Black Thursday (17 page)

twenty-five

Was Eloise's last comment
in reference to
her
father's misdeeds of the past, or something of a much more recent variety?

Seeing as she would be in the car with him for the better part of the next hour, I couldn't exactly call her for clarification. I scrolled through my recent messages for her name thinking I'd text her instead, but I was stopped by our last set of back-and-forths—from Thursday night at Bargain Barn:

Omg! Where are you
?
Eloise had written.

At layaway. Looking for you,
I'd responded.

We were coming to find you when it happened.

Who is we?

Everyone but Daddy and Uncle Craig.

Unless she'd been lying that night and had continued to lie for the rest of the weekend without a hint of remorse, Eloise had an alibi for when the pallet fell.

An alibi that also accounted for Barb, Joyce, and Gerald.

And Craig was theoretically in the TV line.

But what about Frank?

I decided to wait to send Eloise a text until I was sure she was through airport security and safely away from Frank peering at her text messages. Instead, I closed myself back in my office and opened my
Guilty As Charged
spreadsheet.

Everyone had an alibi of some sort at the time the pallets were pushed off the shelf. Everyone but Frank.

A band of sweat dampened the nape of my neck.

Frank, who was so supportive of my TV appearance, he actually did my on-camera makeup. Frank, who helped shift the direction of the line so it snaked through the toaster aisle. Frank, who reappeared after the pallet fell to help with the rescue effort of both Cathy Carter and Bargain Barn itself. Frank, who'd known CC—AKA Contrary Claire, AKA Cathy Carter—had been heckling Mrs. Frugalicious …

Was he, not Alan Bader, CC all along?

Worse, was CC also a combination of people like Alan suggested?

Frank was on the air doing his weekend financial report when CC—someone other than Cathy Carter—left that note on my car during the Piggledy commitment ceremony.

Meaning someone else had to be involved.

Someone with a penchant for cliché.

Gerald?

My heart began to pound.

No. Frank's dad moved far too slowly to have shuffled across the mall and back unnoticed. And Joyce, even in sensible heels, wasn't much faster.

Barb, on the other hand, was nothing if not a middle-aged hard body …

Running down the spreadsheet, I began to add to the information I'd already listed beside each member of the Michaels family.

Craig Michaels

Casually flirting with Griff's girlfriend after the incident he'd somehow been involved in implementing?

Frank Michaels

Unaccounted for at the time the pallet fell?

Coincidentally there to save the day in the aftermath of the accident, the note on my car, and the arrest of Alan Bader?

Joyce Michaels

Had a cooler of leftovers on hand after the fact, as if she knew it would be a long night at Bargain Barn?

Was at the base of the stairs listening when I told the boys about my initial visit to the police station and could have known I was suspicious about the accident.

Gerald Michaels:

Author and cliché provider of the messages and notes (masterminded by Frank or even Joyce) to keep me from investigating?

Barb Michaels:

Note courier? All around-enabler?

Thankfully, when I got to Eloise, the only thing I had to add beside her name was a question mark.

Eloise was pampered, emotional, and opinionated, but she'd always seemed to know right from wrong. My gut told me there was no way she'd have agreed to plant a threatening, anonymous note supposedly from CC any more than she'd have agreed to sit back quietly and allow Alan Bader to rot in jail if she knew he was innocent.

But she definitely knew something.

About her father?

About her grandparents and aunt and uncle aiding and abetting?

I texted Frank:
Did Eloise get off okay?

With his return confirmation that her flight was on time and he'd left her at curbside check-in, I fired off another quick text to my loving stepdaughter.

You'd tell me if there was something I needed to know, right?

My head began to pound along with my heart as I awaited a response.

In the meantime, I tried to digest the hard-to-swallow possibility that my soon-to-be-ex, his family, and even his business associate Anastasia Chastain may have conspired to kill Cathy Carter.

The big question was why.

I thought of Alan and his certainty that a big corporation was out to destroy Bargain Barn. Was it possible Frank had been pretending to be supportive since he'd found out I was Mrs. Frugalicious but was secretly consumed with jealousy and out to ruin
my
business instead?

Could he have killed my online heckler to frame me, Mrs. Frugalicious?

Or, maybe he'd planned the whole thing to look like an accident to scare advertisers and the Frugarmy away.

