“I didn’t get a chance to say hi yet,” Griff said.
“Blame it on Frank,” Chelsea said. “Your husband was so sweet, he came right over as soon as he saw me and showed me around himself.”
“I’m glad,” I said.
“More glad about that party last night, I bet,” Chelsea said. “Word is, it was a huge hit.”
“That it was,” I managed, not making eye contact with Griff.
Lights flashed and an announcer’s voice reverberated down the hall: “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats in preparation for the show.”
As people began to file into the hall, a staffer knocked on Anastasia’s door.
“Coming,” she said.
I felt faint.
The feeling got worse when the boys popped their heads into the dressing room.
“Where’s Dad?” Trent asked.
“Not sure,” I managed, praying the boys wouldn’t be standing there when Frank answered the question by opening Anastasia’s dressing room while straightening his tie.
“Last I saw him, he was headed for a lighting check,” Chelsea said, heading into the hallway.
I held my breath as the door to Anastasia’s dressing room clicked open.
Thankfully, she was alone.
There was no missing how business savvy she looked with her blond hair pinned into an up-do and tortoise shell glasses, or how stylish the skinny lapel on her tailored suit was—or the keep it together look she shot in my direction on her way toward the stage.
“Break a leg, Ms. Chastain!” Chelsea said, turning to wink at me.
Before the boys took off for backstage and Chelsea and Griff disappeared out the doorway to the audience seating area, he pulled me aside. “I’ll look into a few things and get back to you.”
“Welcome to Frank Finance.” My husband smiled into the camera, looking as primetime as I’d ever seen him in a trim-fit, two-button Italian suit; navy tie; and French blue shirt. “Today we’re devoting the show to a special segment we’re calling ‘Family Finance Fixes’ … ”
From my spot in the wings, I located both Griff and Chelsea in the audience. Thanks to his offer of help and her support, my panic had been downgraded from red into a more Stepford Wife–suitable high orange.
Anastasia was seated in the chair beside Frank’s set desk looking younger, prettier, and more color coordinated with my husband than I cared to admit. I’d have to face that situation soon, but luckily there’d been no mortifying scene in the hall outside her dressing room to disrupt anything.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Frank looked out into the studio audience. “Anastasia and I would like to introduce you to an ordinary American family facing some extraordinary financial challenges.”
As the camera panned the front row and settled on the moist-eyed recipients of Frank’s financial grace, I noted the pleased nods of the network execs.
A taped segment of the family standing in front of their suburban split-level began to roll.
“Meet the Wilsons.” Anastasia’s prerecorded voice filled the studio. “They’re really just like you and me. Two kids. Two cars. The trappings of a very good life …”
The scene on the studio screen shifted to Anastasia standing against the backdrop of an oak cabinet and granite tile kitchen. “Who could have predicted that a few financial fouls could so quickly derail this normal American family from the path of plenty and onto the rockiest of roads?”
I’d been to enough tapings of Frank Finance to feel the positive energy in the air and sense the road was about to get smoother. For him, anyway.
A contract would be presented after the show.
The details would be hammered out.
Signatures and handshakes would follow.
Mr. and Mrs. Wilson—teary-eyed, holding hands, and seated on folding chairs where their couch had presumably been—looked into the camera. Mr. Wilson cleared his throat. “It all started when we refinanced to get the equity out of our house.”
As Mr. Wilson began to describe the timeshare they’d been strong—
armed into purchasing and a half-dozen other financial pitfalls that left them weeks away from foreclosure—not to mention the repossession of one car and the destruction of their credit score and future as they knew it—I began to relax about at least one aspect of my own future. Once the deal was inked, I could have Chelsea confirm I’d been taking Bye Bye Fat for weeks. I’d check in with Griff as to what he’d learned about Hailey, Shoshanna, Andy, and Tara. Regardless of their guilt, Andy and Tara would surely corroborate that I didn’t know about Laila’s bulimia or that the food and drink was intended for her until after our trays collided.
