10. If you shop with a posse of friends or like-minded shoppers, you can split up the store, guard carts, save places in line, etc. And then enjoy a post-shop powwow or brunch to show off your finds and compare your deals.
11. Many retailers have turned Black Friday bargains into a scavenger hunt of sorts, situating their best deals in seemingly random spots around the store. Video games may be hiding near car seats. A bin of $2 shirts could be over by hair care. If you can, check out stores ahead of time so you know where everything is.
12. Check to see if there is a Quick Response (QR) code to scan with your smartphone when you get to wherever you are shopping. Some stores offer extra discounts just for mobile shoppers.
three
“Couldn’t be an earthquake,” the woman behind me said. “Could it?”
“This isn’t California,” her husband said. “Something fell.”
“Something really heavy,” the guy behind him added.
The merchandise fulfillment clerk picked up his phone. “What’s going on out there? My counter just shook like there was an explosion or something.”
Anastasia appeared in the open doorway and beckoned the cameraman and me. “Follow me and keep the camera rolling!”
“What happened?” I asked, maneuvering around the people in line and trailing her through the open double doors and back into the store proper.
“They’re saying a pallet slipped,” she said, circumnavigating the horde of shoppers blocking the middle thoroughfare of the store by taking a sharp right into an aisle of strollers. “Off one of the upper shelves.”
“Where?” I asked, as we made a left and started down the picture frame aisle.
“Everywhere,” Anastasia said.
I figured she had to be referring to the onlookers blocking the ends of every aisle we’d entered, until I veered around a cracked, upended Hamilton Beach toaster.
And a Black & Decker.
“A pallet of toasters?”
My breath hitched with Anastasia’s nod.
“Tell me they didn’t fall anywhere near where the Frug—”
“A bunch of people are already helping the injured over there.”
I’d already turned and was racing toward Layaway where Frank had gone to find his parents. Where I’d last seen …
“Eloise?” I shouted as though my voice could be heard from Electronics and over the ominous din of people surrounding the scene. “Frank?”
I reached the counter and the Frugarmy line, which was no longer a line but a bottleneck of stunned onlookers clustered at the end of a kitchen appliances aisle. There was no sign of anyone from the Michaels family, all of whom but Craig should have been somewhere near the back of the crowd given their spots at the front of the line when I left them.
“Eloise?” My throat constricted with panic as I fumbled for my phone, shot off a Where are you?? text to Frank, and worked my way around a dented Cuisinart box and an Oster four-slice model and into the cluster of people. “Joyce? Gerald?”
I was two people deep in the crowd when I got a return text: OMG! Where are you?
From Eloise.
I allowed myself a momentary breath of relief knowing it was her and not someone trying to locate next of kin using her phone. I texted back: At layaway. Looking for you.
We were coming to find you when it happened.
Who is we?
Everyone but Daddy and Uncle Craig.
Before I could type the where in Where are they? the man directly in front of me shifted to the left. On my tiptoes and looking around the frizzy auburn hair of the woman in front of him, I spotted assorted appliances, a slice of floor, and people tending to what appeared to be injured shoppers.
“Coming through!” I shouted, putting my hands together and using them as a wedge to push my way forward. “Mrs. Frugalicious coming through!”
The cluster of people parted long enough for me to step into what looked like the aftermath of an F5 tornado. I found myself staring in disbelief at a swath of damaged assorted collateral merchandise and shell-shocked shoppers, some with cuts and bruises. The injuries seemed minor in general, until I saw the distinctive tomato red of Mr. Piggledy’s XXL holiday sweater through the legs of a group clustered together to the right of me.
He knelt down beside a silver-haired woman lying on the ground, her full denim skirt splaying around her like a flower.
“Oh, no!” I kicked aside a blender from a display that had toppled as well and rushed over in what felt like slow motion. “Mrs. Piggledy!”
“I’m okay,” Mrs. Piggledy said. “I just twisted my ankle.”
“I’m afraid it’s broken,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“It can’t be,” she said. “Not with Higgledy’s commitment ceremony on Saturday.”
“He and Birdie are supposed to tie the knot,” Mr. Piggledy said by way of explanation about their pet monkey Higgledy and Birdie, the parrot from the mall pet store he’d fallen hard for. “Which is the last thing to worry about right now.”
“Have to admit,” Mrs. Piggledy said through gritted teeth and looking at the foot, which was already blackish-purple and starting to swell. “It sure hurts.”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Mr. Piggledy said, cradling his wife’s foot. “One moment we were enjoying the spectacle of it all, and the next …”
“Appliances,” Mrs. Piggledy mumbled. “Raining from the sky.”
“It all happened so fast.”
“So sorry, honey.” Mr. Piggledy dried the tear rolling down his cheek with his sleeve. “I just couldn’t get her out of harm’s way fast enough.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “This is awful.”
“Could be worse,” Mrs. Piggledy said with more stoicism than I could possibly have mustered in her condition. “Much worse.”
“I don’t know how it could be much worse than—”
My voice was drowned out by the wail of sirens nearing the store.
