“Not if she divorces Frank!”
I waved and tried to shout Black Friday shopping tips over the crowd, but the only thing that came out was, “I can’t confirm or deny!”
“Accidents happen,” Barb said from what was left of aisle one, pointing to an almost-zipped body bag where a familiar pair of blood-soaked tennis shoes stuck out from the bottom. Barb turned to the counter beside her, loaded an entire loaf of bread into a giant multi-slotted toaster, and pressed the start button. “And then you’re toast.”
As toast echoed over the PA system and the heady scent of warm cinnamon, bacon, and eggs seemed to flood the store, tears ran down my face and dropped onto what I realized were the very same blood-spattered shoes. On my feet.
“No!” I tried to yell. “I’m not Kathy!” I tried to shout, but nothing came from my throat except the ping of an incoming text message.
_____
I opened my eyes in a cold sweat, still trying to scream. Sitting up, I reached over to the nightstand for my cell phone and took a deep breath of the comforting but disconcerting aroma of cinnamon and bacon wafting through the air.
_____
I tried not to process the surreal dream-meets-reality of sitting down to a post–Black Friday brunch16 of bacon, eggs, and cinnamon French toast prepared by Joyce and accompanied by the other semi-early risers in the house: Barb, Gerald, Craig (who’d slept over on the family room couch after his ex picked up their kids early that morning), and Frank. Nowhere near ready to sort through my various feelings about Frank’s midnight confession, I thought about hiding out in the bedroom all day. Since I’d eaten almost nothing in almost twenty-four hours, however, hunger had me quickly thinking otherwise. Instead, I decided to make my appearance in the midst of the hustle and bustle, figuring there’d be relative safety, at least conversationally, in numbers.
“Mr. Piggledy left me a message that Mrs. Piggledy was released from the hospital and they’re on their way home,” I said.
“That’s a relief.” Joyce took a gravy boat full of maple syrup out of the microwave and placed it on the breakfast bar. “I’ve been worried about her.”
“Was her foot broken?” Barb asked.
“Mr. Piggledy said she left in a cast.”
“What about her head?” Barb asked.
“I assume everything else must have checked out.” My head, on the other hand, was still spinning. It was hardly surprising that a jumbled collage of last night’s events featured prominently in my dreams, but had I really conjured up the syrup vessel I now held in my hand? “They’ve moved the commitment ceremony to the first-floor courtyard so Mrs. Piggledy won’t have to negotiate an escalator, but it’s still on and open to all tomorrow evening.”
“Between their monkey and that bird?” Frank asked, stabbing his fork into a piece of cantaloupe from the platter next to him.
“Too weird,” Craig said.
“But interesting,” Barb said. “How often do you get invited to an inter-species wedding?”
“I can’t wait,” Joyce said, smiling lovingly at Gerald. “I think the whole thing is kind of romantic.
Gerald gave her a wink and speared a piece of bacon. “Love conquers all.”
Last night’s craziness had clearly left me a marble short. Not only had I joined the breakfast fray, I’d practically invited the Michaels family to the wedding (or whatever it was). I also found myself wondering if last night’s heart-to-heart meant Frank might actually possess a fraction of his parent’s knack for marital magic after all. Then again, I was so starved from barely eating all day that even the Joyce-prepared bacon looked divine.
So delicious, I barely noticed the measuring cups, flour, eggshells, and dirty mixing bowls littering my normally tidy countertops.
I was sure I’d lost it when I took a syrup-soaked bite of what had to be the fluffiest, crunchiest, softest, most delicately battered treat I’d had in years.
Joyce winked. “Not too bad, huh?”
“Wow!” I said.
“Secret is stale bread,” she said. “I found some in the bread box.”
Instead of spitting it out, I stuffed another bite into my mouth. “Delicious. Thank you, Joyce.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “I was too keyed up to really sleep, so I figured I might as well make myself useful.”
One look at the dark half-moons under everyone but Joyce’s eyes (no doubt thanks to a pre-dawn application of the makeup she never allowed anyone to see her without) and I had to appreciate just how incredibly useful the Michaels clan had been. “You’ve been so helpful, Joyce, and so has everyone else. I really can’t imagine how things would have turned out had all of you not been at Bargain Barn, so willing to pitch in.”
“Actually, I had one of the more promising evenings I’ve had in a while,” Craig said through a mouthful of bread. “As far as attractive shoppers in need of comforting, anyway.”
“Atta boy,” Gerald patted his shoulder.
“Anyone in particular?” Joyce asked.
“Interesting you should ask. As a matter of fact—”
“The news is on,” Frank interrupted. He pointed the remote at the muted TV in the corner of the kitchen and upped the volume before Craig could utter L’Raine’s name. Which meant I was not now forced to fill him in on his gun-toting competition.
Anastasia couldn’t have gotten even an hour’s rest, but somehow she managed to look crisp and beautiful from behind the news desk. “While everything appears to be back to Black Friday business as usual, it was quite a different story last night at Bargain Barn …”
“Does that woman ever sleep?” Barb asked.
