Black Thursday (9 page)

eleven

While fleeing the country
for somewhere warm and tropical where no one could possibly find out I'd just made a fool of myself at the police station sounded appealing, I couldn't even figure out how to sneak past the boys on the way to the relative escape of my bedroom.

“What did Detective McClarkey say?” FJ asked, deigning to look up from the Xbox as I walked past.

I stopped and recounted the conversation.

“The primary suspect?” Trent's incredulous voice boomed across the family room. “Again?”

“Shh!” I said, not at all interested in having him broadcasting the details of my near-predicament in the form of a wake-up call to the relatives, all of whom were napping in various locations throughout the house. “Detective McClarkey knows I had nothing to do with what happened.”

“That's a relief,” Trent said.

“What does he think happened, though?” FJ asked, pausing the game.

All I could think about, beyond finishing my conversation with the boys and stumbling upstairs for my overdue nap, was why I hadn't stayed out of this mess by putting myself down when everyone else had gone to catch up on their shut-eye. I'd not only be close to caught up on sleep by now, I'd have avoided making a complete idiot out of myself in front of Detective McClarkey.

I wouldn't have felt the sting of his
don't go fleeing the country
sign-off yet again.

“The detective said the incident's been ruled an accident and there's no reason to look into it any further.” At least he hadn't given me a patronizing pat on the head and called me Nancy Drew.

“And he didn't think it was weird that CC hasn't said a word since Cathy Carter died?” Trent asked in a modulated, but still booming voice.

“He thinks Cathy Carter was crushed by accident and that Awesome Alan's just having a hard time accepting it because Bargain Barn will be facing a mountain of negligence lawsuits.”

“Seriously?” Trent asked.

“Even if CC and Cathy Carter turn out to be the same person?” FJ asked.

“If CC and Cathy are the same person, she was directing so much of her criticism at me that if someone did kill her, I look like a prime suspect.”

“Like you were so mad because of her complaining that you tried to off her?” FJ asked.

“Something like that,” I said, my head spinning with the mere thought of it.

“It sort of makes sense when you think about it,” Trent said.

“Trent!” FJ and I said in unison.

“Well, you did block her emails,” Trent said. “Which, technically, makes you look even guiltier.”

“Never mind we did the blocking for her,” FJ said.

“Wouldn't that kind of make us accessories?” Trent asked.

“Oh lord!” How unbelievably stupid had I been to march down to the police station with my flimsy, self-incriminating, novice suspicions?

“How could Mom even know CC would change her mind and come to Bargain Barn, much less plan out how to off her if she did?” FJ asked.

“Good point,” Trent said.

“I have no idea what Contrary Claire even looks like or who she is in real life,” I added.

“So no worries.” FJ smiled.

Trent nodded in agreement.

Thank goodness Detective McClarkey agreed with them or I'd have been right back at the top of South Metro's suspect list like I'd been when the police thought I was responsible for the death of Eternally 21 manager Laila DeSimone, the other person who'd managed to unceremoniously drop dead right in front of me.

I sighed.

“So what now?” Trent asked.

“I take my nap, we forget about all this, and the authorities remain unconcerned about who Cathy Carter was or wasn't.”

“That's cool, I guess,” Trent said.

FJ shrugged. “Whatever.”

Before they could un-pause the Xbox, I heard a rustle and footsteps from the basement, where most of Frank's family were bunking for the weekend.

“Boys,” Joyce called, making her way up the stairs. “Do you need a sandwich or some cookies or something to tide you over until dinner?”

“FYI,” I whispered, before scampering off to the safety and quiet of my upstairs part of the house. “Unless there's a fire, consider my door to have a DO NOT DISTURB hanging from it until I wake up.”

I made it to my bedroom, locked myself in, detoured for a quick stop to the bathroom, and was milliseconds into enjoying that divine moment of pillow-meets-head when I heard the faintest of pings coming from inside my zipped purse.

I sighed, sat up, and forced myself out of bed and across the room to silence my smartphone for a few hours.

I was definitely disturbed when I spotted the email that had popped up in my Mrs. Frugalicious inbox.

All's well that ends well.

