Black Thursday (15 page)

Considering I hadn't had a chance to pay my sympathies to the widower like Anastasia had, I decided it was high time to try and counterbalance the damage done by placing a condolence call of my own.

I was turning away from the TV to begin wading my way through the online White Pages for people named John Carter in the Denver metro area when Anastasia added, “This story has apparently touched the hearts of viewers at home, many of whom have asked where they can send their condolences. Donations in Cathy Carter's name should be made to the Mile High Pet Adoption Society …”

And then she added a footnote that gave me an even better idea.

“If you would like to send a card to Mr. Carter directly, the address is at the bottom of your screen.”

_____

Grabbing one of the oversized wicker baskets I'd picked up during a buy-one-get-one-for-a-penny sale at the craft store, I put together a condolence basket
32
filled with a variety of snacks and easy-to-prepare food items. Seeing as there was no reception or wake to speak of, John Carter would have little or nothing in the way of casseroles or baked goods to keep him nourished while he adjusted to life without a wife and hot dinner waiting for him.

I arranged the basket of goodies, wrapped it in plastic,
33
tied some raffia around the top, and made my way up the stairs.

While I'd rather have left a note saying I was off to do a few errands, there was no avoiding the boys. As they'd been all weekend, they were stationed in front of the family room TV, in view of the basement stairs.

“Where are you going?” FJ asked without looking up from the post-apocalyptic disaster scenario playing out on screen.

“Just headed out for a quick errand,” I said, making a mental note to pay a bit more attention to what was actually going on in those games they were so into.

“With a giant gift basket?” Trent asked with the hint of an eyebrow raise.

“It's for Cathy Carter's husband,” I said
.

“You're going over to his house?” FJ asked, actually glancing up.

“Considering his wife was a member of my Frugarmy, I can't help but feel somewhat responsible.”

“You think what happened is your fault?” Trent asked.

“Not exactly,” I said. “But either Alan was posing as my stalker CC and Cathy Carter died as a result, or he was stalking her and now she's dead.”

“Which still doesn't make it your fault,” FJ said.

“I suppose not,” I said. “But the least I can do is bring Mr. Carter some food to help him through the next few difficult days and let him know how sorry I am about everything that's happened.”

“Whoa!” Trent said, as something exploded on screen.

“Sounds like a good idea, Mom,” FJ added, and they disappeared back into their game.

_____

Seeing as I'd rushed over to the Carter home without a thought as to whether John Carter might not want further sympathy, support, or visitors of any kind, I figured I should probably leave my gift basket and sympathy card on the front stoop—along with the growing pile of gifts and assorted flowers—and then disappear.

And I might have done just that, had the front door not opened before my finger reached the bell. And there I was, standing face to face with John Carter.

“Hi, Mr. Carter, I'm Maddie Michaels,” I said. “Mrs. Frugalicious.”

“Of course,” he said. His jacket was off and his tie was loosened, but he was otherwise still dressed in his suit, as though he hadn't even thought about changing into something more comfortable.

“I thought you might be able to use this,” I said, handing him the basket.

“Thank you.” He offered the saddest of smiles in return. “You're very kind.”

“With all the awful surprises that have come to light this morning, I figured …”

“Please come in,” he said, looking every bit as beaten-down and sad as he'd looked in the church and on TV. “And call me John.”

“John,” I said. “I really don't want to impose.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I'm glad you're here.”

The sweat that had broken out at the base of my neck began to cool as he motioned me to follow him inside.

Somehow I'd pictured sweet, innocent Cathy Carter living in a typical suburban two-story or split-level decorated with country flair and wall accents to match. (Picky, disapproving CC, on the other hand, might well have lived in a similar house, but her decorating style would have been more contemporary and uncluttered.)

I'd also expected Cathy to live in the middle of a long block of nearly identical homes, differentiated by the right or left placement of the garage, roof slope and/or slight variation of beige trim. Instead, the Carter home was an older, single-story ranch on a quiet street of ten or so homes separated by mature trees and sizeable yards. The décor, eclectic to say the least, was cluttered with furniture and accessories, especially for a couple with no children, and who'd only lived there a few years.

“My wife was a huge fan of yours,” he said, putting the gift basket down on the coffee table beside a series of framed photos of Cathy from the glamour shot session Channel Three had been broadcasting all weekend long. “Would you believe she decorated this entire living room without buying a single thing that wasn't at least half price?”

“That's fantastic,” I said, even if the lavender suede five-piece seating group and the family of chartreuse ceramic geese crossing the mantel definitely weren't.
34
In fact, the house appeared to be an homage to buying anything and everything that came with a REDUCED sticker.