Was it my investigating that prompted the post-mortem messages from CC to get me to stop?

I powered down my computer, rushed upstairs, and locked the door to my bedroom.

I drew a hot bath, added a mixture of aromatherapy oils all bearing the word
calming,
and soaked until my skin was wrinkled to the point of calm and the wrinkles in my brain smoothed enough for rational thought.

As the water cooled down, so did some of my panic about the supposed guilt of the Michaels family. Things looked dicey, but there were definite holes in the scenario. Namely, even though Frank was missing at the time the pallet fell, he was back and helping the emergency personnel almost as quickly as I was. Even though Frank and the others knew about the existence of CC, how would he or anyone else have known who Cathy Carter was among the throng of Frugarmy members? For that matter, how could any of them have known she was planning to show up at Bargain Barn that night at all?

And then my text alert pinged.

Expecting a response from Eloise, I quickly got out of the tub, dried off, and grabbed the phone.

The message was from Wendy Killian:
I think I know what your question is about.

She did?

You do?

Not wanting to outright ask her whether Craig was in the line with her via text, I wrote back,
How about I call you now so we can discuss it?

Now's not a good time.

When's good?

I'd prefer to talk in person.

Okay
…

How about tomorrow a.m.?

I have a TV segment to tape in the morning.

What time?

Ten.

I'll be at Starbucks by the mall at eight …?

Before I could type back with a
Yes, No,
or
It's really just a simple question,
there was a knock on my bedroom door.

A knock I had no intention of answering.

For one thing, I was only wearing a towel. For another, it just didn't seem judicious to let in a potential murderer and/or accomplice, at least until Wendy filled me in on what she knew I wanted to know.

How could she have known what I wanted to talk to her about?

“Mom?” Trent, judging by the slightly deeper timbre of his voice, jiggled the knob.

“I'm just getting out of the bath,” I said, thankful it was him, and more thankful that neither of my boys had gone to Bargain Barn on Thursday night and were thus free of the cloud of suspicion hovering over everyone else.

“Okay,” he said, but he didn't say he was leaving or would come back later.

“Be there in a second,” I finally said, setting the phone on the vanity and grabbing my robe from the hook.

I opened the door, reminding myself that whatever it was Wendy wanted to talk to me about, the most likely suspect (despite his protestations of innocence) was already in custody.

“Do you think Alan Bader really did it?” Trent asked, stepping into my room.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“I mean, you locked your door.”

“Because I was taking a bath,” I mumbled unconvincingly.

“You could have just locked the bathroom door.”

“True,” I said, not elaborating any further. “Is that why you came in here—to talk about Alan Bader?”

“Well, the whole thing is kind of freaky.”

“That it is,” I said. So was Trent and FJ's seeming ability to key into whatever was weighing most heavily on my mind at any given moment. “But there wouldn't have been an arrest unless the police had good reason to believe he's behind Cathy's death.”

“True that,” Trent said.

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

“So FJ and I were online, and we discovered that people under twenty-five make up a huge percentage of online shoppers.”

“You guys really have been doing research,” I said, relieved he hadn't actually come into my room to talk about Alan Bader but just thought about it when he discovered the door was locked.

“So maybe we can be in the background shopping while you talk about the best deals on the top online purchases for people around our age.”

“Interesting.”

He brushed a light brown curl out of his eyes. “I mean, we thought it was a good idea.”

“It's definitely a good idea.”

“So, yes?”

“I don't see why not,” I said. “Unless Anastasia has some kind of a problem with it.”

“Cool,” Trent said, but he didn't make a move to leave—I presumed because he was waiting for me to offer to email or call her, which I wasn't about to do until I had the clarity I needed.

“I'll mention it to her in the morning,” I said.

“Great,” he said.

“Everything okay?” I asked, when he continued to stick around.

“Fine,” he said, glancing through the blinds and out the window that faced the street, as though checking to make sure no one lurked outside. “So do the police think Alan killed Cathy because she was CC, or do they think he was CC all along and had some crazy scheme planned?”

“I'm not sure they've figured that out yet,” I said, trying not to look as uptight as I suddenly felt. “Why?”

“Well, FJ and I figured Cathy Carter was CC and Alan killed her because she was threatening his business by bothering yours.”

