my fingertips.

  Just in case.

  I opened my spreadsheet program, clicked the icon for a new file, and began to transcribe the notes from my suspect list into neat lines and columns. I managed to type in everything I’d written by hand, added a new suspect row for food workers, and filled in the first of two columns I’d added entitled Access to Food. I was wondering how I might rate in the second, Innocent Per Griff, when I heard the garage rumble open.

  Before the boys clattered into the back hall, I quickly reduced the spreadsheet and pulled up Frank’s master calendar for the month. By the time I heard his footsteps nearing my office, I’d not only crosschecked my to-do list against his schedule but found a time slot for a teeth-whitening appointment I’d bartered for Frank in exchange for an endorsement.

  “Hey,” I said, a little too brightly when he appeared inside the French door I’d left slightly ajar.

  “Hey.” He looked down over the top of a pair of what appeared to be new aviator sunglasses.

  “Where did you get those?” I asked.

  “Florida,” he said. “Forgot mine, so I picked these up at the gift shop.”

  I noted the script logo in the upper corner of the right lens. “Ray Bans?”

  He nodded.

  “We can’t afford designer glasses, much less Ray Ban Aviators.”

  “My meeting with the VP was at an outdoor café. I couldn’t afford to look—”

  “Broke?” I uttered for the first time.

  We both looked away from each other.

  “Don’t we keep a little bit set aside for these sorts of emergencies?” he asked.

  “A sunglasses emergency?”

  “I got them on sale.”

  “Better have been a fire sale,” I said, tempering my inclination to go off about his blowing money we didn’t have on his image by imagining his nuclear reaction to hearing my name had landed on the police’s Persons of Interest list.

  “What happened to your hair?” he finally asked, clearly trying to change the subject, which was probably for the best.

  “More like what didn’t happen.” I patted a frizzy, half-coiffed curl. “I had that nagging feeling something needed to be done in the middle of blow drying, so I came down here to make sure everything was in order.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate the help on your part.”

  “Of course.” I allowed a tight smile.

  Another moment passed between us.

  “Where are the boys?” I finally asked.

  “Playing Xbox in the family room.”

  “Not in the basement?”

  “FJ wanted to be near the kittens.”

  “Sweet,” I said.

  Frank looked past me out the bay window into the back yard. “Suppose so.”

  I decided not to press the issue by adding a comment about the value in raising men that are both strong and sensitive. “The boys must be starved after such a big workout today,” I said instead. “I’ll get dinner on the table as soon as I wrap up in here.”

  “I grabbed them some burgers on the way home to tide them over.”

  “Burgers?” It was then I noticed the faint telltale sheen of grease at the corners of his mouth. “And fries?”

  “Just had a few.”

  Whether that meant three or three handfuls depended on how his negotiations had gone. With so much unsaid between us, asking directly didn’t seem like the best option. “So, none of you will want the lasagna that’s in the oven?”

  “I’m sure the boys will eat again in awhile.” He glanced at the TAG Heuer watch I’d thought nothing of splurging on for his birthday a year ago but would never buy now—certainly not at full price, anyway. “And I might have a bite of something later, but I still have a bunch of calls to make if I’m going to get that segment in the can next week.”

  “Did Anastasia get the green light for the project?” I asked, in my most I’m-not-the-slightest-bit-concerned-about-the-two-of-you-working-so-closely-together tone.

  “Assuming nothing more goes down at the mall before the police can make an arrest.”

  I swallowed away the swarm of butterflies suddenly migrating from my stomach toward my throat. “Are they about to?”

  He sighed. “Maddie … ”

  “I’m just curious,” I said.

  “I thought we agreed you were going to stay out of it.”

  “I am, but I was in the mall when—”

  “Honestly, you shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

  Given I’d already made my point about our financial situation, it didn’t seem the opportune time to point out that had he not made a bad financial decision or two, I might have been at the mall, but I certainly wouldn’t have been bargain shopping at Eternally 21 in the first place. “Couldn’t agree with you more.”