“I can't believe you're standing in our living room. If Cathy were here, she'd insist on giving you a tour of all the great deals she's gotten thanks to your website, but I just can't bear …” A tear began to roll down his sallow, grief-aged face. “She'd have given anything to have met you in person.”

“But I did meet her!”

“Really?” A trace of hope tinged his voice. “You did?”

“We met that night,” I said, not adding the
just before
… “We even took a picture together,” I said, but I realized as I said it that the photo had been taken with a camera phone that had likely suffered the same fate as Cathy herself.

He must have thought the same thing at the same time, since neither of us said anything for a few awkward seconds.

He glanced over at the flowers and gift baskets. “If only I had been beside her, I'm sure I'd have seen the pallet slip.”

“John, there was no way of anticipating something like that was about to happen.”

“I know I'd have been able to get her out of the way before …”

“Believe me, I understand,” I said, “I keep going over every interaction I ever had with Alan Bader, wondering what I should have picked up on, or if there was any suspicious behavior on his part that could have tipped me off that he'd been planning something like this.”

“He seemed like the best of folk, didn't he?”

“That he did.”

“Which somehow makes it all that much harder.” John grabbed a tissue from the box beside him and began to sob silently.

Unsure whether to offer another insufficient
I'm so sorry
or a very awkward hug, I stood beside him, helpless to do anything more than look at the overabundance of kitschy knick-knacks covering the tabletops and lining the shelves.

“Why her?” he said through his tears. “Why did it have to be her?”

I was asking myself the same question.

“How long have you been married?” he finally asked.

“Sixteen years,” I said, not deducting the last three months from the equation.

“We'd just hit seven.” He sighed. “I always figured I'd be single until I saw her.”

“How did you meet?”

“She was into antiques and collectables before she got into bargain hunting,” he said. “I spotted her at a vintage transportation toys tent at a car show. She was helping an elderly friend liquidate his collection.”

Given her tastes, at least where home décor was concerned, and the fact she really did seem as sweet, kind, and too-nice-to-be-truly-believable as everyone said, Cathy Carter simply couldn't have been Contrary Claire. Which had to mean her death was either entirely random, or she'd been singled out for a reason that had yet to make any sense to me.

“John, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Your Aunt Louise said you had Thanksgiving at her house and planned to go straight home afterwards.”

He nodded. “If only we had …”

“I hate to ask, but how did you end up at Bargain Barn instead?” My eyes were drawn to the picture of Cathy, her expression somehow searching, as if she were awaiting his answer too.

“She mentioned a few of the deals for Frugarmy members as we were driving by on our way home.” Pure pain filled his face. “When I realized we had a good shot at getting a TV or one of the other big-ticket items if we parked and got right in line, I insisted we go for it.”

I patted his shoulder.

“Even though she was a little tired, I knew it would be worth it if she got to meet you in person.”

The divorce butterflies, having taken up a new cause, began to flutter wildly in my guts.

“And Alan,” he added. “She wanted to meet Awesome Alan, too.”

“Did she get the chance?” I had to ask.

He nodded. “As soon as we came in the front door.”

My cell phone rang. “I should check to see who this is,” I said, glad for the momentary distraction of fumbling in my purse. “In case it's one of my kids.”

The blood began to pulse in my ears when I located the phone and read the caller ID:
South Metro Police.

“I'm afraid I'll need to take this.”

“Of course,” John said.

“McClarkey here,” the detective said with my hello.

“Yes,” I said trying to modulate any particular emotion from my voice. “What is it?”

“Can you get down to the station?”

“When?”

“Preferably now.”

“I mean, I—”

“Alan Bader is insisting he talk to you.”

“Me?”

“And Detective Reed thinks we should let him.”

“I … isn't this a bit unusual?” I asked turning away from John Carter and stepping toward the front door so as not to upset him any further. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Shouldn't he be meeting with his lawyer or something first?”

“Already has,” Detective McClarkey said. “And now he wants,
insists
, that he speak with you.”

“Why?” I asked.

“That's what we want to know.”

twenty-two

“I only met her
for a second at the door to the store,” Alan said. “I didn't even catch her name.”

Needless to say, the orange jumpsuit, handcuffs, crazy hair, and frantic look in his eyes didn't do anything to help his credibility. Nor did the stark surroundings of the interrogation room where we met.

“I certainly didn't kill Cathy Carter.”

“The police seem to think otherwise,” I said, noting the guard at the door.

“I'm innocent,” he said. “I shouldn't be here.”