“It makes a certain amount of sense,” I said, noncommittally.

“But then FJ figured out CC wasn't just heckling Mrs. Frugalicious.”

A jolt of ice cold ran up my spine. “What?”

“While we were researching deals, he found some interesting comments on some other bargain hunting sites.”

“From CC?”

He nodded.

“For sure?”

“They were critical, cranky, and signed CC,” he said. “All from different web addresses too.”

“So CC wasn't just heckling me?”

“Nope.”

“And the comments stopped as soon as Alan was arrested?” I managed.

“Yep,” he said. “But there were definitely some from after Cathy Carter died.”

My breath came in short bursts. “On what websites?”

“There were a bunch—Deals Galore, Saver's Station, I Love a Bargain …”

“Any others? I asked, rushing into the bathroom, where I retrieved my phone and reread my recent interchange with Wendy Killian.

I think I know what your question is about.

“FJ would know if there are more,” he said.

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs figuring out a movie to watch with Joyce, Grandpa, and Dad.”

“Dad's home?”

“He just rolled in a couple of minutes ago,” Trent said. “Want me to yell down to FJ that you need to talk before they start?”

“That's alright!” I said, a bit too emphatically.

Trent shrugged. “Whatevs.”

I looked down at my phone again.
I'd prefer to talk in person.

“Does
Here's the Deal
magazine happen to ring a bell?”

“Didn't I say that one?” he asked. “CC was heckling on that site as much or more as he or she was on yours.”

twenty-six

I walked down a
long hallway and peered into a slightly open door. The room, dimly lit and filled with filmy cigar smoke, contained a round table, chairs, and a dilapidated couch.

“Dealer's choice,” Joyce said, handing out playing cards.

FJ and Trent had their backs to me, but I could see their oversized cards as they picked them up off the table.

Cathy Carter was the Queen.

Frank, the King.

I was the Joker.

Anastasia, seated to FJ's left, looked at her hand. “A deal's a deal.”

“She's the real deal,” Craig said from the couch, where he was too busy groping Griff's busty girlfriend L'Raine to join the game.

“You're all double-dealing,” Alan shouted from a cage in the corner with a padlock affixed to the front. “All of you!”

“Don't make such a big deal out of it,” Barb said.

“Exactly,” Frank said, a cigar hanging from his mouth. “No big deal.”

“It's a good deal,” Eloise said, playing her hand. “Right?”

“More like a done deal,” Gerald said, folding.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” A voice, Wendy Killian's, filtered through the hallway from a loudspeaker system. “Here's the deal …”

_____

Despite waking up surprised I'd actually dozed off for long enough to have a nightmare, I found myself pulling into the parking lot of my local Starbucks wondering what I was doing stepping willingly into a new one.

I'd promised Detective McClarkey I'd lay low, but even though last night's revelations pointed away from Frank and the family and directly at Wendy Killian, I still wasn't entirely sure I was any safer in my house than a Starbucks filled with people nursing their turkey and family hangovers with Monday morning venti espressos.

Never mind I was there to meet the one person who not only had the method and the opportunity, but possibly the most solid motive for murder.

Was Wendy Killian, publisher of
Here's the Deal
, so angry about the threat CC posed to her business that she decided to get rid of her? Given CC was heckling
Here's the Deal
and Mrs. Frugalicious—admittedly her biggest competitor—had she decided to kill two birds with one stone, as it were, and destroy both of us with a staged “accident” during my live Black Friday broadcast?

I had to admit, it would be something of a brilliant plan.

A plan that could easily evolve into a Plan B to frame me for wanting
our
heckler out of
my
business, if necessary.

Had Wendy then quickly resorted to a Plan C after I told her Alan was suspicious about the accident and pretended Cathy Carter was an innocent victim and CC was still alive, well, and penning nasty comments and notes?

The scenario brought me both relief and a newfound sense of horror.

Not to mention fear.

Did she want to meet to admit what she'd done, or was I about to be subjected to some sort of Plan D?

I scanned the people in line and the tables around the store for a slim, murderous, dishwater blonde with her hair pulled back in a tight, no-nonsense ponytail.

Ordering a skim latte, I located a table in full view of the front counter—a spot close enough so no one could miss my shouts for help, but far enough away from the next table that extraneous chatter wouldn't drown out my conversation with Wendy.

