Black Thursday

by Linda Joffe Hull

  “Look,” Frank said, motioning toward the glass entry doors.

  Anastasia and I turned and the camera swerved in time to catch a black limo pull up in front of the church.

  The car door opened and Cathy Carter’s husband emerged looking grimmer and even more gray than he had Thursday night. With him were a grief-stricken older couple and a middle-aged man I presumed were the extent of Cathy’s extended family.

  All had red-rimmed eyes and matching noses.

  “Those poor people,” Frank said as they entered the church, were immediately greeted by a minister, and whisked off through a side door.

  “Do you think the police have filled them in on what happened last night?” I asked.

  “They’re probably waiting until after the memorial,” Anastasia said. “Especially with all the buzz this morning.”

  “The buzz?” I asked.

  “I hear there’s been a break in the case.”

  I looked around once again for Alan. If the police had gone to talk to him after last night’s sticky note, which they had to have done, chances were he’d spent the rest of the evening filling them in on what he knew, or at least suspected, about a big corporation being behind the death of Cathy Carter.

  “What kind of break?” I asked.

  “A big one.”

  Meaning Alan had been right after all? “As in?” I persisted.

  “Still classified, so I don’t know,” Anastasia said. “But something’s going to go down soon.”

  “How soon?” Frank asked.

  “Not sure,” Anastasia said. “But from all the back-and-forth calls this morning, I’d say very.”

  _____

  “This is Anastasia Chastain and Maddie Michaels reporting from the North Suburban Community Church, where services will soon be underway for Catherine T. Carter …”

  Much as I might have hoped to transform into Anastasia’s camera-ready, appropriately glib weekend sidekick, Maddie Michaels, AKA Mrs. Frugalicious, I felt far too distracted by everything to do much more than survive the segment.

  While Anastasia gave a teary account of the somber mood amongst the crowd and stepped over to the photo display, I somehow managed to maintain my composure, sharing a sound bite or two about the horror of Thursday night’s “accident” and Alan Bader’s generosity in organizing the memorial to help ease the grief of the Carter family.

  Alan finally showed up while I was on the air and immediately got swept into the last-minute arrangements with an official from the church. I had hoped to get close enough to confirm that even though he looked like his old dapper self in a dark double-breasted suit and pressed white shirt, his eyes would belie a night’s worth of filling in the police.

  As the camera taped me hugging various members of the Frugarmy, including Mr. Piggledy, who’d come to pay his respects on behalf of Mrs. Piggledy, Higgledy, and their new “daughter-in-law” Birdie, all I could think about was what exactly the big break in the case would be.

  And did Alan already know about it?

  If he did, then he had come to the memorial with confirmation of both his safety and his sanity.

  But what if he didn’t?

  Was he also circulating through the crowd wondering who was truly a mourner and who was there under false, potentially fatal premises? Not to mention the still unanswered question:

  Who was Cathy Carter?

  _____

  Catherine Theresa Carter, Cathy to her friends and family, was a woman who loved hobbies …

  According to her beloved husband, John, she worked from home as a freelance bookkeeper and enjoyed a variety of interests over the years —everything from knitting, ceramics, and beading to taking in rescue dogs and, at one point, breeding sugar gliders. Recently, Cathy became increasingly interested in two hobbies in particular, cooking and coupon clipping.

  Sniffles echoed through the overfull church while the minister paused, either for effect or to check his notes.

  Cathy didn’t dabble in her interests. She dove wholeheartedly and with great gusto into whatever she did, reveling in her ability to have delicious gourmet meals waiting for her husband after a long day at work. Meals for which she’d paid only pennies on the dollar …

  From my seat in the back row between Anastasia and Frank, I watched Cathy’s husband, John, put his head into his hands.

  It was in pursuit of both of these hobbies that the Lord, in his infinite wisdom, determined it was time for Cathy to return unto his loving embrace …

  Up front, someone let out a big choking sob.

  It is often difficult to understand the Lord’s plan at times like these—a woman who wants nothing more than to save a few dollars goes down to her local retailer, stands in line enjoying the Black Friday fanfare like so many of us do, and the most unthinkable of accidents occurs.

  As Frank, whose arm was draped loosely onto the back of the pew, gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze, I tried to will Alan, who was seated in the front row of the opposite aisle, to look up and in my direction.

  He continued to stare at his feet.

  Never mind that we were too far away from each other for him to see much less interpret a meaningful look or hand signal from me asking Do you know what the heck is going on?

  The minister took a step back and “Angel” began to play on the loudspeaker.

  As Sarah McLachlan’s haunting voice floated up toward the abstract stained-glass windows of the nondenominational church, I couldn’t help but sniffle. That and scan the crowd, noting that Wendy Killian and Mr. Piggledy had joined the Michaels’ two rows of pews with Wendy beside Craig and Mr. Piggledy next to Gerald. Other familiar faces from Thursday night dotted the church, some of whom had introduced themselves as Frugarmy members at various points throughout the weekend. The others, the ones who’d never said a word, all somehow looked that much more suspicious for not making themselves known.