“If my husband hadn’t gotten laid off in the middle of everything … ” Mrs. Wilson began to weep softly. “You have to know we’re just not the kind of people to let things pile up like this.”
Frank got up from his desk, stepped off the stage, made his way out into the audience, and slipped a comforting arm around Mr. Wilson’s shoulder. The studio camera went live. “And we’re just not the kind of people to allow you to get buried because of unforeseeable circumstances,” he said.
The audience began to clap.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wilson,” Frank asked. “I have a question for you.”
The Wilsons looked hopeful.
“Are you willing to make the hard choices it’s going to take to institute that plan and get your financial future back on track?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
“Are you willing to accept that fixing money problems is a marathon and not a sprint?”
“Yes,” they said again.
“I’m glad you feel that way, because we’ve got a special surprise for you.”
On cue, Anastasia welcomed a group of men and women dressed in matching gray pin-stripe suits onto the stage.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Frank said. “I’d like to introduce you to an elite group of bankers, financial planners, loan consolidators, and fiscal advisors who will hereby be known as the Frank Financial Force.”
As in Frank’s version of my Frugarmy?
“I came up with that name,” FJ whispered, cracking a sly smile.
The audience went wild as the FFF reached into their various briefcases and pulled everything from pens and calculators to a great big Publisher’s Clearinghouse–style check with The Wilson Family scrawled across the front.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, your financial future is about to flourish!”
Frank clicked closed the door to his dressing room, burst into a huge grin, and fist pumped the air. “They loved it!”
“It was great,” I said, not at all surprised but having chewed more than one nail down to the quick while I waited for the post-show congratulations and dialogue between Frank and the national TV execs to wrap up. “So you signed the contract?”
“All but.” He patted his jacket and pants pockets. “Have you seen my keys?”
“No.” I did a cursory scan of the various countertops around the room. “What do you mean by ‘all but’?”
He opened the drawers of his dressing table. “We shook on it.”
“That’s wonderful!” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster considering the sick feeling starting to overtake me. “I assume you’re going to sign before you take them to the airport?”
“I can’t,” he said checking the bathroom. “There’s no paperwork yet.”
“There isn’t?”
“But there is a call into their legal department to draw up the docs,” Frank said. “Can I borrow your key to my car? I must have put them somewhere when I was rushing before the show, and I should have left to get Jim and Mike to the airport ten minutes ago.”
“Jim and Mike,” I repeated, glad he was now on a first-name basis with his soon-to-be bosses. I reached into my purse for the spare key to his car on my keychain. “When do they expect to have the contract to you?”
Frank smiled the biggest, most carefree smil
e I’d seen on him in years. “Monday.”
“Monday,” Anastasia whispered as we passed in the hallway. “If I were you, I wouldn’t set foot outside the house until then.”
TWENTY-THREE
DISTRESSED AS I WAS by the prospect of Anastasia-imposed house arrest, the exhaustion and stress of the past forty-eight hours would probably have me sleeping like Rip Van Winkle through most of the weekend anyway. Other than go home, pretend to play happy housewife, and simply wait for the days to pass, there really wasn’t much else I could do. Even if Frank had signed the contract right after the show, it’s not like I could have just congratulated him, confronted him about Anastasia, and then casually mentioned I was wanted for murder.
Not right away, anyway.
Better to wait until I was no longer being cast under the shadow of doubt.
Which meant Monday.
In the meantime, I did what little I could by leaving Griff a message thanking him for coming to the taping and asking him to call me ASAP with any relevant information. Then, en route to home incarceration, I stopped by Vitamin Ville to use my store coupon for a new bottle of Bye Bye Fat32 and ask the question that had been nagging me since Detective McClarkey suggested Laila had consumed the beverage I’d intended to drink myself.
“Adverse reactions to Bye Bye Fat?” Vitamin Ville’s nutritional supplements expert retied her green apron. “Much less than any of the other weight loss products we carry.”
