Black Thursday (13 page)

nineteen

I woke to the
uncertain reality of my not-quite-estranged husband snoring in a familiar
puh-snort
pattern from the chair beside me, a police-processed car in the garage, an at-large murderer who felt inclined to leave an ominous neon Post-it on said car, and a pending memorial service for Cathy Carter, whoever it was she turned out to have been.

As I slipped out of bed and began to tiptoe toward the bathroom and what I hoped would be a little peace and quiet while I prepared for the morning ahead, the landline rang.

And, once again, things grew just a bit more uncertain.

_____

“So there's an offer on the house?” Anastasia, luminous in funereal but camera-friendly dark blue, asked as the cameraman checked out the lighting in various spots around the vestibule of the church.

“The realtor called this morning and there are some very interested buyers having a second look as we speak.”

“I don't see why all of us had to rush to clear out again if they've already seen it before,” Trent said, yawning and fidgeting with the tie I'd handed him to wear in the latest mad dash to get out of the house. “I mean, I wasn't even at Bargain Barn Thursday night, and I never met this woman who—”

“Safety in numbers,” said Joyce, who stood with Barb, Gerald, Craig, and various grandchildren in a cluster just behind the camera. “Until they figure out what's going on with that horrid note and everything, we stick together.”

“Joyce!” Barb said. “You know we're not supposed to talk about—”

“All I said was, until
they
figure it out,” Joyce said. “It wasn't like I said—”

“Half the people here are cops,” Anastasia, the only person outside the family who'd overheard Joyce, whispered conspiratorially. Given she was a journalist and she was engaged to the acting police chief, she would (and already did) know what had happened last night. “I guarantee you're as safe here as you would be at the police station.”

I'd definitely spotted a couple of black and whites parked out front, which translated to an extra uniformed officer or two inside, but as I looked around, I couldn't help but notice the number of “regular” couples, one or both of whom were dressed in outfits that could easily conceal a weapon.

A quick conversation with Alan Bader might have made me feel more confident that they actually were plainclothes cops and not corporate assassins, but I hadn't spotted him yet among the growing crowd.

Eloise shook her head. “Do we really even have to sell the house at all if you and Dad are like talking and stuff ?”

“It's not quite that simple,” I said.

The Michaels gang, including Frank, who was once again dabbing makeup on shiny spots I'd missed in my haste to get dressed, all smiled like it was exactly that simple.

Even though she had to be confused about what was going on, Anastasia just smiled.

The showing had us rushing around to clean, get ready, and get out of the house, which left no time for a morning debrief. On the way over, however, I assured Eloise and the boys, who had come in my fingerprint-dusted vehicle, that the police were in the process of figuring out what had really happened. I also let them know that Frank was committed to keeping everyone in the family safe, particularly me, until the police could complete their investigation.

While I didn't go so far as to say we were back together, there was no getting around the fact that Frank spent the night in the master bedroom for the first time in months—even if it was in a chair.

I decided it best not to elaborate or explain the situation, but just added that there was nothing to be done now but be cautious, let the authorities do their job, and let things take their course.

Eloise, seated beside me in the car, seemed content with my explanation. So did Joyce, Gerald, Barb, and Craig, who'd ridden with Frank and had (I assumed) been filled in on the way as well.

“Found our spot,” the cameraman said, pointing to the area just between a huge multi-colored spray of sympathy flowers and a tribute table lined with photos of Catherine T. Carter, some with her husband. In the pictures he was, if not handsome, infinitely more bright-eyed and nice-looking than the grief-stricken man I'd seen the night of the incident.

“Everyone should probably go sit,” Frank said to the family, watching the crowd of mourners swell. “Looks like it's going to be standing room only.”

“We'll save seats for you,” Joyce said, already mobilizing everyone toward the doors into the sanctuary.

“Near the back would be best,” the cameraman said. “So we can get an over-the-shoulder shot or two of Maddie and Stasia mourning at the service itself.”

“You ready, Maddie?” Anastasia asked

“I suppose,” I said. “It still feels awkward to be broadcasting from the memorial.”

“Clearly, there are a lot of people here grieving for Cathy and her husband,” Anastasia whispered. “It's our job to bring closure to all the viewers at home who couldn't be here, but are feeling the same way.”

“You should also think of it as reporting from the scene of a continuing investigation,” Frank continued. “Which is really what it is after last night.”

“Exactly,” Anastasia said.

At the very least, there was no denying how many people had and were continuing to show up, including Wendy Killian from
Here's the Deal
magazine, whom I spotted on the front steps.

Typically in jeans and a nice if unremarkable top with her hair pulled back in a tight, severe ponytail, she entered the church looking somehow decked out. Her dress was appropriately black, but form-fitting and showed off her toned, almost sinewy, arms and her slim athletic figure.

Wendy accepted a program, saw me, and made her way over in anything but sensible black stiletto heels.

“Maddie!” She enveloped me in a perfumy hug.

“Thank you for coming,” I found myself saying, as though I were one of the bereaved.

“I'm just glad to be able to pay my last respects.” A tear fell from the corner of her eye as she glanced at a shot on the tribute table of Cathy Clark holding a kitten. “How are you holding up through all of this?”

“It's been a helluva weekend,” I said, which was as honest as I was currently at liberty to be.

We hugged again.

“Ready when you are, Stasia,” the cameraman said.

“I should get out of your way,” Wendy said as we moved to our places. “The show must go on.”

“Couldn't have said it better myself,” Anastasia said, as Wendy blended into the growing crowd. “Ratings haven't been this high since summer, when …”

I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat while Anastasia had the decency not to utter
when you were almost killed
and whatever else she might have been inclined to add.

“Look,” Frank said, motioning toward the glass entry doors.