Mr. Piggledy pointed around the corner at the cluster of people now tugging at the plastic rope and shrink wrap affixing boxes to what turned out to be a double-decker pallet that had slipped off the shelf.
Specifically, she pointed at the pair of neon-pink tennis shoes jutting out, Wicked Witch of the West–style, from underneath.
four
The next few seconds sped by in a panicked, terrifying blur.
Alan Bader rushed over with a group of emergency personnel in tow. A paramedic beelined over to Mrs. Piggledy’s side. A fireman went into the crowd to tend to those with cuts and scrapes. The rest of the shoppers—including Frank, who’d materialized right after the rest of the family—moved in to lend the tools and brute strength necessary to free the trapped woman.
I tried not to think about what shape she’d be in when they did.
“They’ll have her out in no time,” I said to a weeping Eloise, who was suddenly behind me with the rest of the Michaels clan, minus Craig, who’d texted to say he was being kept back on the other side of the store.
Joyce shook her head. “Is she a member of your Frugarmy?”
I nodded. “Everyone in that line was. I met her,” I said, watching in transfixed horror as the emergency workers cut away rope and shrink wrap, freeing the upper row of boxes from the upper pallet. “I can’t believe I didn’t ask her name.”
“She mentioned it,” Mr. Piggledy said, “but with everything that’s happened, I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Katrina,” Mrs. Piggledy said with a wince as the paramedic began to feel along the length of her shin.
“Katrina?” I repeated, trying to put a name to the woman with whom I’d so recently enjoyed a perfectly pleasant conversation. Was there any possible chance she could still be—
“Such a beautiful ballerina,” Mrs. Piggledy said.
/> “She was a ballerina?” Barb asked.
“My wife’s gone into shock,” Mr. Piggledy said. “She’s remembering the day she broke her foot back when we were with the circus. She was helping Katrina, the Fat Lady, out of the clown car.”
“She was so incredibly lithe for her size,” Mrs. Piggledy said as the EMT began to take her vitals. “And she always wore those beautiful pink toe shoes.”
I couldn’t bring myself to glance down at the neon tennis shoes jutting out from below the double-stacked pallet.
Just as the emergency personnel and helpers kneeled in preparation to lift, my eyes met Frank’s for the first time in months.
“On three,” one of the firemen said.
“Dear Lord,” Joyce said. “Please let her be okay.”
“With all the weight that fell on her?” Barb asked with a hint of her old tone and inflection. “No way she isn’t toast.”
five
The gray-green pallor of Alan’s horror-stricken face said it all.
“Absolutely flattened,” someone said in a whisper, as though there were need for further confirmation.
Some of the stunned, shocked crowd averted their eyes and hugged loved ones. Those who couldn’t look away inched closer to watch the emergency workers attempt to check for a pulse.
“Who is she?” I asked a shaken Frank, who’d returned to comfort his family.
“Don’t know yet.” He shook his head. “Her purse was just as squashed as—”
“It’s my ankle, not my neck,” Mrs. Piggledy said as the EMT proceeded to slide a backboard beneath her shoulders.
“I just can’t believe this is happening,” I said, kneeling to grasp Mrs. Piggledy’s hand.
“Can’t say we weren’t warned,” Mrs. Piggledy mumbled.
“Warned?” Mr. Piggledy asked, kissing his wife gently on the forehead.
“By Zelda, that new fortuneteller.”
“Still thinks she’s at the circus,” Mr. Piggledy whispered from above her, looking that much more concerned. “Honey, are you sure you didn’t hit your head when you fell?”
“I’m sure Katrina shouldn’t have ignored what was in the cards.”
“Which was?” I asked, now adding Mrs. Piggledy’s possible head injury to my growing list of concerns.
“Be wary of too much of a good thing, or—”
“Kathy?” Rang out from behind us and hung heavily in the air.
I swallowed a sick wave of dread.
“Kathy?” The voice, male and plaintive, shouted again.
Again, there was no answer.
I was jostled as the crowd compressed to allow a man to push through and rush past.
He stopped abruptly beside the overturned pallet and glanced at the body, which was already covered except for a hint of sneaker and an inch or two of cuffed blue jean.
He crumpled to his knees. “Kathy … ”
six
Kathy echoed down the aisles and hung in the impossibly heavy air. Her husband, I presumed, given the wedding band on his left hand, covered his horror-stricken face.
Looking anything but awesome, Alan knelt beside him and whispered words I didn’t have to hear to know were heartbreakingly unbearable to receive.
“Back it up, folks,” a police officer said, heading in our direction. “We’re going to need to clear this area.”
“I’m with her,” I said, still holding Mrs. Piggledy’s hand.
“And we’re with her,” Barb said pointing to me.
“You’re all relatives of this victim?”
“I’m Frank Michaels from Channel Three,” Frank said. “This is my mother, father, sister, daughter, and Maddie here happens to be my—”
“Whoever you are, I’ll need you to take a step back so the stretcher can get through,” he said to me before Frank could accurately quantify the current status of our relationship. “You too, sir,” he said, offering a hand so Mr. Piggledy could hoist himself upright beside me. “You are the husband, right?”
“Forty-eight years, come June.”