Regards,

CC

twelve

Seeing as a call
to Detective McClarkey or even Griff was tantamount to writing my name at the top of the police department World's Stupidest Suspect list, I spent the evening hiding out in my bedroom, where no one would question me about the lines of concern etching my face. I pretended to be down for the count when Frank knocked lightly to check in, and again an hour later when Joyce left what appeared to be a turkey casserole outside my door.

I could no more force down her grayish, gooey concoction than sleep with
all's well that ends well
running on an endless loop through my head. Especially given that the message, which contained nothing more in the way of elaboration or explanation, was signed
CC.

Meaning the accident was truly just that and Contrary Claire was alive, well, and definitely someone other than Catherine Carter—albeit someone who had risen beyond penning dismissive comments about my blog topics and on to dismissing the life of another human being?

The sheer callousness of it all struck me as shocking.

Even for her.

But now I had an email address—[email protected]—which I Googled.

Nothing in particular came up.

I put the URL into my browser.

When the only thing that came up was one of those vague guides to similar website addresses, I thought about replying to CC's comment with a one-liner:
Who are you?

Instead, and having thought better of it, I found myself doing the only other thing I could think of to herd the thoughts milling around my brain like a bunch of wayward alley cats.

I started a spreadsheet,
26
titled a tab
Questions & Answers
, and typed:
Was the accident really an accident?

Hypotheses and corollaries began to sprout from there.

1. Yes. If the accident really was an accident, as the police concluded, and the pallet of toasters had been placed improperly on the upper shelf at Bargain Barn, then there is no more to the story.

Except for the eerie message in my inbox. And the question of who had left it. An exceptionally cold Contrary Claire who was gloating over having stayed home?

Why would anyone send such a comment in the first place unless they hated sweet-faced, friendly Cathy Carter and wanted her gone?

Which led to the more likely answer to my question.

2. No.

Maybe I couldn't call Detective McClarkey, but there was one person I could contact—someone who needed to know about the existence of the email and its seemingly malevolent message. Someone who wouldn't arouse suspicion by reporting my findings to the police.

Since it was the middle of the night and phoning was only for true emergencies, I fired off a text to Alan Bader. I hoped the message was insistent but not alarming enough that he'd feel he needed to contact me before morning:

Can you please get back when you have a second? There's something I'd really like to run by you
.

As soon as I pressed send, I immediately felt less alone with my suspicions and began adding questions to my spreadsheet, ones Alan would surely ask when we did talk.

Questions I wanted answered ASAP.

Were Catherine Carter and CC (Contrary Claire) the same person?

1. Yes. If so, then she couldn't possibly have sent an odd message after her demise. Right?

2. No. If not, then who was CC and why was she happy Cathy Carter was dead?

3. Maybe?

I exhaled deeply.

Either Cathy and CC were the same person and both had been murdered and someone pretending to be CC sent me the message for reasons I couldn't yet begin to grasp, or Cathy was dead and CC was alive but hated Cathy enough to kill her and gloat over it.

Or … ?

As my head swam with convoluted possibilities, the Frugarmy continued to write in with tips about local businesses offering Small Business Saturday specials. Despite a few good ones, I was growing that much more uncomfortable about doling out bargain
shopping advice on camera as if nothing had happened at all. I minimized the window on what I'd intended to be a spreadsheet (but was really evolving into a loose flow chart of possibilities) and tried to zero in on a few of the better suggestions.

And then a certain Barbara M. wrote in with a perfect idea:

We all know Black Friday weekend is about scoring great deals and bargains, but what about the rest of the year, when we depend on small stores and establishments to add flavor to our community in ways that mass-market retailers simply can't? Instead of trying to save pennies on Small Business Saturday, I vote for forming a cash mob
27
where we band together and spend an extra dollar or two at one of our local shopping districts.

I immediately forwarded the contents of the message to Anastasia, who was sure to appreciate the community spirit of it all as much as I did. Stopping short of coaxing the Frugarmy to form an actual cash mob after the events of the previous evening, I posted:

Thanks to Frugarmy member Barbara M.'s terrific suggestion, I've decided to spend Small Business Saturday shopping on Main Street in downtown Littleton. I'd love it if she and any other interested shoppers would care to join me tomorrow morning to show our appreciation for our local retailers.

