Giving her the opportunity I’d promised her, I opened the passenger door and stepped up and into the Jeep to simply sit and not to think about what had happened for a few minutes.
My cell phone was waiting for me on the passenger seat.
As I picked it up and waved it out the still open door in a gesture of thanks, I noticed there were two text messages.
The first was a reply that must have come in while my cell was in the box bin.
From Griff:
I DIDN’T TELL YOU ABOUT LAILA BECAUSE I FELT EMBARRASSED FOR GOING OUT WITH HER IN THE FIRST PLACE AND RIDICULOUS FOR MAKING SUCH A POOR CHOICE.
I knew exactly how he felt when I saw the second text.
From Frank.
Instead of reading it, I turned off the phone entirely, closed my eyes, and let the shock of everything I’d gone through and was about to go through both sink in and wear off.
THIRTY-ONE
GRIFF MAY HAVE FELT embarrassed and ridiculous, but that was precisely how my once-successful and presumed-faithful husband looked standing in the garage doorway. He also looked ashamed, pitiful, miserable, contrite, and a hundred other less than glowing adjectives I was far too disgusted to conjure up.
“Maddie,” he said as I exited the car.
“Save it,” I said, in much the same tone as he’d used with me on our way home from the police station.
“I’m mortified,” he said.
“You should be,” I said, forcing myself to look at what I once thought of as his handsome face.
“I am so, so sorry,” he said, unable to meet my gaze.
“Sorry you lost all of our money, or sorry that while I made the best of a really tough situation by doing absolutely everything I could to help keep us going, you were busy lying and cheating with your murderous mistress?”
His shoulders slumped. “I—”
“Don’t bother trying to explain. I believe I’ve already heard everything I can bear to hear from the ‘next Mrs. Frank Finance’,” I paused. “Right before she tried to kill me.”
“Oh God,” he said. “I never intended for any of this to happen.”
“That’s even worse,” I said. “How could anyone show such terrible judgment unintentionally?”
Frank looked down to hide tears that at least I wasn’t alone in shedding.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “After I found out about the Ponzi scheme, that all of our money was gone, I guess I kind of …”
“Kind of what?”
“I don’t know. Had a mid-life crisis or something,” he uttered in a near whisper.
“That makes two of us,” I said. “Only I managed not to have an affair, much less one that destroyed everything you’ve worked for and we’ve built together. Not to mention almost ended my life.”
“I’m so sorry, Maddie.”
“I’m so disgusted, Frank,” I said.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “But I really do love you.”
“The only thing you’ve ever really loved is your own image, and it almost got me killed.”
“Maddie, I—”
“Like I said, save it.” With the word save, I realized I had a little secret of my own that was overdue for revelation. “And speaking of which, while you were out getting two-hundred-dollar highlights in your hair, paying airline change fees with money we didn’t have, and I hate to imagine doing what else to impress Chelsea, I was scrimping, saving, and doing everything under the sun to help make ends meet.”
“I know,” he said, looking down at his hands, his voice filled with shame. “I know.”
“What you don’t know is I also started a website for bargain shoppers called Mrsfrugalicious.com.”
He looked up.
“I didn’t tell you or anyone else because I was worried about how it might reflect on you professionally, at least until things were back on track.” I swallowed hard. “And I was worried how it might make you feel.”
Frank looked gray and entirely shell-shocked. “You’re Mrs. Frugalicious?”
“You’ve heard of me?”
“Heard of you? I keep getting emails about putting you on the air. In fact, Anastasia planned to track you down to do a guest spot on Frank Finance once the show was picked up and …” His voice trailed off and he simply shook his head. “How did reality become so much crazier than any nightmare?”
“I’m afraid that’s a question only you can answer.” We both stood silently for almost a minute, pondering that fact.
“I’m just so sorry,” he finally said.
“So am I,” I said.
With nothing more to say, at least on my part, I turned and we went our separate ways:
Frank to call the national TV people, I assumed, before they called him.
Me to the hottest shower and the longest cry of my entire life.
THIRTY-TWO
DETECTIVE MCCLARKEY FINISHED MY wrap-up interview the next morning with what could only be called an approving nod. “Great work getting that whopper of a confession on tape.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Of course, all charges against you have officially been dropped.”
Even though the weekend consisted of my false arrest, nearly having my skull bashed in with a hand weight, and facing the agonizing consequences of learning my husband was cheating with my would-be murderer, I somehow managed a semblance of a smile.
“I really am in awe of how you didn’t give up in the face of everything you were up against,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. “Although it wasn’t like I had much of a choice.”
“Things really did look airtight against you—if not in the Laila case, definitely in Tara and Andy’s hit and run.”
“That was Chelsea’s plan.”
“Now her plans are going to revolve around trying to kill time instead of people.” His smile reached his eyes for the first time since I landed, albeit briefly, on the wrong side of the law. “I just feel rotten about everything you had to go through to get her behind bars where she belongs.”
“Me too,” I said.
The Hawaii Five-O theme started jangling in his pocket.
“Excuse me for a minute?”
