Black Thursday

by Linda Joffe Hull

“We’ll make sure she’s safe.” Detective McClarkey said, looking at me. “I’ll personally make sure.”

  “I should hope so,” Barb sniffed.

  I should have been furious at the detective for dismissing me the way he had yesterday, but he looked so contrite and even worried now that I couldn’t help but feel ever so slightly gloaty.

  “I’m sorry, Maddie,” he said rubbing his hands through his graying crewcut. “There’s little doubt this was an accident.”

  “It was all by design,” I said. “At least according to Alan Bader.”

  “Meaning what?” McClarkey asked.

  I hated having to unload the whole story when Alan hadn’t even wanted to go to the police, but a Post-it with a death threat counted as solid proof for me. Considering the killer decided to leave the message on my windshield while I was chauffeuring a car full of relatives, it wasn’t like I had much of a choice, either.

  “At first, I was sure Alan was insane or at least profoundly sleep deprived, but he really thinks the accident was engineered by a corporation determined to devalue Bargain Barn and take him over.”

  “Murderous corporate raider?” Joyce asked.

  “Sick, huh?” Trent said.

  “You knew about this?” Eloise looked that much more distressed.

  “Mom asked us to do a little bit of cyber-snooping for her,” FJ added. “We found out that CC was writing from different email addresses.”

  “You boys did a nice job,” Detective McClarkey said before anyone else could chime in.

  “The whole idea that a corporation would mastermind something of this nature still seems outlandish to me, and I’m not saying I buying it entirely, but after we realized the emails weren’t coming from the same place …”

  “This whole situation is really freaking me out,” Eloise said, her voice husky with the threat of tears.

  “It’s okay, honey,” Gerald said, putting his arm around her. “It’s okay.”

  “Not if Maddie’s in danger, it isn’t,” Barb added.

  “I presume you’ll be providing a security detail for her from here on out?” Joyce asked.

  “Folks,” Detective McClarkey said holding up his hand. “I know you’re worried and concerned, and I assure you I’ll do everything in my power to make sure Maddie is taken care of, but I need to hear the whole sequence of events first so I can determine exactly what needs to be done.”

  “Of course,” Joyce said.

  “From her,” he clarified. “In fact, since they’re about done looking over the vehicle—”

  “Doesn’t it need to be impounded or something?” Trent chimed in as another police car pulled up and a detective in Dockers and a sport coat stepped out to join us.

  “I think we have what we need,” Detective McClarkey said, with a patience belied by the annoyance in his face and body language. “And now that Detective Ross, who headed up the Bargain Barn investigation, is here, we do need that detailed statement from Maddie, so I’m going to ask the rest of you to take the cars and go on home.”

  “Should one of us hang back?” Joyce asked. “Just in case?”

  “No.” McClarkey managed a tight smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

  _____

  What was necessary was a full retelling of the whole story for the lead detective, starting with CC’s snarky comments on my blog and working my way to the note left on the car.

  Detective McClarkey stepped in with the details about my visit to the station, again apologizing to me and re-explaining his motivation to not make me look suspicious for no reason.

  When I’d finished, Detective Ross nodded, put his pencil and pad away, thanked me for the thoroughness, assured me they’d keep me out of harm’s way, and (no doubt based on my history) asked me to please do the same.

  In addition, I agreed not to discuss the case beyond filling in my family, but as the detectives conferred for a few minutes, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Alan, who I felt also deserved to be updated.

  Someone left a note on my car while i was at the Piggledy wedding at the mall.

  Which said?????

  I’M STILL ALIVE, BUT IF PUSH COMES TO SHOVE AGAIN SOMEONE ELSE MIGHT NOT BE. SOMEONE LIKE YOU.

  Oh, lord! Are you okay?

  Yes, but i’m afraid i had to call the police.

  There was a delay. Then he replied, Of course.

  At least the police believe us now.

  It’s a start.

  I’m sure they’re going to want to talk to you.

  I’m sure you’re right.

  Alan, I really am so sorry about all this.

  “Maddie,” Detective McClarkey said, heading back in my direction.

  Alan texted back. Maddie …

  Before I could read the rest, there was a screech of tires on pavement as a Mercedes came around the corner and pulled up beside me.

  Frank’s Mercedes.

  He jumped out of the car.

  “Maddie!”

  eighteen

  Before I knew it—and to the consternation of Detective McClarkey, who appeared to be interested, if not eager, to make up for yesterday by escorting me home—I was sitting in the passenger seat of Frank’s car.

  I was also nursing a headache that felt a lot more like a whole-body ache.

  Somehow the reality—that there really was a killer, and that he/she/it knew where I was and what kind of car I drove—began to hit me in full force as we made our way home.

  And apparently it was also hitting Frank, who made a point of thanking the detectives, assuring them that we lived in a gated community so there was no need to post an officer right outside the house, and going so far as to actually snap me into my seat belt.

  “Let’s get you home,” he said.

