Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (14 page)

“I never used to be like this,” I said. “Ask anyone. It’s all Karl’s fault.”

“Karl?”

“AKA Dead Louse of a Spouse?”

“Right. Karl. He’s dead. How’s this his fault?”

“I never would have been forced to start acting like Jessica Fletcher if he hadn’t screwed his bookie, not to mention me and our kids.”

“That was three months ago, and the bookie’s behind bars.”

I shrugged. “Once you unleash the sleuthing genie, she digs in her heels.”

“Then I suggest you find a way to shove her back into her
bottle and cork it good and tight before you find yourself in a
situation you can’t craft your way out of.”

“Point taken,” I conceded.

Fourteen

Karl used to call
me a cheap date because more than one cocktail or glass of wine usually puts me to sleep. Several hours earlier I had polished off enough of Zack’s Maker’s Mark to give Rip Van Winkle a run for his money. I should have been out cold, yet at one in the morning I was still wide awake. My brain refused to shut down, hammering me with questions when I should have been deep in Slumberville.

I decided that rather than toss and turn and stare at the alarm clock for the next five and a half hours, I might as well get up and get some work done. Since I’d pay for my lack of sleep tomorrow—correction, later today, given the hour—I might at least have something to show for pulling an all-nighter other than a rumpled bed.

I donned my robe and slippers and padded down to the base
ment. Naomi wanted crafts projects for the magazine that
tied into
the television show but didn’t duplicate the crafts
presented on
the show. String dolls seemed a logical off-shoot of mop dolls.

Because the show schedule and the magazine production schedule weren’t in synch yet, along with everything else we editors were juggling, we also had to scramble to revise magazine issues already in various stages of production. Luckily,
American Woman
featured a Christmas All Year Round column where I showcased a Christmas craft project in each issue. This made it relatively easy for me to swap out the ornament scheduled for the September issue with an angel string doll ornament.

As I mindlessly assembled the materials and tools I’d need from my cache of supplies, my mind focused on questions that had nothing to do with dolls of any sort: Had Lou been a multi-millionaire, a con artist, or just a cheap son-of-a-bitch looking to screw his ex-wives out of their alimony? Who sent Lou that cryptic note, and what did it mean? What was on Vince’s computer that he’d rather go to jail than hand over? Who did Monica visit in that Kips Bay brownstone, and did it have anything to do with the murders? Why were the cops following her? What was the other investigation Marlowe let slip? I couldn’t make sense out of any of it. The only thing I was certain about was that a killer was still on the loose. A killer who might have his or her sights set on the
American Woman
editors. Or Mama.

Angel String Doll Ornament

Materials:
24 yds. white/silver crochet cotton, small amount of white crochet cotton, 18mm painted wood head bead,
½
yd. each
1
⁄
8
" wide red and green satin ribbon, three miniature red silk poinsettias, 12" silver chenille stem, 5" x 5" piece of cardboard, tacky glue or glue gun, scissors.

Directions:
Cut three 10" pieces of white/silver crochet cotton and set aside. For the body, wrap white/silver crochet cotton around the cardboard 70 times. Tie at one end with one of the 10" pieces of crochet cotton. Cut through all the lengths of crochet cotton at the opposite end.

Thread the loose ends from the body tie through the bead head. Apply a dab of glue to the bottom of the bead head to secure the head to the body. Tie the ends into a knot at the top of the head. Tie another knot close to the cut ends to form a hanging loop.

For the arms, wrap white/silver crochet cotton around the cardboard 12 times. Cut open at one end. Cut the second piece of 10" crochet cotton in half. Use one half to tie off one end of the arm
½
" from the cut edge. Braid the lengths for 5" from the tied edge. Tie off the braid with the second 5" piece of crochet cotton. Trim the arm ends
½
" from the tie.

Place the braid centered in the middle of the body. Using the remaining 10" piece of crochet cotton, tie the body under the arms.