“No problem,” I said, eyeing the reports on the chocolates and the Bye Bye Fat that had further served to clear me.
“Really?” Detective McClarkey asked in response to whatever information he was receiving from the other end of the line. “When?” There were a few “uh-huhs” and one “right now” before he signed off with a final “excellent.” The man clipped his phone back onto his belt, looked back up at me, and flashed a broad, open smile. “I’m gonna guess you’re about way overdue for some good news.”
“Definitely,” I said thinking about how I’d left Frank at home to level with the boys about what had happened and answer the inevitable questions about the imminent changes to our family.
“Tara Hu is out of the coma.”
“She is?” I said with the first glimmer of anything positive I’d felt in days. “Really?”
“She’s still groggy, has no memory of the accident, and is patchy in general about the events of the past two weeks, but she’s doing way better than expected.” He put a friendly hand on my shoulder. “She wants to see you.”
Despite being cut, bruised, bandaged about the head, and hooked up to numerous beeping, blipping machines, Tara spotted me immediately in the doorway. “I saved all the merchandise you picked out. Please come back up to the store to get it.”
“Will do,” I said, having been warned by the on-duty nurse that Tara was still a little confused and not to add or clarify anything that could further traumatize her until she’d completely recovered.
Andy, in a matching hospital gown and bandages but sporting a cast on his right leg, waved me in from a wheelchair beside her.
He wasn’t alone. Hailey Rosenberg was seated next to him. On the other side of Tara’s bed were not only the Piggledys, but Higgledy w
ith his avian love interest perched on his shoulder.
“I didn’t realize you were having a party,” I said.
“There’s a lot to celebrate,” Mrs. Piggledy said.
“I’ll say,” I gave Tara a gentle hug and leaning against the back wall. “I came rushing down here when I heard she was out of the coma and doing well.”
“Which is by far the most important thing,” Andy said.
“But it isn’t the only thing,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Mercury seems to be headed out of retrograde in high style,” Mrs. Piggledy said. “And not a moment too soon.”
Higgledy hooted in apparent agreement.
“For one thing, Pete at Pet Pals was so delighted to get Cuddles back safely, he’s agreed to allow Birdie and Higgledy to spend time together,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“With supervision,” Mrs. Piggledy said. “As if we’re ever letting that monkey out of our sight again!”
“I’m surprised the hospital let you bring either of them in,” Hailey said.
“They didn’t exactly.” Mr. Piggledy winked. “We had to claim they were part of our animal therapy practice.”
“It was well worth the trouble, though.” Mrs. Piggledy smiled at both Tara and Andy.
“I’m just glad you two are okay,” I said.
“More than okay.” Tara smiled, lifted her left hand, and flashed a big, round sparkling diamond on her ring finger.
“You’re engaged?”
Andy beamed. “When I saw her open her eyes and realized she was going to pull through, I couldn’t wait to ask her for another second.”
“Congratulations!” I said.
“I’ve been carrying it around for weeks, waiting for the right moment,” he said. “Which was supposed to be when—”
“He finally revealed who he really is,” Hailey said, apparently too excited to stay out of the storytelling.
“Would you believe the dear boy’s a vice president at Gadgeteria corporate?” Mr. Piggledy said.
“An awfully young one,” Mrs. Piggledy added.
“I’m almost thirty,” Andy said, as though twenty-nine was a ripe old age for a corporate VP. “I hated not being able to tell Tara, but it’s company policy to do an undercover stint to understand the ground game and the needs of our in-store team.”
“Now you’re the manager, right?” Tara looked back down at the ring, which was clearly a carat too large and too intricately set for a mere clerk’s salary. “When’s Laila coming? I can’t wait to see her eat crow over this news.”
As the bird chirped in seeming protest over Tara’s metaphor, we traded furtive non-glances at each other as to how one of us might best evade her question.
Andy filled the silence. “I love that you love me now and that you loved me when you thought I was just a salesguy.”
“I do.” Tara giggled and relaxed into her pillow. “Be sure and wake me up when she gets here.”
“Will do,” Andy managed as she closed her eyes and immediately began to snore softly.
“She’s still in and out like that,” he added in a whisper a few second later. “And missing a few events of the last two weeks.”
“Which is to be expected,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Not to worry,” Mrs. Piggledy said. “She’ll be back to herself in no time.”
“I’m just relieved she’s recovering,” Hailey said.
“Me too,” I said.
As Andy gazed lovingly at his slumbering bride-to-be, Mrs. Piggledy turned toward me and whispered, “What about you, my dear?”
“We’ve been as worried about you as we were about her,” Mr. Piggledy added.
Hailey and Andy nodded in agreement while Tara continued to snore.
“I don’t know when or if I’ll be back to myself given everything that’s happened.” I tried to swallow the lump that I feared was now permanently lodged in my throat. “But I feel lucky Griff saved me before Chelsea could hurt me. Physically, anyway.”
“Thank heaven,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Is it really true she was trying to kill you the whole time?” Hailey asked.
“And/or frame me,” I said.
