Black Thursday (8 page)

“How wonderful!” Joyce said.

“But I'm just at the grocery store to kill time while the realtor shows the house.”

“Which will make a perfect segment for today,” Anastasia said.

“You don't think viewers might see this as a little indelicate given what happened last night?”

“We're going to introduce the segment with a recap of last night and your role as a Good Samaritan in the aftermath,” she said, with equal parts empathy and journalistic matter-of-factness.

Did she not remember that my last turn as a Good Samaritan almost landed me in prison?

“And what about Cathy Carter?” I asked.

“We'll run her photo along with the piece,” Anastasia said. “We're also putting together a human interest bit on her, despite the fact that she really wasn't all that interesting.”

“Meaning what?” I asked.

“She was forty-eight, married, no kids, lived in Denver less than two years, and was unemployed.”

Which explained, at least in part, the lack of commentary on my website.

“You ready, Stasia?” the cameraman asked.

She nodded. “Ready.”

Before I could ask Anastasia what she knew about Cathy's friends, what they thought of her, or even how the husband was doing, she smiled her megawatt smile.

And we went live.

“I've just caught up with Maddie Michaels, AKA Mrs. Frugalicious, who is trying to recover from last night's rattling events at Bargain Barn with a little retail therapy …”

“To the extent that's possible,” I said, and once again—despite the baseball cap covering my not-ready-for-primetime hair—the camera zoomed in on me. But, unlike Barb and Eloise, also in the shot and looking like they wanted to die, my on-air endorphins kicked in once more. “And so did my mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and stepdaughter, who were helpful in keeping things under control last night. Since they wanted to learn how to save big on groceries while they're here for the holidays, I gave them a list of ten random items, a budget of twenty dollars, and full use of my binder and price bible,” I said holding it up for the camera. “We are about to go through the checkout line and see how everyone did.”

Yvette the checker smiled for her close-up and began to scan the items in the Barb/Eloise cart.

As the total climbed toward $20, I added some color commentary:

“They've done a nice job of using coupons to save money on deodorant, toothpaste, and cereal, which will ultimately keep them from going over budget, but they've made a couple of common mistakes that will keep their total higher than it needs to be. For one thing, pre-cut items—veggies, fruits, sandwiches—are always more costly, even on special. For another, convenience items like light bulbs tend to cost more at the grocery, so it's best to save that kind of coupon and use it at the hardware store.” Yvette scanned the last of their items. “And brand-name cereal is approximately forty-three cents per serving while generic runs twenty cents, so unless you have a discount for more than half off, it's almost always better to buy the no-name brands.”

“All great tips,” Anastasia said, as the total rang up to a respectable $19.79 and the checker moved on to Joyce's purchases.

“Now, my mother-in-law here has a real knack,” I said.

Joyce beamed as Yvette rang up her multiple tubes of toothpaste, the small 75%-off turkey in her cart, and a six-pack of sparkling soda for which she used a peelie.
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Her total was teetering around sixteen dollars before coupons when two mistakes upped her total. “Greeting cards are very convenient, but they come at a two-hundred percent markup. Better to make them at home,” I said, as Yvette rang up Joyce's last item. “And name-brand pain relievers are generally thirty to forty percent more than generics. Look for a sale on your store's brand, combine it if you can with any online coupons that reduce your overall total, and stock up then.”

“Great tips once again.” Anastasia said as Joyce totaled up to $14.37. “Now let's see the master at work.”

The camera filmed as I unloaded my mostly full cart. “I generally try to shop on Tuesdays or Wednesdays to take advantage of store specials and/or double or triple coupon days, but by knowing what's on special, combining those deals with coupons in my binder, and keeping up with downloadable discounts, you'll always save, no matter when you shop.”

The camera zoomed in on the register readout as I handed over my coupons. As Yvette scanned, my total plummeted precipitously from an original grand total of almost $40.

The crowd that had gathered around us began to clap when they saw the register readout:

$6.89.

“Outstanding,” Anastasia said. “From Saveaway, this is Anastasia Chastain, with Mrs. Frugalicious and some great grocery shopping tips.”

_____

“You're gonna be as famous as Dad soon,” FJ said, helping to unload the groceries while I prepared to put them away in the spare basement bedroom I'd converted into a stockpile room
24
for my ever-growing supply of non-perishable food, health and beauty aids, and housekeeping supplies.