A conversation I planned to record.

I no longer had my Eavesdropper, since the handy listening device became police evidence after my last run-in with a murderer. Thankfully, my trusty smartphone, which I had at the ready to dial 911, also had the ability to record.

I picked up my drink, took my place at the table, and sat down to wait. Despite what was turning into chronic sleep deprivation, I was so keyed up, I was afraid to do much more than lick the foam and cinnamon from the top of my pumpkin spice latte.

A few more minutes passed.

At 8:11, I decided I'd give her four more minutes.

At 8:14, just as I was deciding whether I should give Wendy another five minutes to square her shoulders and unburden her heavy soul, she sauntered in.

Smiling.

Maniacally?

Her hair, always pulled back, hung loose around her shoulders. While I'd never thought of her as beautiful exactly, she walked in with a glow I'd never seen before.

The crazy-eyed glow of a murderess?

As she waved and signaled she was going up to the counter to get a beverage, I checked the phone in my jacket pocket on the bench beside me to make sure the mic was pointing at what would soon be her seat.

“Wow, Maddie, you look fantastic,” she said, arriving at the table, coffee in hand.

“I'm dressed for TV,” I said, not able to say she looked great too. Wendy, who was usually casual but always put together, was wearing a short, rumpled skirt and a slouchy, metallic, off-the-shoulder top. In fact, she looked a lot more up-since-last-night than Monday-morning confession.

Then again, what
did
one wear to admit to killing someone?

“Thank you so much for fitting me into your busy morning schedule.”

“No problem,” I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.

If she did confess she'd been up all night consumed with guilt over whatever she'd done, and I got it on tape, then managed to call 911, what was I going to do about it while I waited for the authorities? Grab her by the wrist and hold on tight? Announce to the store there was a killer in our midst and to bolt the doors?

What if she had a weapon, for God's sake?

“Sorry I'm a little late,” she said, definitely emitting the stale base notes of last night's perfume as she sat down across from me. “My night kind of blended into morning, if you know what I mean …”

Sweat broke out at my temples. “My whole weekend's kind of been that way.”

“I can't imagine what a terrible shock it was to see Alan Bader led away in handcuffs yesterday.”

“It definitely was,” I said, waiting for her to blurt something along the lines of,
I spent the whole day battling between right and wrong but ultimately couldn't live with myself so I called you, hoping it would make my difficult confession that much easier
…

She sighed. “I feel like such an awful person …”

As I forced myself not to check and see if my phone was recording, she spotted something across the room.

Suddenly, she was standing.

“Sorry, but I've been waiting for the little girls' room to open up since I walked in! Can you excuse me for a moment?”

Before I could answer, she was scampering over to beat out anyone else who might have had the same idea.

Or at least I hoped that was what she was doing.

With the click of the bathroom door, I was on the phone with Griff just in case.

“Where are you?” he asked, after my breathless hello.

“At Starbucks—having coffee with the person I think might actually be Cathy Carter's killer.”

“Aren't you supposed to be laying low?”

“I thought I was, but—”

“But you decided to have coffee with … ?”

“Wendy Killian,” I whispered even though she was well out of hearing range. “She's the publisher of
Here's the Deal
magazine. She has the perfect motive because the boys discovered that CC was heckling her online even more than she was Mrs. Frugalicious. She was at Bargain Barn on Thursday night, supposedly in the back of the store right before the pallet was pushed. I'm here with her because she asked to meet with me and I'd agreed before I found out CC was pestering her too. You may want to send someone down here. I think she's going to—”

“Enjoy your coffee, Miss Marple. Cathy's killer is already in custody where he—”

“Confess!” I interrupted. “I was about to say I really think she's about to confess!”

“Not to murder,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“They were able to clean up the tape enough to determine a few things.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we know the perp was dark-haired, of medium height and build, and wearing what looked to be a black polo.”

Wendy was about five-seven, but neither dark-haired nor of medium build. She'd also been wearing a floral blouse at Bargain Barn. “So, not Wendy?”

“Not unless she had an accomplice that was both male and Alan Bader.”

I took a breath akin to, but not exactly of, relief. “So it
was
Alan?”

“That's the general consensus.”

“Does Alan know you've enhanced the tape?”

“Yup,” he said.