Dismay filled Mrs. Piggledy’s face. “We were hoping all the gossip we’d been hearing was just conjecture or mall rumor.”
“I’m afraid what you’ve heard is more likely true than not.”
Higgledy hooted.
“Was Laila’s death really an accident?” Andy asked.
“Technically. I put a poisoned capsule meant for me into my drink, it got mixed up when our trays collided, and she drank it.”
“I heard Chelsea wanted to get rid of you so she could have your husband,” Hailey said.
“And my lifestyle.” I shook my head. “Little did she know my husband made a very bad investment this year and we’ve been in tough financial straits. In fact, the only reason I was in Eternally 21 to get tangled up with Laila DeSimone in the first place was because I was using coupons to buy discounted gifts for the holidays.”
“You know,” Andy said. “We’ve still got the purse to distribute from the betting pool. I can’t imagine anyone from the mall would object to giving it all to you under the circumstances.”
“I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with—”
“Why not?” Mrs. Piggledy asked. “If it weren’t for Chelsea trying to get rid of you, we’d all still have Laila in our hair.”
Hailey looked dismayed but held her tongue.
“I vote we give it all to Maddie,” Mr. Piggledy said. “Help tide her over until she gets some of that investment money back from that Ponzi scheme her husband got mixed up in.”
The gossip had clearly spread with not only lightning speed, but uncharacteristic accuracy. “You heard about that, too?”
“It’s all over the news now that they caught him.”
“Caught him?”
“That Singer fellow.” Mr. Piggledy picked up the clicker on Tara’s bedside table, pointed it at the television playing silently above my head, and upped the volume.
Anastasia Chastain, framed by a huge Cherry Hills mansion, filled the screen looking her usual impossibly pretty self. “Authorities say Stephen Singer bilked investors, many of them prominent Denverites, of upwards of thirty million dollars to fund a lavish lifestyle that included the mansion you see behind me as well as art, jewelry, cars, and the yacht he and what is being called a ‘bevy of female companions,’ were forced to abandon in bad weather en route to the Cayman Islands.”
“Told you,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Channel Three News is told he will be extradited and returned to Denver to face federal mail fraud, racketeering, and other charges by the end of the week.”
THIRTY-THREE
I EXPECTED A GOOD turnout at the Singer mansion for the auction/estate sale of the lavish contents of his home—the proceeds of which would be used to pay off some of what was owed to his unwitting investors.
Like me, Maddie Michaels, AKA Mrs. Frugalicious, AKA the person soon to be formerly known as Mrs. Frank Michaels.
What I didn’t expect was the notoriety, not just as the long-suffering, nearly murdered wife in the most sensational love triangle in recent south metro Denver history, but as my no longer secret self, Mrs. Frugalicious.
The last thing I thought I’d want was media attention, but when the hot, harsh lights started shining on my tabloid-esque tale, my blog began to bloom like a big, viral hothouse flower. I had to hire FJ and Trent as assistants to field the onslaught, not just from the media, but from eager advertisers. As for me, I could barely get through the daily crush of bargain-hunting tips, requests for advice, and messages of personal support flooding my inbox.
A mere month after my life had all but ended, I led a Frugarmy big enough to win a savings war. Many of them were at the mansion enjoying Frugasms like Tiffany cuff links 75% off retail, cash-and-carry chandeliers, designer clothing, and furniture deals.
Everything had fallen into p
lace, at least Mrs. Frugalicious-wise, without having made a single statement or granting so much as a telephone interview about my disastrous personal situation.
“The road from well-heeled housewife to bargain shopping maven has clearly been bumpy. How have you managed to make it look so smooth?”
I hadn’t spoken to anyone but family and friends, with the exception of Wendy Killian from Here’s the Deal magazine, who I invited to not only accompany but interview me for what would soon be a cover story in their flagship issue.
“I guess I’d have to say necessity has been the mother of invention for me. One day I was living a privileged life, the next I was having to pretend everything was okay in the face of a lot of uncomfortable truths. Which has somehow brought me to where I am right now.”
As the two of us looked around at just how many people had shown up, some out of sheer curiosity, but most in support, it was impossible not to appreciate the feeling that a door had closed, but a window had creaked open.
“Uh-oh,” Wendy said, dropping her interview voice. “Someone is lurking by that coffee table I’ve had my eye on. I’m afraid it’s about to get snapped up from under me.”
“Go!” I sent her hustling across the living room so as not to miss out on a great bargain.
As she was off staking her claim, Griff appeared in the front vestibule, spotted me immediately, and came over to the kitchen area where I was standing.
I gave him a long overdue hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I was hoping to stop by sooner, but my interview at South Metro went longer than I expected.”
“South Metro Police Department?”
He flashed his sweet, dimpled smile. “They called me in for an interview.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”
He looked over at the crowd milling through the kitchen items. “Things seem to be headed in a better direction for you, too.”
“On the financial front, anyway,” I said. “It turns out Stephen Singer has some money in offshore bank accounts to add to whatever the proceeds are from today, his car collection, and this house when it sells.”
Eternally 21: A Mrs. Frugalicious Shopping Mystery Page 27