“Maybe you'll get rich enough that we can keep the house,” added Trent, whom I'd also enlisted to help after sending Joyce, Barb, and Eloise to their various quarters for some long overdue rest.

“It would be nice if we could, guys, but we really don't need this much space, anyway.” I ran a feather duster across the boxes, cans, and bottles already lining the shelves, circled the expiration dates on each item, and put everything away by category. Divorce or no, I was saving so much by couponing that tapering off for the inevitable move made little sense. Particularly given the financial strain of paying the mortgage while it lingered on the market waiting for that buyer who not only
loved the house
(as the current lookie-loos had written on the comments clipboard) but drove a car that corresponded with the healthy checkbook that might allow them to buy it. “At least Mrs. Frugalicious is getting some positive exposure in the midst of everything.”

“Speaking of which,” Trent said. “Heard anything from Contrary Claire yet?”

“Not yet,” I said, folding and putting away my reusable
25
shopping bags. The blog continued to fill with condolences and comments from Frugarmy members, many of whom had been at Bargain Barn. But none of them bore the initials CC or claimed to be a friend of Cathy's.

“The lady who died had the initials CC,” Trent said to FJ.

“Seriously?” FJ asked.

“Isn't that weird?” Trent said.

“Did Eloise tell you that?” I asked.

“I heard Joyce telling Dad,” Trent said.

“So Contrary Claire hasn't tried to post anything about what happened last night?” FJ asked.

“Not so far,” I said. “I'm thinking maybe she hasn't heard about it yet.”

“But it's been all over the news,” Trent said. “And so have you.”

“She must have gone out of town or something,” I said.

“Could be.” FJ knit his brows in just the way my brilliant, beloved, and long-departed grandfather used to when he was putting the facts of a case together for trial. “Unless CC and Cathy Carter—”

“Can't be,” I said, trying to ignore the growing dread I couldn't totally shake. “It has to be a coincidence.”

“Does it?” FJ asked.

“CC made a point of saying she wasn't coming to Bargain Barn.”

“But what if she did anyway?” Trent asked. “Wouldn't it be kinda cool if—”

“Trent, there's nothing cool about someone dying,” I said.

“No.” Trent looked mildly apologetic. “But—”

“But, if she did show up,” FJ said, “and then the pallet just happened to fall on her of all people, you kinda have to wonder if there's a connection.”

My phone chirped from the paper goods shelf behind Trent.

“It's Alan Bader,” he said turning to look at the display.

“Got it,” I said, lunging across the room.

“Alan,” I answered, stopping myself from launching into an immediate breathless diatribe in which I repeated the entire message I'd already left on his phone.

“Sorry I haven't been able to get back before now.” Alan's voice was hoarse and his tone subdued, like he'd been sedated. “The investigation didn't wrap up until six this morning.”

“Did they at least figure out what happened?”

“No,” he said definitively.

“No?” My growing confusion only increased. “Frank said he'd overheard the emergency responders saying something about the pallet being at an odd angle. That they were thinking the vibration from so many people lined up along the aisle and pushing against the shelves sent it off the edge.”

“That's what they're saying,” he said.

I sensed something in Alan's tone. “But you don't think so?”

“I don't know how it happened, or why it happened, but a double decker pallet doesn't just fall of a shelf,” he said, his voice suddenly steely. “Not in my store.”

“Meaning what?” I asked.

“I don't care what anyone says,” Alan said. “This was no accident.”

ten

I swore I'd never
set foot in the South Metro Police Station after my last visit as an overnight guest in their no-star accommodations, but not long after talking to Alan I found myself walking through the glass doors and into the hot, crowded lobby.

The last thing I wanted to do was get in the middle of another investigation, but given Alan's certainty the accident was anything but accidental and my uncertainty about the CC/Cathy Carter connection, how could I not let the authorities know there might be more going on than met the eye?

Even a pair of eyes belonging to a trained investigator.

I took in a breath of the stale body odor and paper-tinged air and walked up to the uniformed policewoman at the front desk. “Detective McClarkey, please.”

“Your name?” she asked, her eyes on the paperwork in front of her.

“Maddie Michaels,” I said.

“As in Mrs. Frugalicious?” she asked, looking up.

“That's me.” I managed an awkward smile as she looked me over with an expression that said either
I heard all about last night
or
I remember the last mess you were caught up in
or
I'm a fan of your website
. My best guess was some combination of all three.

“Can I let him know what this is in regards to?”

“I have some information I wanted to bring to his attention about the events at Bargain Barn.”