  Without questioning me about how I was feeling, what I was thinking, or otherwise demanding anything out of me conversationally or otherwise, he patted my leg and started the car.

  We drove in an oddly peaceful silence all the way home.

  The silence was crushed the second we stepped into the house and entered the family room to find the entire Michaels gang seated on the L-shaped sectional, waiting for us like a news-hungry press corps.

  “Have they figured out who left the note?”

  “Do they have a cyber team assigned to CC yet?”

  “Are there officers posted outside the house?”

  “How soon do you think there’ll be an arrest?”

  “The police are in the process of reevaluating Cathy Carter’s accident in light of the note,” Frank announced. “And we’re not supposed to talk about anything we do or don’t know to anyone but each other.”

  “What about Maddie’s safety?”

  “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “But—”

  “But Maddie’s exhausted,” he said firmly.

  “Probably starved though too,” Joyce said. “Can I make you a sandwich, honey?”

  “I think I’m okay,” I managed before Frank put his hand on my back.

  “We’ll debrief more in the morning,” he said. “She needs rest.”

  With that, he waved off the family and directed me toward the front hall and up the stairs.

  “I’m just going to make sure everything’s secure in here,” he said following me into the master and heading toward the bank of windows on the east wall, where he began to check the locks.

  “I’d like to take a shower,” I said.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be right out here.”

  “Okay,” I said, more meekly than I intended, continuing on toward the bathroom and closing the door behind me.

  When I emerged nearly a half hour and a hot shower later, Frank was not only still there, as promised, but he’d turned down my side of the bed.

&nb
sp; “Let’s get you tucked in,” he said, reaching for my hand.

  For the briefest of seconds, I flashed back to a time not so long ago when heading to bed with my husband was a pleasant, mundane, utterly normal part of my daily routine. “Frank, I—”

  “I like the pajamas, by the way,” he said leading me over to put my phone on the charger and slip under the sheets.

  The pajamas, black with white polka dots and purchased on clearance at Macy’s using a 20%-off coupon and a $20 customer loyalty rebate, had cost a total of $4.99. Given Frank’s preference for nightgowns on me, they not only represented a true Frugasm deal-wise, but my newfound freedom to wear whatever I wanted to bed.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I pulled up the covers. “I’m good, now. I think.”

  “Great.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Frank,” I sighed. “I really do appreciate every thing you’re doing, but—”

  “But now you’re in danger,” he said.

  “Not here, not in the house.”

  “Look, Maddie. I know you way too well to think you’d even consider trying to work things out with me without a lot of thought and consideration, but I can’t live with myself if I don’t do everything in my power to make sure you’re safe and sound while you’re thinking about it.”

  “This feels awkward,” I said. “I feel awkward.”

  He smiled his charming crooked smile. “Just think of me as your bodyguard.”

  For the briefest of moments, I allowed myself to remember what it was like when we did share the bedroom. How safe and protected I’d felt with him beside me in the bed at night. I couldn’t help but muse about how much easier it might be to just give in and give Frank another try. Righteous anger or no, my future would be that much less up in the air. And the kids would certainly be happier.

  Wouldn’t they?

  I took the deepest of breaths.

  “Can I take that as a yes?”

  “It’s an, I’m thinking about it.”

  “Good,” he leaned forward and kissed me gently on the forehead. “Because I’m not taking no for an answer. Not tonight, anyway.”

  As I rubbed absently at the spot where his surprisingly cool lips met my skin, he stood, took a few steps and sat down in the overstuffed chair beside the bed.

  “Maddie,” he said, pulling a throw from the arm of the chair over himself. “I really am just so, so sorry for all of this.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Time for some rest,” he said, leaning his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes.

  Somehow, despite how tired I was, I couldn’t get settled in, much less sleep.

  Instead, I grabbed my cell phone. Not allowing myself to check Mrs. Frugalicious or the associated email account, I remembered that I hadn’t read the addendum to Alan’s last text.

  It simply said:

  No need for apologies.

  As Frank began to snore softly, I wondered how many times he would have to apologize and how long it would take before I could finally forgive him.

  While I feared the answer was never, the events of the evening, starting with Joyce’s startling admission and suggestion, definitely had me thinking I had to at least give it a try.

  nineteen

  I woke to the uncertain reality of my not-quite-estranged husband snoring in a familiar puh-snort pattern from the chair beside me, a police-processed car in the garage, an at-large murderer who felt inclined to leave an ominous neon Post-it on said car, and a pending memorial service for Cathy Carter, whoever it was she turned out to have been.

  As I slipped out of bed and began to tiptoe toward the bathroom and what I hoped would be a little peace and quiet while I prepared for the morning ahead, the landline rang.

  And, once again, things grew just a bit more uncertain.

  _____

  “So there’s an offer on the house?” Anastasia, luminous in funereal but camera-friendly dark blue, asked as the cameraman checked out the lighting in various spots around the vestibule of the church.

  “The realtor called this morning and there are some very interested buyers having a second look as we speak.”