“What's he saying?”

“Apparently his lawyer's doing most of the talking now.”

“I can't believe this,” I said, feeling more than a little foolish. “Not only was I taken in by him, he actually had me believing I needed to be looking everywhere
but
at him.”

“The smarter they are, the more convincing they can be, I'm afraid.”

“I still feel like such a dummy.”

“Don't beat yourself up. This Wendy Killian sounds like she might have made an otherwise logical suspect.”

Little did he know how illogical my suspicions had really been. “I suppose.”

There was rustling noise on his end of the line.

“Can you hang on for a second,” he said then seemed to move the phone away from his mouth. “Be there in a second, Lare,” he said in a muffled whisper. “I promise.”

Lare, as in L'Raine?

“Sorry about that,” he said, returning to our call.

As I took a breath to steel myself against how sorry he was going to be once I forced myself to fill him on my concerns about his
Lare,
the bathroom door swung open.

“Griff, can I call you back a little later?”

“Sure,” he said.

I tossed the phone back into my jacket just as Wendy, giddy and smiling, made her way back to the table.

“Phew! I didn't mean to jump up mid-sentence, but it was kind of an emergency.”

“I understand,” I said, infinitely relieved that I wasn't sitting across the table from a murderer.

She slid back down into her chair. “Where were we?”

“I think you were saying something about feeling badly,” I said, a lot less worried but somehow all the more curious as to why we were meeting.

“Awful. As in I'm an awful person.” She shook her head. “All I could think about after I heard Alan was arrested was what was going to happen to the six-month advertising campaign we'd almost finalized in
Here's the Deal
.”

“Advertising campaign …” I repeated.

She took a long, slow sip of coffee. “I wish I were a bigger person, but I feel badly that it might not happen now.”

“That doesn't make you a bad person,” I said. “I'm in the same boat, actually.”

“I figured you might be,” she said.

Was that what she'd assumed my
quick question
was about?

“Bargain Barn is my biggest advertiser and our contract expires next month. With Alan in jail, there's no knowing what's going to happen to either of our accounts.”

“Isn't this just crazy?” she asked.

“Completely.”

“I guess we should just be relieved he's off the streets,” she said.

“Definitely,” I said.

As we both took long, slow sips of coffee, I had to wonder why she felt we needed to meet in person to talk about our up-in-the-air advertising with Bargain Barn.

“I can't honestly say I'm surprised he killed her, though,” she finally said.

“What?” I sat up straighter in my chair.

“I mean, I know it's wrong to speak ill of the dead and everything, but she was heckling you and she was certainly heckling me enough to think about wanting her to go away.” Wendy shook her head. “She must have been heckling Alan, too.”

“How did you know she was heckling me?” I asked. “Or that Cathy Carter was CC?”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said.

My cell began to ring in my jacket pocket.

“Do you need to get that?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Not important.”

“Here's what is …” She smiled that crazy-eyed smile that had me sure she was guilty of something. “Craig.”

“Craig?”

She nodded.

“As in, Frank's brother Craig?”

Her smile grew bigger.

“He told you CC was heckling me?”

“No, I knew that from your website,” she said. “But he told me Cathy Carter was CC.”

“How did he know?” I asked.

“Frank told him,” she said.

Besides me, the boys were the only ones who should have had an idea that Cathy and CC could be one in the same, and I'd sworn them to both to secrecy, claiming it could hinder the full police investigation.

“And I think Anastasia Chastain had told him,” she said.

“Anastasia?” Anastasia had told Frank, who told Craig, who told Wendy? “But—”

“Craig and I are seeing each other.”

My brother-in-law—an enthusiastic chubby chaser, whom I was certain had been wining, dining, and generally trying to lure curvy L'Raine away from Griff Watson—was really seeing sinewy, formerly severe Wendy Killian?

“Craig?” I asked again, this time more incredulously.

Her cheeks blushed crimson. “We met on Thursday night and have been all but inseparable ever since.”

“So that's what you wanted to tell me?”

“I know we're competitors and everything, but we're also friends.” She patted my hand. “With all the turmoil you've had over the last few months in your relationship, I thought I should get your blessing to pursue mine.”

“My blessing?”

“I haven't felt this way about anyone since I got divorced,” she said. “Maybe even ever.”