She picked up the phone and pointed me toward the waiting area. “Have a seat and I'll let him know you're here.”

“Thanks,” I said, heading for the cleanest of the dingy, gray plastic chairs.

To avoid making eye contact with the man across from me, wearing a trench coat, a comb-over, and what appeared to be nothing else, I pulled out my phone and checked my Frugalicious email. As I expected, there was still nothing from CC or anyone claiming to be Cathy Carter's friend.

Which Trent, FJ, and I all agreed was definitely weird.

While I was at it, I fired off a note to the Frugarmy inquiring into mom-and-pop store specials for Small Business Saturday. Anastasia wanted to meet first thing in the morning, but even with the recaps of the accident and its aftermath, the tribute to Cathy, and Anastasia's assurance that viewers would see me as a Good Samaritan, I couldn't just show up somewhere and shop as though nothing had happened.

Better the Frugarmy made the call about where we should go.

A few minutes later, the wood partition separating the reception from the processing area of the station swung open, and, like déjà vu all over again, Detective McClarkey ambled into the room.

“Maddie Michaels!” he said, this time with genuine warmth and no hint of the suspicion that tinged my first (and certainly my second) visit to the station. “Wrong place at the right time again?”

“Sure seems that way,” I said, somehow emboldened not only by his overly firm handshake, but by his whole handsome, blue-eyed, graying crew cut, square-jawed detective vibe. Not to mention the corduroy sport coat I'd never seen him without.

He offered a crooked but not unattractive smile and a friendly,
we're in this together
wink as he motioned me to follow him. “Seems like just about everyone was at Bargain Barn last night.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, following him on a familiar serpentine path around the metal desks.

“Did I hear Frank Finance was even on hand for the festivities?”

Considering he'd been there when Frank's marital misdeed had revealed herself, the detective's curiosity wasn't entirely surprising. “He came to help me out with my TV appearance.”

He stopped briefly at the coffee pot. “Aren't you two in the middle of a divorce?”

“The holidays complicate things,” I said, waving off another opportunity for a steaming hot cup of tarrish-looking brew.

“I hear you there.” He shook his head. “I have to pretend I can stand the sight of my ex from now through New Year's for the sake of the kids.”

I began to sweat thinking of the potential loneliness and discord I had to look forward to in my future holiday seasons. The sweat ramped up as I looked into the interrogation room with its imitation wood grain table, banged up chairs, two-way mirror, and the inherent supposition of guilt. Luckily, Detective McClarkey stopped short and lead me into his glassed-in office instead.

“Have a seat,” he said.

As I hung my handbag on the back of the chair, he reached into his shirt pocket for a mini-tape recorder.

“Here we go again,” I said.

“Department policy.”

I nodded and took a long, slow centering breath.

“I'm speaking with Maddie Michaels,” he said, pulling a paper and notepad toward him from across the desk. “Is that correct?”

“Correct.”

“And what is it that brings you in today?”

“Well …” I paused to take a deep breath. “As you know, I was at Bargain Barn as part of a Channel Three feature on Black Friday shopping during and after the events that occurred in the store last night.”

“By Black Friday, you mean Thursday, correct?”

“Yes,” I said. “The Bargain Barn sale, along with many others, started well before midnight on Thanksgiving evening.”

“And by
events,
please describe exactly what you mean?”

“I was in the store when a pallet of toasters fell and killed a woman now identified as Catherine Carter,” I said as officially and factually as possible. “Alan Bader, the owner of Bargain Barn, told me the event was determined to be an accident.”

Detective McClarkey nodded.

“So it
was
ruled an accident?” I asked.

“I can neither confirm nor deny until the official report is released,” he said. “But, from what I'm hearing, things are pretty clear cut.”

“Alan Bader seems convinced there's more to the story,” I blurted as much as said.

Detective McClarkey jotted a note. “How so?”

“He claims there's no way a double-decker pallet could have slipped with the safety procedures he has in place at the store.”

“If I were him I'd be scrambling for a different scenario too.”

“Why's that?”

“Awesome Alan's not gonna be so
awesome
when the lawsuits start rolling in from everyone who got a nick, scratch, or thinks they may be able to cash in and make a buck.”

My stomach began to churn anew.

I'd assumed Alan's flat initial response to his bustling store was the result of stress, shock, and fear about the potential revenue loss. I hadn't really thought about the inevitable litigation. Particularly from the distraught and now hospitalized John Carter, Cathy's husband.