With a workable plan suddenly in place for my Saturday segment with Anastasia, I turned back to the far more murky business of adding more questions and answers to the spreadsheet:

Was Cathy Carter, whoever she was, murdered?

1. No.

2. Yes.

I went ahead, put a presumptive red line through NO. Which led to the most important questions of all:

Who killed Catherine Carter?

Why?

My text message alert pinged.

Reaching for the phone to look at the text, presumably from Alan, I wondered how I'd thought he could possibly be sleeping either. Instead, I found myself faced with a different question from a completely different insomniac.

Can't sleep. Been watching a late-night rebroadcast of you on TV and thinking about our conversation last night. Any chance we could continue it?

The text, from Frank, sent the divorce butterflies fluttering toward my throat. There was another ping.

It meaning the conversation …

And then another.

It also meaning us … ?

After a few minutes of hyperventilating, which did little to calm me or the butterflies that had migrated and settled into my brain, I found myself staring at a new spreadsheet.

Actually, more of a Benjamin Franklin Decision T.

On one side of the document I listed reasons why I didn't want to get divorced in the first place:

Negative effect on the kids.

Splitting up a household and family that was supposed to be forever.

Emotional turmoil.

Increased financial difficulties.

Legal bills.

Lonely, difficult holiday seasons for years to come.

Lonely, difficult non-holiday seasons for years to come.

Mrs. Frugalicious becomes Ms.

Online dating.

Divorce sucks.

On the other side of the page I listed the single reason I felt I had to go through with it:

Frank's affair.

My text alert pinged again:

You awake up there?

Instead of answering, I closed my laptop and put my head down on the pillow.

thirteen

“No Frank or Michaels-
family
entourage this morning?” Anastasia asked as we met up on Main Street in Historic Downtown Littleton—once a pioneer town south of Denver proper, now a charming suburban shopping area filled with locally owned shops, galleries, and cafés.

“They all slept in,” I said, marveling at how I'd somehow managed to sneak out of the house unnoticed for my morning on-air duties.

I was also wondering how long Frank stayed awake waiting for a response I wasn't ready to give.

And I was assuming Awesome Alan, who hadn't gotten back yet, was still asleep too.

Along with CC …

“They may have slept in,” Anastasia said, noting the growing group of shoppers amassing around us, “but your Frugarmy certainly seems to have mobilized.”

Which was a whole other problem.

Considering true bargain shopping wasn't on the agenda and given the peril they'd faced the last time I'd summoned the troops, I was more than a little taken aback by the four or five dozen people drinking coffee from the local café while they waited for the stores to open.

A few of whom were already in front of the camera being interviewed for pre-shopping color commentary:

Mrs. Frugalicious handled things so well after that awful accident the other night, I became an instant fan. —Jennifer G.

I'm not much for big-box stores or Black Friday mayhem, but when I heard about Small Business Saturday, I came right over. —Kara K.

As Anastasia smiled and gave me an
isn't this great?
wink, I scrutinized Kara K. and the others to see if they looked in any way familiar.

As the owner of Laura's Organic Pet Care, I understand the challenges facing small businesses, so I came out to support my fellow independent business owners. —Laura F.

Historic Downtown Littleton is the best! I come here whenever I get the chance. —Candy P.

I couldn't help but feel a little suspicious, and not just by the somewhat obvious plants from the Chamber of Commerce disguised as Frugarmy members that were (understandably) promoting their own interests. I'd watched enough crime dramas over the years to know that any of the people being interviewed or standing in the crowd might well be Contrary Claire herself. Killers often returned to crime scenes or events associated with their crime to gloat and gauge reaction in the aftermath of what they'd done …

I glanced into my purse for what had to be the hundredth time that morning and checked my cell phone.

There was still no further word from her or Alan.

Anastasia, on the other hand, always had the latest word. If only her fiancé weren't the acting chief of the South Metro Police and she herself wasn't a bloodhound for any and all things newsworthy, I'd have grilled her about potential new developments the moment she stepped out of the news van.

“Anastasia?” I asked, settling for what I hoped would be some nonchalant but useful brain-picking.

“Stasia,” an assistant producer called before I could. “We're ready for you now.”

And the next thing I knew, I was once again trying not to blink before the unblinking eye of the TV news camera.