  He started for the door. “I’ve got calls to make.”

  No worries, I told myself as I listened to his footfalls on the stairs. I closed the suspect spreadsheet without so much as looking at the contents again. With just a few minutes until the lasagna needed to be taken out of the oven, I enlarged my in-progress blog post instead and picked up where I left off.

  Successful couponing requires a keen eye and a sharp brain, so don’t go when you’re hungry, tired, hungover, have a headache or—like Mrs. Frugalicious—consumed by thoughts that are ultimately tangential to your life.

  The goings-on at the mall couldn’t exactly be called tangential, but … The butterflies fluttered again.

  Don’t forget to turn off your cell phone. If you are expecting an important, can’t-miss-it call, don’t go shopping until you’ve already spoken to that person.

  Which reminded me, I’d forgotten to tell Frank that Eloise had called me, probably looking for money. I really needed to run upstairs and remind him to call her before it slipped my mind again. If I didn’t, there’d be a frantic second call from her, which would inevitably trigger an Eloise feels unheard by you email from Frank’s ex-wife, and a whole lot of unnecessary and not necessarily harmonious back and forth over nothing.

  I quickly typed up my final couponing caveat:

  To effectively coupon shop, you must maintain complete concentration at all points, including the checkout. Watch the monitor to make sure prices have been properly inputted, discounts are being applied, and checkers are scanning the proper quantities of each product. I caught a mistake on my own part and one by the checker, but I failed to catch a whole bunch I made. Why? Because, I didn’t turn off my cell phone!

  Do as I say, not as I did—your psyche and your wallet will thank you.

  Until next time,

  Mrs. Frugalicious.

  Having done penance for my shopping misadventure, I started upstairs for my husband’s office to let him know about Eloise’s dial for dollars.

  I stopped halfway and turned back around.

  Unlike the anything-but-soundproof French doors I always kept open at least a crack so I could hear what was going on in the rest of the house, Frank’s lair was not only tucked away at the end of the upstairs hallway but practically hermetically sealed. Instead of my usual method of putting my ear to the door and timing my knock with a break in the muffled cadence of his voice, I had my handy-dandy Eavesdropper
to help determine when he was between calls.

  While I wasn’t one to listen in on his phone calls, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was hoping to overhear some scoop about what was happening at the mall. It wasn’t as though Frank was going to get off the phone and tell me everything he’d just been discussing with whomever it was he was talking to.

  I stepped back into my office, grabbed the device from my purse, headed back to the top of the stairs, and pointed the mic down the hallway.

  Frank’s voice came in, albeit softly, but two words came in, if a bit garbled, clear to me: Good and Samaritan.

  Hearing him on the phone putting exactly my spin on Laila’s collapse felt almost as satisfying as overhearing the up-to-the-minute story.

  I turned up the volume.

  “Staying out of it now, though.”

  I took a few steps down the hall.

  “Definitely for the best with everything else going on.”

  He was talking about me, but was he talking to Anastasia?

  “Time for me tomorrow?”

  Had to be, but because of either the sound quality or better insulation in his office than I’d imagined, I couldn’t tell whether he was asking if she could tape tomorrow or restating whether she was meeting with him tomorrow.

  I neared his closed door.

  “Test results on the wrappers coming in …”

  Frank’s voice dropped. I increased the volume as high as it would go, but still couldn’t make out when.

  He seemed to chuckle.

  I tiptoed right outside the door, kneeled down, and placed the mic in the crack.

  The Eavesdropper crackled and died.

  But, before it did, I heard Frank say one of the following things:

  “I’d love it.”

  “I love it.”

  “I love you.”

  I wasn’t at all sure which, since Trent’s voice boomed from the family room and echoed through the entry hall and up the stairs. “Something’s burning!”

  25. No getting around it, dust is unappetizing. If you are going to stockpile food, be sure to keep it neat, clean, organized, and arranged.