“But there have been some?”
“Mainly insomnia,” she said.
“Good to know.” I certainly wouldn’t be taking any until after I caught up on my lost sleep. “And?”
“We have had a few returns due to diarrhea,” she said.
Luckily, I’d only experienced the insomnia. “But nothing like people collapsing or anything like that?”
She pointed to the bold “EPHEDRA-FREE” label on the side of the bottle. “Never.”
The sky was blue, the temperature an unusually pleasant seventy-five degrees, and the birds were chirping outside my window when I woke up from my Friday afternoon to Saturday morning slumber. There were no chirps from the boys or my husband, who were, per the note Frank left on the kitchen counter, out and about. Better yet, there were no communications from Detective McClarkey or Anastasia to shatter the tenuous mental peace my coma-like sleep had facilitated.
I assumed no news from Griff was no news.
I had a breakfast of toast, coffee, and a BBF. I took a forty-five minute spin on the basement stationary bike. I showered and pulled on a worn-in pair of jeans. All the while, my cell didn’t so much as bing, ping, or ring.
By 11:09 a.m., I was all ready to go nowhere.
I had lunch waiting for Frank, who’d been at the gym, and for the boys, who’d been at the park tossing a football. I spent a solid twenty minutes with FJ trying to coax Chili out of the couch so we could get a peek at the kittens. I watched two hours of anything that wasn’t a crime drama.
Through it all, I focused on tuning out Frank’s giddy, whistling rendition of “We’re in the Money” by repeating my new mantra: Don’t think about it till Monday.
As soon as my husband left for the station to do his spot on the weekend news, I made my way up to my office, turned on the computer, and logged onto Mrsfrugalicious. Since Wendy K.’s pizza tip on Wednesday evening, I hadn’t had the inclination to check in. And considering I’d promised the Frugarmy a post-game wrap-up of the budget party, I had catching up to do. If I wanted to be maudlin, I also had time to stockpile (as it were) extra blogs in case swift justice turned out to be neither swift nor just.
Thanks to said beloved Frugarmy, my inbox was full enough to kill at least an hour or two.
There were questions to be answered:
Q: Dear Mrs. Frugalicious, how do you stop yourself from making impulse purchases? —Kathryn J.
A: Whenever you’re considering making an unnecessary purchase, wait thirty days and then ask yourself if you still want that item. Quite often, you’ll find that the urge to buy has passed and you’ll have saved yourself some money by simply waiting.
Q: I have little to no money for birthday or holiday gifts but still want to do something special for friends and loved ones. Ideas? —Cassie H.
A: Make your own gifts! You can make food mixes, candles, bread, cookies, soap, and all kinds of other things at home quite easily and inexpensively. Not crafty? Give an evening of babysitting, an offer to take care of pets for a weekend away, or lawn care.
There were additional party tips:
Make an inexpensive, basic side dish like potato salad look gourmet by putting it in a martini glass and topping it off with a grape tomato. —Laura J.
Thrift stores—There’s no better place to find fun and funky serving pieces for next to nothing. —Nora M.
You can waste money by not taking into account the age, time of day, and activities of the people attending. For instance, serve an economical meal over a fancy light snack at a regular mealtime when people will be hungry and eat lots. —Julie G.
There was also a two-day old entreaty from Here’s the Deal magazine with a subject line of: Please, Mrs. Frugalicious?
I once again politely declined.
I worked my way through the remainder of the entries in my inbox, posted a blog detailing the high points of my cocktail party, from the low-cost, garden-themed centerpieces to the success of the doctored pizza, and was about to pen a post on discount blue jean shopping when my text alert sounded for the first time all day.
As soon as I saw the message wasn’t from Detective McClarkey, Anastasia or even Griff, my heart rate plummeted back toward normal.
BE HERE BY THREE?
It was Chelsea trying to coax me into an impromptu workout.
ALREADY RODE THE HOME BIKE THIS AM.
ATTA GIRL BUT IT’S NOT FOR A WORKOUT.