“Neither should I,” I said, although Detective McClarkey hadn't exactly asked so much as told me to get down to the station.

“Thank you for coming.” His angry edge seemed to soften.

“To be clear, I didn't come because I think you're innocent,” I said, not mentioning the
be natural and say what you're going to say
briefing I'd just had with McClarkey and Ross. “Mostly, I wanted to be able to look into your eyes and judge for myself if you could have really …”

“I didn't,” he said emphatically.

“I was with John Carter when the police called to tell me you wanted to talk to me.”

“At his house?”

I felt awful rushing off, not to mention lying to him by saying that one of my kids needed me. But I had promised I'd come back to check in on him after my Monday-morning segment with Anastasia. “I couldn't bear the thought that he was there alone. Not only having lost his wife, but—”

“Betrayed for sport by the most cold-hearted psychopath alive?”

Despite his protestations of innocence, I still found myself waiting for that creepy moment I'd watched play out on countless crime dramas. That moment when the psycho killer couldn't help but smile wryly at a gory job well done.

“I can't tell you how glad I am you were there for him,” he said instead, his voice cracking with what seemed to be relief. “Almost worse than getting falsely arrested was seeing John look into the police car and know he had to think I was some kind of sick, sadistic killer with a fetish for comforting my victim's family.”

Was I being played or was Alan really as sincere as he sounded?

“You did foot the funeral bill,” I finally said, “which you have to admit is more than a little unusual.”

“He's between jobs and his wife was crushed by a pallet in my store.” He paused. “What would you have done?”

I hadn't doubted his kindness and honesty for a second until I doubted everything about him, but with his question, I found myself doubting my doubts. “Alan, I'd like to believe you. I want to believe you, but the evidence is stacking up against you.”

“It's circumstantial evidence and it only appears to point to me.”

“Be that as it may—”

“If I were a killer, why not do in my money-grubbing ex instead of an innocent customer and the business I've loved since I was a child?” He shook his head. “To this day I don't know why I was compelled to do right by that woman and marry her knowing she loved pretty, shiny things above all else …”

“They don't think you wanted to kill the business,” I said, trying not to think about the similarities between his ex and mine—or would Frank now be my ex-ex? “Just depress profits temporarily.”

“As though that's possible after someone is
accidentally
crushed in your store,” he said. “If you hadn't been there to help keep Bargain Barn open, I'd be boarding the place up now.” He paused. “If I weren't here, that is.”

“But you had no way of knowing Frank and I were going to do that.”

“I'm very thankful you did, though.”

“Then why did you shut yourself away in your office with Cathy Carter's husband and leave the fate of the store in the care of an assistant manager?”

“I was in no condition to be out on the sales floor.” Anguish filled his face. “I'm sure you've heard how my first wife died?”

I managed a nod.

“Thank God our son is deployed out of the country right now. The real killer has to be found before he hears I'm being accused of …” Tears brimmed in his eyes. “How anyone could think I would ever harm anyone, much less his mother. I loved her more than anything.”

As he put his head in his hands and began to sob, I found myself running through the list I'd made of Alan's incriminating behavior. Despite feeling slightly indelicate about cross-examining a man who was openly sobbing over his long-deceased first wife and proclaiming his absolute innocence, the situation called for a desperate times/desperate measures approach.

I also knew Detectives McClarkey and Reed were on the other side of the two-way mirror listening.

If Alan was guilty, I could only hope they were hearing what they were looking for.

If not, at least I was giving the man an opportunity to make his case.

“Alan?” I asked, after giving him a minute to cry it out and collect himself. “Why did you contact my website in the first place?”

“Demographics. We're a local discount retailer and MrsFrugalicious.com is a locally based bargain hunting site. It was an ideal advertising investment,” he said, wiping his nose. “For one thing.”

“And for another?”

“Honestly?”

“I think the situation calls for honesty.”

“I heard you were getting a divorce too and figured that since we were both in the same boat …” He shook his head. “But given how things are working out at the moment, I guess I miscalculated.”

Despite it all, I felt myself blush. It had been years since any man but Frank had openly expressed an interest in me. “I …”

“I have to admit, I was a little taken aback when I saw you and Frank were back together.”

“It's been a weekend full of the unexpected,” I heard myself say, before awkwardly trying to get back on track with another question. “I assume it was your plan to do a Black Friday promotion involving the Frugarmy all along?”

“From the moment I found your website.”

“Which was when?”

“The same day I called you, three months ago,” he said. “The whole campaign was going well, as you know, and should have been an all around win-win, particularly with a news crew on hand.”