It was certainly one explanation for Alan's strong aversion to the word
accident
.

“As soon as the report is official, it'll be up to Bargain Barn's insurance adjusters to do any further digging.”

“So that's it?” I asked. “Case closed?”

He looked up. “What else you got?”

“It's just that …” I took a deep breath. “I'm sure it has to be an awful, unfortunate accident just like everyone is saying, but there's just one thing …”

“Which is?”

“My online heckler.”

“Your online heckler?”

“In the last few months, this person popped up and has been making snarky, critical remarks about practically everything I post on Mrs. Frugalicious.”

“Your website?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said pulling out my phone. I pulled up my website and scrolled through all of Contrary Claire's messages, recounting the one I'd erased word for word and how the boys had blocked future messages. “That is, until today.”

“I get that she's an annoyance, but why exactly is it so suspicious to you that she hasn't commented about last night?”

“Her initials are CC,” I said, pointing to a comment she'd made complaining about her grocery store refusing to allow a particularly obscure combination of coupons I'd specifically said might or might not work together. “As in Cathy Carter.”

“Hmm.” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “So you're thinking the deceased and this online heckler could be the same person?”

“CC said she wasn't coming to Bargain Barn last night, but as the hours tick by and there's no comment from her, I can't help but wonder …”

Detective McClarkey jotted a note.

“I mean, the story's been all over the media since last night and there hasn't been a word from CC since Cathy's … incident.”

“Didn't you say you'd blocked her though?”

“I'm supposed to get an email with a preview of her comments so I can decide whether to post or not, but there's been nothing to post,” I said. “I even wrote a condolence blog this morning, but there was no response. Not even from anyone who seemed to know or be friends with Cathy Carter.”

“I see,” he said.

“And, according to Anastasia, she was fairly new in town and kept to herself, so that fits too.”

“Interesting,” he said.

“I thought so,” I said.

Neither of us said anything for a second.

“If CC and Cathy Carter are, in fact, the same person, and she did meet her end at Bargain Barn, I have to wonder if Alan Bader might be right that there's more to the story than a random pallet of toasters falling on an innocent bystander in his store.”

“As in, she was such an unpleasant person, someone knew she was going to be at Bargain Barn and timed it just right so they could sneak unnoticed up onto an upper shelf and crush her by pushing a double pallet off the edge?”

“I know it seems far-fetched, but it really is a little strange that the person who happened to die last night just might be CC as opposed to, really, anyone else in my Frugarmy.”

Detective McClarkey put down his pencil. “Agreed.”

“So you think it's worth looking into too?” I asked.

He raised his caterpillar of an eyebrow once again. “Sure you want us to?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Maddie,” he smiled kindly, “there's no doubting what a great job you did with the DeSimone case, and for that I'm incredibly thankful. I'm still sorry I didn't believe you much sooner, but what are the odds you've chanced into two homicides in the past three months?”

“Not great, I'll admit, but—”

“But if, for the sake of argument, you're right and it was the case that CC not only is Cathy Carter but also the victim of foul play designed to look like an accident while in line at Bargain Barn, who do you think would be the most likely suspect, or even suspects?”

“Judging by all the comments to her negative posts, there could be a number of people who might feel inclined to let her know how out of line she's been.” The butterflies flittering across my stomach began to migrate toward my throat. “Although I can't really imagine that anyone in my Frugarmy would go so far as to try and kill her over something like that.”

“Me either,” he said.

“Whoever might have done such a thing would need a much more compelling motive.”

“Exactly,” he said, turning off his tape recorder. “Like, for example, someone whose business she was threatening with her criticisms, perhaps?”

My heart began to pound harder than it had since the last time I'd been at the South Metro Police Department being accused of a crime I didn't commit. “You're not trying to imply that I … Why on earth would I tell you she was my heckler and implicate myself if I—”

“Maddie, you're the last person I'd suspect, but I'm not heading up this particular investigation. If I pass along what you've told me, I have no way of controlling what the detective in charge will think or decide to do with it.”

“So you think I'd end up as the prime suspect again?”

“A group of highly trained investigators have looked into the incident and the victim and have ruled this to be an accident.” He patted the back of my hand with his. “No sense looking for trouble where there isn't any.”

“But …”

“I'll definitely give you a buzz if I have any further questions.” Detective McClarkey pressed the erase button on his tape recorder and winked. “So don't go fleeing the country or anything.”