“Not when she’s got both the hottest story in town and a holiday weekend anchor slot,” answered Frank.
The camera cut away from the live feed of Anastasia, and a pre-recorded close-up of my anguished face filled the screen. The camera angle widened to show Frank beside me as emergency workers circled the overturned pallet.
The food that was just starting to satisfy my intense hunger suddenly hardened to concrete in my stomach as I caught a glimpse of those pink sneakers.
I’d read the flurry of prayers and condolences that began to pop up almost immediately on my blog. I checked before I’d gone to sleep, and again first thing this morning after listening to Mr. Piggledy’s message. Even though I knew the Frugarmy would still be sleeping off their shopping hangover, I’d hoped for something in the comments that had trickled in this morning about Kathy herself.
There was nothing of note.
“Authorities still haven’t released specifics yet, but witnesses report that a double pallet of toasters slid from an upper storage shelf and, tragically, landed on a women waiting in line below.” The camera zoomed in on Anastasia. “Alan Bader, owner of Bargain Barn and a fixture in the Denver business community, has yet to make an official statement.”
“Have you talked to him since last night?” Joyce asked.
With Griff’s definitive can’t confirm or deny and Alan still behind the yellow tape when we left, I figured any remaining questions were best answered in the light of day. “I planned to check in with him this morning after brunch,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t imagine he got much sleep.”
Gerald let out a dramatic whistle, pointing at the TV, now showing a view of the overturned toasters, boxes, and small appliances that had littered the affected aisles of the store. “Not with a mess like that on his hands.”
“As a television journalist, it’s my job to present an unbiased report of the news vital to our community,” Anastasia continued, the camera once again live in studio. “But, as many of you may know, I happened to be at Bargain Barn doing a report on Black Friday with bargain-hunting consultant Maddie Michaels, better known as Mrs. Frugalicious, as the tragic events unfolded.” The studied concern on her face couldn’t quite mask t
he big scoop gleam that had been in her eyes since the crash shook the store. “I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t mention how proud I was of my fellow shoppers who rushed in to assist the injured, the lightning-quick response of the South Metro emergency workers, and the above-and-beyond efforts of Mrs. Frugalicious herself. In the midst of the chaos and confusion, she not only stepped in to calm shoppers, but helped to coordinate efforts to ensure that people could get the items they had waited in line for hours to purchase.”
I stole a glance at Frank. He needed the good press way more than I needed to feel good about making the best of an awful situation. Instead of any understandable disappointment at the omission, however, he smiled what seemed to be a genuine smile.
“A star is born,” he announced.
“On behalf of myself, Mrs. Frugalicious, and everyone who was at Bargain Barn last night,” Anastasia continued, “I would like to extend my condolences to the family of Mrs. Katherine Carter.”
With the surname Carter, I forgot all about anything else Anastasia was or wasn’t saying.
Kathy Carter.
A photo flashed on the screen. Despite the makeup, jewelry, off-the-shoulder top, and slightly blurred glamour shot effect, I was looking at the very same heart-shaped face of the woman I’d met last night.
The Frugarmy member who’d met her fate a few minutes later.
Underneath the photo, her name written out in cursive was not Katherine Carter or even Kathy Carter but Catherine Carter.
The concrete in my stomach started to churn.
Catherine with a C.
CC.
_____
I scuttled across the house to my office and powered up my computer. It couldn’t be anything more than sheer coincidence that Cathy Carter shared her initials with my cyber stalker. Cathy was an enthusiastic member of my Frugarmy who’d met her untimely end by coming to Bargain Barn to enjoy special bargains. CC, AKA Contrary Claire, had made a point of saying she wasn’t coming to Bargain Barn last night. Her exact words were deleted from my website, but they would likely be stored on my brain’s hard drive forever:
Thanks for offering me fifteen minutes of background fame, but I think I’ll just stay home and cyber shop. Everyone knows the deals are way better online these days, anyway.
I took a breath of relief and glanced at the comments and condolences now starting to stream in from the Frugarmy:
Love and blessings to all involved. —Susan H.
I was there last night and just wanted to say that Mrs. Frugalicious and her family were so terrific in the face of very difficult circumstances. —Randi T.
I missed the accident (thankfully) but was able to score some terrific deals anyway. —Lisa C.
Rest in peace, Cathy. —Ann S.
Absent, so far, was an snarky I told you so, or anything else for that matter, from the other CC. Maybe Contrary Claire went to bed early and was still sleeping in, or maybe she’d taken a last-minute, post-Thanksgiving, off-the-grid getaway, but one thing was for sure—she’d definitely be weighing in with something.
Then again, maybe she’d already tried to fire off her negative diatribe but was blocked by whatever the boys had done to my website settings.
All three kids were still sleeping, but I was too curious to wait until teenage-wakeup time. Instead, I went upstairs, knocked on Trent’s bedroom door, and let myself in. For a split second, I wished I’d picked FJ, the tidier of the boys, thereby avoiding the minefield of laundry and sports equipment littering his floor. Either way, there was no missing the general boy funk permeating the air.
I nudged him awake. “Trent!”
“Sleeping,” he finally mumbled.