“Why did you try to stay off camera?”

“I don't like the way I look without the makeup and hair people that get me ready for my commercials.”

After three days of seeing myself on TV, I had to admit I understood that particular excuse.

“You did pre-plan exactly where the Frugarmy would line up, though.”

“Until Anastasia Chastain switched things around so they could get better tape.”

A fact I'd been there to confirm.

“Where were you when the pallet fell?”

“In the executive washroom.”

“Another spot where the store security tape wasn't properly date and time stamped?”

“We don't have cameras inside the bathrooms, employee or public, for obvious reasons,” he said. “And I'm not sure why the tape I provided wasn't properly date and time stamped. It should have been, but whoever's looking at it just needs to hone in on the products on the shelves. There has to be a serial or model number that can be used to confirm production dates.”

“I'm told it was too blurry to figure out who was even climbing the shelves.”

“Dear Lord, I need something to break in my direction.” He put his head in his hands. “If only I could have found tape of the perpetrator climbing up, or something to prove—”

“I'm afraid it's going to take more than video to support your corporate assassin theory, which, while compelling—”

“Was wrong,” Alan said, finishing my sentence.

“What?” I asked, my voice going up an octave.

“My lawyer told me that the company I was most suspicious of, who's known for some serious dirty dealing, are after a small chain of discount stores in the Southwest and not Bargain Barn at all.”

“Meaning you don't think there was any sort of corporate conspiracy?”

“No.” Color crept up his neck and into his cheeks. “I feel silly for having been so convinced.”

Not as silly as I felt for believing him. “If you didn't kill Cathy, and there was no hit man or anything like that, who
do
you think killed her, then?”

“That's what we have to figure out.”

“We?”

“Mostly you, I'm afraid. At least until they set bail and my soon-to-be-ex gets me out of here.”

“Your ex is bailing you out?”

“She doesn't get anything if I end up in prison,” he said. “Making her one of the few people I don't suspect at this point.”

My head was spinning. “Who
do
you suspect?”

He took a deep breath, presumably to recover from all of my rapid-fire questions. “All I know for sure is it's far too coincidental to believe that Cathy Carter just happened to share the same initials as your stalker.”

“So you definitely think Cathy Carter was CC?”

“Had to be.”

“If so, she was the nicest, kindest heckler on the face of the planet.”

“Maybe she was Dr. Jekyll in person but Mr. Hyde at her keyboard.”

“It's possible, but that would mean whoever killed her left threatening messages pretending to be her after the fact,” I said.

“Seemingly threatening messages.”

“Seemingly?”

“I really think the killer would have targeted you at Bargain Barn if that's what he or she was really intending,” he said.

“Then why the warning on my car?”

“I believe the note was just supposed to scare you off from investigating any further,” Alan said. His expression was honest, genuine, and concerned but tinged orange from the reflection of his jail jumpsuit.

“It's working,” I said.

“You can't let it,” he whispered, clearly aware or at least suspicious we were being listened in on. “Because I also think Cathy Carter may have been killed because of, or on behalf of, Mrs. Frugalicious.”

“What do you mean? Why?”

“I'm not sure—maybe to ruin you on your big night?”

My stomach felt like a concrete mixer. “Alan, that's basically the same theory you had about Bargain Barn, now applied to Mrs. Frugalicious.”

“Whoever killed her could also have done it to protect you from your crazy stalker, or, worse, maybe even frame you.”

“Twice in three months?” I asked, just like Detective McClarkey was probably saying from behind the glass. “Come on, Alan.”

“All I know is you show up at Bargain Barn with news cameras in tow and a pallet crushes your number-one naysayer,” Alan said. “I may have misapplied the facts to Bargain Barn at first, but I think we can both agree that there has to be a connection to you.”

My pulse, already racing, went into hyper drive. “Why?”

“Figure that out and we have the real killer.”

_____

“You heard Alan swear he's innocent.” I said to Detective McClarkey as he escorted me across the parking lot.

“Yup.” He nodded. “Our prison system is overcrowded with innocent men and women.”

“So you're saying you don't believe anything he said?”

“I'm saying I'll reserve judgment until we've checked everything out.”

“But you're going to? Check it out?”

“I don't expect to find anything but more evidence against him.”

“But what if Alan's right and there's a killer still on the loose?”

“We'll be on it,” Detective McClarkey stopped at my car and eyed the back seat before opening the driver's side door for me to slip inside. “In the meantime, how about you lay low this time and let us do the investigating?”

“No problem,” I said.

“It'll only be a problem if you don't,” he said, closing the door.