????
HAD TO CANCEL MY WEEKLY APPOINTMENT WITH L’RAINE AT THE LAST MINUTE SO I BOOKED YOU IN MY PLACE.
FOR A MASSAGE?
ON THE HOUSE.
YOU ARE SO SWEET…
I pondered how to turn her down.
WHY AM I SENSING A BUT … ?
Of course she was, even via text message. But, why? It wasn’t as though I was really on house arrest. The concept behind staying home all weekend was to lay low, do nothing, and of course: Don’t think about it till Monday.
I said I wouldn’t do anything or go anywhere, but how much less active could I get than having a massage?
I glanced at the first sentence of an email that had popped into my Mrs. Frugalicious inbox, a response from Here’s the Deal magazine.
Dear Mrs. Frugalicious, I know you want to remain anonymous, but I …
I clicked out of the email without bothering to read the rest. Having already reached my weekend limit for ambitious reporters, this one would simply have to take no response for an answer. I turned my attention back to my phone.
BUT THAT’S ONLY 22 MINUTES FROM NOW.
THEN YOU BETTER HURRY AND GET YOUR BUTT DOWN HERE!
A half-hour (or so) later, I lay face down on the massage table listening to a New Age musical arrangement punctuated by gentle rainfall while L’Raine worked massage oil into my muscles with a warm, smooth river rock.
I’d thanked Chelsea when I checked in for the appointment, but I’d have to do something special for her later.
After Monday.
After Frank’s deal was signed.
After the toxicology reports came back and my name was cleared.
After I confronted my husband.
After, after, after.
“Your shoulders are in knots,” L’Raine said, setting aside the stone to dig into my upper back muscles with her thumbs.
“I’m not surprised,” I said.
“Chelsea told me you’ve had an off-the-hook week.”
“That I did,” I said, over the low tribal drumbeat now accompanying the rain and the dull throb of my head.
L’Raine dug that much deeper into my shoulders. “She said everything went beyond perfect at the taping though.”
“It really was something,” I managed.
“I’d loved to have been there.”
“I wish I’d known. I’d have been glad to put your name on the list.”
“I had clients all morning anyway.” She giggled. “Of course, I’d have been that much more tempted to cancel had I known Griff, the mall officer, was going to be there.”
“He’s a big fan of the show,” I said, enjoying the massage, but not so relaxed by the direction the conversation was headed.
She giggled again. “And really cute.”
“He is a sweetheart.” I didn’t want to be unappreciative, but I had to wonder if I wouldn’t prefer a less-talkative masseuse the next time I found myself in a position to enjoy such a luxury. Assuming there was a next time.
L’Raine finished up my shoulders. “Do you happen to know if he has a girlfriend or anything?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said.
“Cops are super sexy,” she said turning to grab a warm stone from the heater. “Don’t you think?”
“I suppose.” I couldn’t think of a profession I found less sexy at the moment. “Griff’s not exactly a cop, though.”
She began to work the tension forming at the base of my neck. “But he’s working on the Laila DeSimone investigation, right?”
Not having heard from him since yesterday morning, I couldn’t answer that question for sure, either. “It’s my understanding he’s looking into a few things.”
“Cool,” she said, working down toward the base of my spine. “Maybe I can get his attention next time he’s in by telling him some stuff I’ve heard around here.”
“Good idea.” The background drums intensified to what felt like insistent pounding. Or maybe it was my heartbeat. “You know,” I found myself saying. “I’m supposed to be hearing from him any time now.”
“Really?”
“So, if there’s any information you’d like me to pass along …”
“Can you find out if he’s single?” she asked. “And, if he is, will you let him know I’m interested?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, feeling irked by the music, which had transitioned into a peaceful valley’s worth of birds and non-biting insects frolicking in a light breeze. I was more irked by the junior high–style mission I’d just set myself up for. If L’Raine said she liked you, would you like her back? Check yes or no.
Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery Page 20