“Good morning from Historic Downtown Littleton. I'm here with my special correspondent Maddie Michaels, AKA Mrs. Frugalicious,” Anastasia
started, her expression morphing from animated to serious. “As all of you who've been following our reports know, this Black Friday weekend was darkened by the terrible accident both Maddie and I had the misfortune of witnessing late Thursday evening.”

The camera light clicked off while they ran a taped montage of Bargain Barn, the overturned pallet, and the mayhem that followed, as well as a dated glamour shot they'd been running for the past day and half of Catherine Carter.

Anastasia let out a huge yawn. “Two days without sleep is starting to hit me.”

“I hear you,” I said.

“I guess we'll rest when we're dead,” she said checking her teeth for lipstick and tucking a stray strand of otherwise perfectly coiffed hair behind her ear. “Were you going to ask me something?”

“I was just wondering if there'd been any new information about Cathy?”

“Not really,” she said “Other than—”

“Live in three, two, one …” the assistant producer said.

“We extend our deepest sympathies to her family and loved ones,” Anastasia said somberly, while I merely nodded along in agreement and wondered what it was she didn't have the chance to tell me. “Fortunately, hope springs eternal, particularly on this bright, clear morning thanks to Mrs. Frugalicious and the group of her followers, better known as the Frugarmy, who've joined us today for Small Business Saturday.”

Cheers rose from the group behind us.

“As you can tell, these shoppers are not only devoted, but undaunted by crowds, lines, or the unexpected. In fact, they've come out en masse, cash in hand, to support our local businesses.”

“Woo-hoo!” someone shouted.

“I have to admit,” Anastasia grinned and turned to me. “I don't think I'd ever heard of Small Business Saturday before this weekend.”

“That's not surprising” I said, surprised I'd already become so accustomed to being on camera that, despite wearing a coat, scarf, and gloves for the clear, cool, but not frigid morning, I wasn't perspiring in the least. “Small Business Saturday was actually started as a business promotion by American Express in 2010 to boost spending at locally owned retailers, many of whom dreaded the Black Friday shopping weekend, knowing they'd likely be overlooked in favor of big chain stores with larger marketing budgets and huge doorbuster specials.”

“Sounds like an all-around win-win,” Anastasia said.

“Especially since Small Business Saturday has become something of a national movement boosted by consumer interest in buying local and supporting small businesses,” I said. “With local establishments comprising nearly eighty percent of the total businesses here in Denver, the money we spend locally has an immediate impact on our community.”

“With so many wonderful restaurants, bakeries, boutiques, and craft galleries, I can't think of a more perfect location to boost our economy,” Anastasia said.

“There are many terrific stores to support all over the city,” I said. “When I found out we were going to be taping today, I deferred to the Frugarmy and received a number of great ideas, which I've listed on my website.”

“That's MrsFrugalicious-dot-com, right?”

“Yes. Thank you, Anastasia,” I said. “And I have to give credit for the idea of shopping on Main Street to Barbara M., who suggested we all band together and patronize the various businesses together in what's become known as a cash mob. I'm hoping she's here today so I can thank her personally.”

The camera panned the crowd.

No one stepped forward.

“Barbara?” Anastasia asked again. “Are you here?”

An awkward silence followed. It was only broken when my cell phone, ringer on and just in range of the mic attached to my collar, pinged.

And pinged again.

Luckily the clock almost simultaneously struck nine, the doors to storefronts began to open, and the Frugarmy dissolved as shoppers rushed into the various stores. Anastasia quickly signed off.

“Gotta be sure and turn your phone every time from now on,” she said as soon as the camera light went off and the cameraman took off to tape the shoppers mob a nearby clothing store. “I mean, tomorrow.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said, not wanting to add insult to injury by pulling my cell from my pocket but too itchy not to glance at the message, which just had to be from Alan.

And it was.

Can you come over to the store ASAP?

“Do we have a plan for tomorrow?” I asked.

“Just waiting for time confirmation on Cathy Carter's memorial service at the North Suburban Community Church tomorrow morning,” she said, finally divulging what had to be that mysterious
bit of
information she didn't get to share before the camera turned on. “We're all going.”

“All?”

“You, me”—she paused to yawn again—“and the cameraman.”