  Were the camera not set up discreetly but directly behind me, I might have considered sending Alan a quick FYI text. To avoid a TV clip of me callously plinking away on my cell phone during the most watched local funeral of the year, I sat trying not to feel like I was trapped in a bad dream filled with sad music, sadder readings, and a heart-wrenching lack of friends, co-workers, or acquaintances on hand to share touching or funny stories about their friend Cathy Carter.

  While the minister reiterated bland platitudes about Cathy’s happy life as the only daughter of already deceased parents and her devotion as a wife, needlecrafter, lover of animals, and budget gourmet cook, I listened for anything that might give me some clue as to whether she really was simply the victim of bad luck. Was there any way she could also have had an alter ego known as Contrary Claire, online heckler and malcontent? With adjectives like sweet, honest, thoughtful, kind, and the utterly nondescriptive nice being repeated, it seemed unlikely.

  Or was the utter lack of information that much more suspicious?

  Cathy seemed like a perfectly friendly soul, but her eulogy had her sounding even more sweet and bland than vanilla ice cream.

  And that was before the minister added:

  In recent months, her interest and success in saving money as a couponer had her donating a variety of low-cost and free nonperishables to local shelters …

  As people turned to smile at me and Frank patted me softly on the back, a pretty, heavyset woman of about thirty-five lumbered up to the stage, adjusted the microphone down, and tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear.

  “A few months back, Cathy and I telecommuted together on a project,” she said.

  I found myself sitting up a little straighter, hoping for something about Cathy. Anything from while she could be a little opinionated to I can’t believe she warned me against going to Bargain Barn Thursday night.

  “She couldn’t have been nicer or easier to work with,�
� the woman said. “Which is why I thought I should read this poem by Maya Angelou in her honor.”

  As she launched into a touching reading of “When I Think of Death,” I was increasingly sure Alan was right about everything and Cathy not only couldn’t have been CC, but had to have been chosen as an unfortunate pawn simply by virtue of just how bland a person she’d been.

  I glanced briefly over my shoulder and noted the cameraman standing a few steps back from the camera.

  Seizing the opportunity, I leaned down, planning to fumble through my purse for mints or a tissue and somehow tapping out a quick text to alert Alan.

  I rifled past my wallet and gum, located my cell, and turned it over.

  There was already a text message waiting for me.

  It was from Alan:

  Meet me at the stairwell doors at the back north side of the church right after the minister starts his final announcements and the reception begins.

  _____

  “I found something on one of the store security cameras,” Alan said leading me down a set of stairs toward the basement of the church. “A person stepping down from an upper shelf a minute or so after the pallet fell.”

  “That’s huge!” I said, feeling my first real sense of relief since that sickening crash on Thursday night. I was also breathless from ducking out of the service, rushing from the front vestibule, through a side door, and down the north corridor to meet up with Alan.

  “Except that the tape was fuzzy and came from a perimeter camera in an area that shouldn’t have been accessible from where the pallet fell,” he said, leading the way down a darkened hallway across the west side of the church.

  “What did the police think?”

  “They spent most of the night trying to determine whether someone could have worked their way across the upper shelves of the store and shimmied down in that particular area undetected.”

  “And?”

  “That it wouldn’t be easy, but it wasn’t impossible.”

  “Which means there’s a suspect now, too?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “The tape still has to be officially analyzed and all that jazz.”

  “Anastasia seemed sure something was about to go down.”

  “I bet the big break she was talking about already happened. They just need to process the tape and hopefully we can wake up from this nightmare,” he said, pushing open a door marked Exit. “Not that I’ve had much, if any, actual sleep in the last few days.”

  Up close, there was no missing the dark circles under his eyes. “I hope you can get some rest soon.”

  “That’s my general plan,” he said propping open the door.

  I drew in a breath and squeezed my eyes shut to adjust to the juxtaposition of brisk temperatures and bright sunlight.

  “So you’re leaving for home now?”

  “Not yet,” he said, pulling a BMW key fob from his pocket, but looking toward the stretch limo that had ferried the Carter family to the memorial and was parked alongside the back of the church. “I thought I’d follow John home and get him settled first.”

  “That’s so kind of you,” I said.

  “It’s the least I can I do.”

  “But isn’t he inside, at the reception?” Which was where I was supposed to be so Anastasia and I could wrap up by having a word with him. I was now bordering on overdue.

  “His aunt, uncle, and brother are going to greet well-wishers, but the poor guy is still pretty heavily sedated and in no frame of mind to talk to much of anyone.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I said.

  The sadness in Alan’s eyes had me swallowing back tears.

  As we started for the limo, a police cruiser appeared from a side street and pulled into the far entrance to the lot.