The officer nodded and directed his attention to me. “And you are?”
“Maddie?” A voice, familiar but definitely not anyone from the Michaels family, answered from behind me.
I turned and found myself looking into the familiar hazel eyes of another police officer.
Not just any officer, but South Metro rookie cop Griff Watson.
Griff Watson, the former mall security guard who had been with me when the manager of Eternally 21 collapsed, setting off a chain of events I still couldn’t quite fathom. Griff Watson, the man responsible for saving me from my near-fatal brush with an unlikely, but decidedly homicidal, maniac. Griff, my friend, whom I hadn’t seen since he was hired on the force.
The current circumstances more than marred what would have been a pleasant reunion, but his stocky, imposing presence—in official uniform no less—was definitely a comfort.
“Griff! I’m so glad they sent you.”
“I told my partner we had to high-tail it over here as soon as the call came in,” he said, with a slight nod in the direction of the other officer.
“Thank you,” I said, in lieu of the hug I wanted give him—I couldn’t exactly embrace an on-duty, on-scene policeman. Not even gruff but sweet Griff Watson.
“Thank L’Raine,” he said. “Good thing she was right nearby when the incident happened.”
“L’Raine?” I repeated, as blond, brash, bosomy massage therapist L’Raine appeared from the crowd and stood next to him. Although she didn’t strike me as Griff’s type per se, she certainly had his number handy, which I could only assume meant their relationship had blossomed since she’d begged me to introduce them a few months back. “Great thinking.”
Griff nodded in agreement, confirming my suspicions with the vaguest hint of his dimpled smile.
At the same moment, Alan helped the shaken husband to his feet and led him over to the body. Neither were particularly tall, but the poor man looked a good six inches shorter with his shoulders crumpled and head down.
Joyce dabbed her wide-open eyes and hugged a teary Barb.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself from crying.
Frank, who already had one arm around a sobbing Eloise, slipped the other around my shoulder.
Griff simply shook his head.
As we stood, numb and in stunned silence, Alan left the husband in the care of a fellow polo-shirted employee and made his way over to the linens aisle, where Anastasia Chastain and (more important) the camera had a nearly unobstructed view of the accident. Following a brief conversation, Anastasia and the cameraman, who had to already have enough footage for an Emmy-worthy report, packed up and relocated.
Alan stood dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket as the stretcher made its way toward Mrs. Piggledy. With none of his trademark salesman-swagger, he followed behind, stopping beside us.
“Sir,” he said, offering his hand to Mr. Piggledy. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“Accidents happen,” Mr. Piggledy said.
“Not in my store.” Alan shook his head. “Not like this.”
Griff’s walkie-talkie blipped and a scratchy voice announced: “Coroner’s here.”
Alan rubbed his temples. “This is just getting worse and worse.”
“Why did they call in a coroner?” Joyce asked. “On the CSI shows they—”
“Call in a coroner on all fatalities to make a determination as to cause of death,” Griff recounted, undoubtedly from his rookie manual. “Standard procedure.”
L’Raine smiled like he’d recited one of Shakespeare’s love sonnets.
The stretcher pulled up beside Mrs. Piggledy.
“Ready?” the EMT asked.
“I’ll need to lead everyone out
of here along with Mrs. Piggledy,” Griff said, clipping his still squawking radio back onto his utility belt. “So the area can be secured.”
“And I need to get back over there,” Alan said, looking like he’d rather be headed anywhere else. He handed Mr. Piggledy a business card. “Please keep me posted on your wife’s condition.”
“No worries,” Mrs. Piggledy said. “I’ll be back on the trick horses in no time.”
“But, honey,” Mr. Piggledy rubbed her cheek, “you’ve never ridden the horses.”
“Details,” she winced, as she was loaded onto the stretcher. “Please come to Higgledy’s wedding Saturday night,” she announced to the crowd. “All of you!”
With the glimmer of his wife’s usual sparkle, Mr. Piggledy looked ever so slightly relieved. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Alan simply shook his head.
I felt almost as awful for him as I did for kind-faced Kathy and her grieving husband.
When he’d first contacted me about advertising on my blog, Alan spent our initial phone call proudly recounting the history of Bader’s Bargain Barn, starting with its humble beginnings as his grandfather’s five-and-dime. He talked about how his father had expanded into a small local department store. How he himself had worked beside his dad all the way through high school, growing the company into a discount retailer during his college years, and even getting an MBA to help keep his beloved family enterprise competitive in the cutthroat world of franchises, chains, and superstores—all of which not only anticipated but depended on Black Friday for their highest traffic and sales receipts of the entire holiday season. Including Bargain Barn.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
“I don’t know that there’s anything anyone can do.” Alan’s shoulders sagged that much more. “Not sure how we can survive a hit like this.”
Before I could think of anything else to say, Alan turned and seemed to be forcing his legs to move.
A few seconds later, I was following Mrs. Piggledy’s stretcher down the central aisle. Making our way toward the awaiting ambulance, I couldn’t help but feel like we were on a maudlin parade route. But instead of ticker tape, there were gasps, tears, and comments filling the air.
Black Thursday Page 4