  “I don’t see why all of us had to rush to clear out again if they’ve already seen it before,” Trent said, yawning and fidgeting with the tie I’d handed him to wear in the latest mad dash to get out of the house. “I mean, I wasn’t even at Bargain Barn Thursday night, and I never met this woman who—”

  “Safety in numbers,” said Joyce, who stood with Barb, Gerald, Craig, and various grandchildren in a cluster just behind the camera. “Until they figure out what’s going on with that horrid note and everything, we stick together.”

  “Joyce!” Barb said. “You know we’re not supposed to talk about—”

  “All I said was, until they figure it out,” Joyce said. “It wasn’t like I said—”

  “Half the people here are cops,” Anastasia, the only person outside the family who’d overheard Joyce, whispered conspiratorially. Given she was a journalist and she was engaged to the acting police chief, she would (and already did) know what had happened last night. “I guarantee you’re as safe here as you would be at the police station.”

  I’d definitely spotted a couple of black and whites parked out front, which translated to an extra uniformed officer or two inside, but as I looked around, I couldn’t help but notice the number of “regular” couples, one or both of whom were dressed in outfits that could easily conceal a weapon.

  A quick conversation with Alan Bader might have made me feel more confident that they actually were plainclothes cops and not corporate assassins, but I hadn’t spotted him yet among the growing crowd.

  Eloise shook her head. “Do we really even have to sell the house at all if you and Dad are like talking and stuff ?”

  “It’s not quite that simple,” I said.

  The Michaels gang, including Frank, who was once again dabbing makeup on shiny spots I’d missed in my haste to get dressed, all smiled like it was exactly that simple.

  Even though she had to be confused about what was going on, Anastasia just smiled.

  The showing had us rushing around to clean, get ready, and get out of the house, which left no time for a morning debrief. On the way over, however, I assured Eloise and the boys, who had come in my fingerprint-dusted vehicle, that the police were in the process of figuring out what had really happened. I also let them know that Frank was committed to keeping everyone in the family safe, particularly me, until the police could complete their investigation.

  While I didn’t go so far as to say we were back together, there was no getting around the fact that Frank spent the night in the master bedroom for the first time in months—even if it was in a chair.

  I decided it best not to elaborate or explain the situation, but just added that there was nothing to be done now but be cautious, let the authorities do their job, and let things take their course.

  Eloise, seated beside me in the car, seemed content with my explanation. So did Joyce, Gerald, Barb, and Craig, who’d ridden with Frank and had (I assumed) been filled in on the way as well.

  “Found our spot,” the cameraman said, pointing to the area just between a huge multi-colored spray of sympathy flowers and a tribute table lined with photos of Catherine T. Carter, some with her husband. In the pictures he was, if not handsome, infinitely more bright-eyed and nice-looking than the grief-stricken man I’d seen the night of the incident.

  “Everyone should probably go sit,” Frank said to the family, watching the crowd of mourners swell. “Looks like it’s going to be standing room only.”

  “We’ll save seats for you,” Joyce said, already mobilizing everyone toward the doors into the sanctuary.

&
nbsp; “Near the back would be best,” the cameraman said. “So we can get an over-the-shoulder shot or two of Maddie and Stasia mourning at the service itself.”

  “You ready, Maddie?” Anastasia asked

  “I suppose,” I said. “It still feels awkward to be broadcasting from the memorial.”

  “Clearly, there are a lot of people here grieving for Cathy and her husband,” Anastasia whispered. “It’s our job to bring closure to all the viewers at home who couldn’t be here, but are feeling the same way.”

  “You should also think of it as reporting from the scene of a continuing investigation,” Frank continued. “Which is really what it is after last night.”

  “Exactly,” Anastasia said.

  At the very least, there was no denying how many people had and were continuing to show up, including Wendy Killian from Here’s the Deal magazine, whom I spotted on the front steps.

  Typically in jeans and a nice if unremarkable top with her hair pulled back in a tight, severe ponytail, she entered the church looking somehow decked out. Her dress was appropriately black, but form-fitting and showed off her toned, almost sinewy, arms and her slim athletic figure.

  Wendy accepted a program, saw me, and made her way over in anything but sensible black stiletto heels.

  “Maddie!” She enveloped me in a perfumy hug.

  “Thank you for coming,” I found myself saying, as though I were one of the bereaved.

  “I’m just glad to be able to pay my last respects.” A tear fell from the corner of her eye as she glanced at a shot on the tribute table of Cathy Clark holding a kitten. “How are you holding up through all of this?”

  “It’s been a helluva weekend,” I said, which was as honest as I was currently at liberty to be.

  We hugged again.

  “Ready when you are, Stasia,” the cameraman said.

  “I should get out of your way,” Wendy said as we moved to our places. “The show must go on.”

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Anastasia said, as Wendy blended into the growing crowd. “Ratings haven’t been this high since summer, when …”

  I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat while Anastasia had the decency not to utter when you were almost killed and whatever else she might have been inclined to add.