  “Doesn’t it seem like there’s an awfully heavy police presence this morning?” I asked, mostly to break the heavy silence. “Despite it all.”

  “Until they figure out who killed Cathy Carter, I’m probably the only one who’s safe.” He sighed. “And that’s only because they’re trying to kill my business instead of me personally.”

  “I’m sorry to say you may be right.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” Alan said, his voice teary and sounding oddly reminiscent of Frank. “First I get Cathy Carter killed, then I drag you into this disaster.” He shook his head. “To know I’ve put you in harm’s way …”

  “Maddie?” The unmistakable voice of Frank himself echoed from behind us.

  Alan looked startled as Frank bolted out the back door, ran over to us, and put a protective arm around my shoulder.

  “The last place you should be is out here! It’s not safe.”

  “I haven’t let her out of my sight,” Alan said.

  “I’m fine, Frank,” I said. “We’re just waiting for John Carter. He’s not going to the reception and Alan’s planning to follow him home to make sure he gets settled in okay.”

  Frank nodded his approval.

  “Alan also found some incriminating video tape that may be important in—”

  Before I could finish my sentence, the police cruiser pulled up and blocked the limo. The driver’s side and passenger doors swung open, and none other than Detectives McClarkey and Reed flew out of the car.

  “Mr. Bader, put your hands up and lean against the side of the car,” Detective Reed called.

  “Me?” he said faintly.

  Both detectives had their guns out to show they definitely meant him.

  “But I …” he said, turning around and putting his hands against the glass of his otherwise spotless car. “I …”

  “Alan Bader, you’re under arrest for the murder of Catherine Carter.”

  twenty

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” I said to Detective McClarkey as Alan Bader was cuffed, read his rights, and loaded into the back of a patrol car by Detective Reed. “He can’t be …”

  “Where did Mr. Bader say he was heading?” Detective McClarkey asked.

  “To John Carter’s house, so he wouldn’t be alone while his family was at the reception.”

  “And he asked you to come with him?”

  “No.”

  “But he did call you out of church to meet him?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But it’s a good thing your … Mr. Michaels came out when he did,” Detective McClarkey said with a brusque nod of acknowledgment to Frank. “I can only imagine what Alan had planned for you.”

  Frank held me that much tighter. “You think he planned to abduct her or something?”

  “Or worse,” Detective McClarkey said. “I think she’s been getting in the way of his plans.”

  I felt ill. “I just can’t believe that Alan—”

  “Neither could I until all the pieces started fitting together,” McClarkey said.

  “Pieces?”

  “I began to look into a few things after our conversation down at the station the other day.”

  “Like what?” I managed, watching the lookie-loos trickle out of the church, spot the disturbance, and make their way over to investigate the police activity.

  “Like why a big corporation would run a single-location family store out of business by resorting to murder in the first place.”

  “If you destroy both the reputation and the profit margin of a store like Bargain Barn on the busiest night of the year, and in the midst of media coverage, they’re as good as gone,” I said.

  “I’ve certainly seen some crazy things done in the name of greed,” Detective McClarkey said. “But why would a big, deep-pocketed corporation take such a huge risk when they could simply open up nearby and advertise all sorts of specials that would have shoppers flocking to the new store anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Did you know
that Alan Bader is in the midst of a contentious divorce?”

  “I knew he was a widower.”

  “He’s that, too,” Detective McClarkey said. “But apparently wife number two got used to a certain standard of living she has no intention of compromising, and she’s rejected any and all reasonable alimony offers.”

  “So you think he was trying to devalue his business to keep her from getting her big settlement?” Frank asked.

  “It sure looks that way.”

  Frank whoa whistled. “Not un-clever.”

  Detective McClarkey shook his head. “As though there’s such a thing as a clever way to get divorced.”

  “But if his business dies, then he loses everything too,” I said. “Right?”

  “He wasn’t trying to kill the business, just suppress profits for a period of time to show his assets were nowhere near what his wife is demanding from him.”

  “By playing Russian roulette with Bargain Barn?” I asked.

  “Why did he shut himself away in his office with Cathy Carter’s husband and leave the fate of the store in the care of an assistant manager?”

  “To comfort a man whose pain he understood only too well?” I said.

  “Or to hide out while all hell broke loose around him,” McClarkey answered.

  “But—”

  “But we kept the store open,” Frank said, finishing my sentence.

  “And Bargain Barn had the best Black Friday receipts they’ve ever had,” I added.

  “Which is why an arrest had to happen ASAP,” Detective McClarkey said. “Particularly after the note on your car threatening Maddie.”

  Frank glanced into the back of the patrol car at Alan, hands behind his back, awaiting transport to a jail I knew far too well.

  “What a sick plan,” Frank said.

  I swallowed the giant lump that had formed in my throat. “I still don’t get why would Alan stage an accident then insist it was a crime.”

  “Easy,” McClarkey said. “Remember what I told you about the flood of negligence lawsuits he’d be facing?”