Anastasia and I turned and the camera swerved in time to catch a black limo pull up in front of the church.

The car door opened and Cathy Carter's husband emerged looking grimmer and even more gray than he had Thursday night. With him were a grief-stricken older couple and a middle-aged man I presumed were the extent of Cathy's extended family.

All had red-rimmed eyes and matching noses.

“Those poor people,” Frank said as they entered the church, were immediately greeted by a minister, and whisked off through a side door.

“Do you think the police have filled them in on what happened last night?” I asked.

“They're probably waiting until after the memorial,” Anastasia said. “Especially with all the buzz this morning.”

“The buzz?” I asked.

“I hear there's been a break in the case.”

I looked around once again for Alan. If the police had gone to talk to him after last night's sticky note, which they had to have done, chances were he'd spent the rest of the evening filling them in on what he knew, or at least suspected, about a big corporation being behind the death of Cathy Carter.

“What kind of break?” I asked.

“A big one.”

Meaning Alan had been right after all? “As in?” I persisted.

“Still classified, so I don't know,” Anastasia said. “But something's going to go down soon.”

“How soon?” Frank asked.

“Not sure,” Anastasia said. “But from all the back-and-forth calls this morning, I'd say very.”

_____

“This is Anastasia Chastain and Maddie Michaels reporting from the North Suburban Community Church, where services will soon be underway for Catherine T. Carter
…
”

Much as I might have hoped to transform into Anastasia's camera-ready, appropriately glib weekend sidekick, Maddie Michaels, AKA Mrs. Frugalicious, I felt far too distracted by everything to do much more than survive the segment.

While Anastasia gave a teary account of the somber mood amongst the crowd and stepped over to the photo display, I somehow managed to maintain my composure, sharing a sound bite or two about the horror of Thursday night's “accident” and Alan Bader's generosity in organizing the memorial to help ease the grief of the Carter family.

Alan finally showed up while I was on the air and immediately got swept into the last-minute arrangements with an official from the church. I had hoped to get close enough to confirm that even though he looked like his old dapper self in a dark double-breasted suit and pressed white shirt, his eyes would belie a night's worth of filling in the police.

As the camera taped me hugging various members of the Frugarmy, including Mr. Piggledy, who'd come to pay his respects on behalf of Mrs. Piggledy, Higgledy, and their new “daughter-in-law” Birdie, all I could think about was what exactly the big break in the case would be.

And did Alan already know about it?

If he did, then he had come to the memorial with confirmation of both his safety and his sanity.

But what if he didn't?

Was he also circulating through the crowd wondering who was truly a mourner and who was there under false, potentially fatal premises? Not to mention the still unanswered question:

Who was Cathy Carter?

_____

Catherine Theresa Carter, Cathy to her friends and family, was a woman who loved hobbies
…

According to her beloved husband, John, she worked from home as a freelance bookkeeper and enjoyed a variety of interests over the years —everything from knitting, ceramics, and beading to taking in rescue dogs and, at one point, breeding sugar gliders. Recently, Cathy became increasingly interested in two hobbies in particular, cooking and coupon clipping.

Sniffles echoed through the overfull church while the minister paused, either for effect or to check his notes.

Cathy didn't dabble in her interests. She dove wholeheartedly and with great gusto into whatever she did, reveling in her ability to have delicious gourmet meals waiting for her husband after a long day at work. Meals for which she'd paid only pennies on the dollar
…

From my seat in the back row between Anastasia and Frank, I watched Cathy's husband, John, put his head into his hands.

It was in pursuit of both of these hobbies that the Lord, in his infinite wisdom, determined it was time for Cathy to return unto his loving embrace
…

Up front, someone let out a big choking sob.

It is often difficult to understand the Lord's plan at times like these—a woman who wants nothing more than to save a few dollars goes down to her local retailer, stands in line enjoying the Black Friday fanfare like so many of us do, and the most unthinkable of accidents occurs.

As Frank, whose arm was draped loosely onto the back of the pew, gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze, I tried to will Alan, who was seated in the front row of the opposite aisle, to look up and in my direction.

He continued to stare at his feet.

Never mind that we were too far away from each other for him to see much less interpret a meaningful look or hand signal from me asking
Do you know what the heck is going on?

The minister took a step back and “Angel” began to play on the loudspeaker.

As Sarah McLachlan's haunting voice floated up toward the abstract stained-glass windows of the nondenominational church, I couldn't help but sniffle. That and scan the crowd, noting that Wendy Killian and Mr. Piggledy had joined the Michaels' two rows of pews with Wendy beside Craig and Mr. Piggledy next to Gerald. Other familiar faces from Thursday night dotted the church, some of whom had introduced themselves as Frugarmy members at various points throughout the weekend. The others, the ones who'd never said a word, all somehow looked that much more suspicious for not making themselves known.

Were the camera not set up discreetly but directly behind me, I might have considered sending Alan a quick FYI text. To avoid a TV clip of me callously plinking away on my cell phone during the most watched local funeral of the year, I sat trying not to feel like I was trapped in a bad dream filled with sad music, sadder readings, and a heart-wrenching lack of friends, co-workers, or acquaintances on hand to share touching or funny stories about their friend Cathy Carter.

While the minister reiterated bland platitudes about Cathy's happy life as the only daughter of already deceased parents and her devotion as a wife, needlecrafter, lover of animals, and budget gourmet cook, I listened for anything that might give me some clue as to whether she really was simply the victim of bad luck. Was there any way she could also have had an alter ego known as Contrary Claire, online heckler and malcontent? With adjectives like
sweet
,
honest
,
thoughtful
,
kind,
and the utterly nondescriptive
nice
being repeated, it seemed unlikely.