“I have a question.”
“Later.”
“You blocked CC from posting, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, any comments she wants to post—”
“Have to be approved by you.”
“And how do I know if she tried?”
“You get an email alert.”
“That’s it?” I said.
“Uh-huh,” he managed.
“Thanks,” I said. “And you need to clean your room when you wake up. It’s a disaster.”
“K,” he grunted, rolled over, and was immediately back into his teenage sleep coma.
I headed back downstairs to my office to check my Mrs. Frugalicious email account. Other than a message from Wendy Killian from Here’s the Deal commiserating about last night and wanting to know what happened after she finally left Bargain Barn, there was nothing of interest.
I dialed Alan.
To my non-surprise, and also relief, the call went straight to voicemail. The message I left, long and rambling, about how I hoped we’d been of help, how glad I was to assist with anything else, and inquiring as to how he was doing, would have been that much more awkward as a real conversation. Particularly since I tried my hardest not to mention the word accident, which had clearly seemed to bother him last night.
I’d just finished dialing him back with an addendum about Mrs. Piggledy’s improved condition, since I’d completely forgotten to mention it, when I heard a bedroom door open and the shuffle of footsteps on the upstairs landing.
“Hey,” I said, spotting Eloise on her way down the steps.
“What’s up?” she asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“Joyce made breakfast for everyone.”
“So I smell,” she said. “Bacon and eggs?”
“And French toast.”
“It smells really good,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose. “But what secret ingredients did she put in it?”
“I tried not to think about that,” I said, not mentioning the stale bread part. “Everything was delicious though.”
“Weird.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “I just found out the lady was named Catherine Carter.”
“From last night?”
With my nod, we shared a pained moment of silence.
“So awful,” Eloise finally said. “But why’s it weird?”
“It’s just that her initials were CC.”
Eloise raised a slightly too thin eyebrow. “Like your batsh— Uh, your crazy stalker CC?”
I nodded.
“But why would Contrary Claire spend months writing nasty posts, say she wasn’t coming to Bargain Barn, and then just show up anyway?”
“And then proclaim she’s a big fan who wanted her picture taken with me?” I asked. “Really doesn’t make sense.”
“Then why even think about it?”
“It’s just that Contrary Claire hasn’t weighed in yet.”
“Probably because she’s blocked,” Eloise said looking over my shoulder at comments popping up on the website.
“But I haven’t gotten an email alert that she’s even tried,” I said, glancing at my email again. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Isn’t her usual MO to comment after one of your blog posts?”
“Huh. Now that you mention it, everything she’s written has been in response to something I’ve put on the website.”
“Which means she probably gets an alert when you post something new.”
“Then she responds accordingly?”
“So to speak,” Eloise said.
“And if she hasn’t seen the news yet, she might not think to check the website?”
“Exactly.”
“That has to be it,” I said. “The thing is, I really should post a condolence message to the Carter family and to everyone from the Frugarmy who was affected by last night.”
“Once you do, you know CC is going to have a field day with it.”
“True,” I said, “but I can block any comments that—”
My text alert pinged.
“That’s got to be Alan,
” I said as I picked up my phone. Then I looked at the message. “Oh dear!”
“Is it her? Eloise asked.
“Almost as bad,” I said. “It’s the realtor.”
As in my realtor, the one who’d promised that having my extended family in town was no problem since Thanksgiving weekend would be dead where showings were concerned:
I have some potential buyers who are dying to see your house. How does half an hour from now work for you?
16. There’s (usually) nothing more satisfying than sitting down to a morning brunch or social gathering at the end of your shopping trip to wind down, compare bargains, and congratulate yourselves on a job well done.
nine
Given the number of people sleeping, lazing, or generally enjoying (and by enjoying I mean making a mess of ) every room in the house, I’d have preferred a message straight from CC’s poisoned pen to a text about a rush-rush showing.
Tidying the kitchen after Joyce’s brunch extravaganza was a half-hour job alone. Luckily I was able to negotiate a full hour before the realtor would arrive, which turned out to be just enough time to sound the alarm, rouse the teenagers, enlist my weekend lodgers in a mad scramble to pick up their various areas, and get everyone out the door.
We vacated en masse just as the potential buyers pulled up to the house.
As everyone gathered their various belongings, I managed to post a quick note on the blog:
Dearest Frugarmy,
As most of you now know, unforeseen tragedy changed both the mood and the mission last evening at Bargain Barn. I would like to express my sympathy to all of you who were affected and extend my deepest condolences to the friends and family of our fellow Frugarmy member, Catherine Carter.
Much love,
Mrs. Frugalicious
And then I added a small postscript.
P.S. If you know or are friends with Cathy, please feel free to share any memories or comments.
“I still don’t see why we all had to leave,” Eloise said as we left the house, echoing the general sentiment—at least from the kids, who’d offered suggestions from just don’t show my room (Trent) to we’ll stay out of their way by watching the game down in the basement (FJ) to why do Uncle Frank and Aunt Maddie have to move out of this awesome house anyway? (Barb’s youngest).
Black Thursday Page 6