For hair, cut 1" lengths of white crochet cotton. Fold in half. Glue the cut ends to the top of the bead head for looped bangs. For the remainder of the hair, cut 3" lengths of white crochet cotton. Glue in the same manner around the sides and back of the head, working in even rows from the neck up to the crown.

Fold the chenille stem into a sideways figure 8. Bend the loops up slightly. Tie the chenille stem to the center back of the angel with a piece of white/silver crochet cotton. Secure in place with a dab of glue.

Make a small bow from the green ribbon. Glue under the bead head at neck. Make a small bow from the red ribbon. Glue to the top of the head.

Twist the poinsettias into a bouquet. Glue the arms around the bouquet. Tie the remaining ribbon together into a bow with long streamers. Glue the bow under the flowers.

I crafted a dozen angel string dolls in three different color combinations, using white/silver crochet cotton and a silver chenille stem for four, red/white/green variegated crochet cotton and a red metallic chenille stem for a second group of four, and white/gold crochet cotton with a gold chenille stem for the remaining four. My fingers worked from rote while my mind dwelled on murder. Several hours later I was still wide awake, my angels finished but my head no closer to puzzling out who had killed Lou and Vince or why.

I padded back to my bedroom, took a shower, and dressed for work. The clock read 4:38. I sat down at my computer, typed up the directions for the string dolls, and transferred them onto a jump drive. I checked the clock again. 5:10.

Still wide awake, I headed for the kitchen, dragged out the crock
pot, and prepared a slow cook meal for dinner. 5:43. I grabbed eggs from the fridge and whipped up one of Cloris’s quiche recipes for breakfast.

6:12. Quiche in oven. Coffee made. Dinner cooking. Murder still unsolved.

_____

“Yo, Mom! Wake up!”

My eyelids sprang open. I lifted my head to find myself staring at a perplexed looking Alex. In the kitchen. Totally disoriented, I tried to find my bearings, but an incessant
beep, beep, beep
kept me from focusing on the here and now.

“You want that out of the oven?” he asked. “It smells like it’s done.”

“What?” I yawned, filling my lungs and brain with much needed
oxygen. Slowly, very slowly, both last night and my senses came back to me. Especially my sense of smell. I turned toward the stove. The clock read 6:52.

The quiche!

I jumped up, donned a pair of oven mitts, and pulled the slightly
scorched quiche from the oven. “Breakfast’s ready,” I said.

“You okay, Mom?”

“Sure. I couldn’t sleep last night. Guess it finally caught up with me.”

Did it ever! Middle-aged moms definitely shouldn’t fall asleep at the kitchen table. Face planted on a bamboo placemat. I gingerly touched my embossed cheek. My shoulder screamed four letter words at me. Every other body part chimed in with a rousing chorus of profanity.

Alex was giving me one of those
Who are you and what have you done with my mother?
looks.

I chose to ignore him. “Tell your brother breakfast is ready.”

“Nick! Breakfast!” he shouted.

“I could have done that.” Actually, maybe not. Right now forming words in my brain, then moving them from my vocal chords and past my lips, was taking Herculean effort. Raising my voice to shouting level? Way too much work.

Alex set a glass of orange juice on the table for me. I gulped down the rush of sugary vitamin C.

“Coffee?” he asked.

I held out my arm. “Intravenously.” How the hell was I going to get to work, let alone get through the day?

Three cups of coffee and a huge helping of protein-rich quiche later, I headed back to my bedroom, stripped, and stepped into an icy cold shower. If that didn’t wake me up, nothing would.

Twenty minutes later I sent up a prayer to the Goddess of Over-Stressed Single Parents as I slid behind the wheel of my Hyundai. Thankfully, she heard me because I managed to arrive at work on time and in one piece, albeit with still wet hair.

“You look like drowned shit,” said Cloris as I passed her in the hall.

“Would you believe that’s a compliment, given the way I feel?”

She pulled me into the break room and poured me a cup of coffee. “Something happen last night?”

“Actually, it was a very productive night.” In between yawns and gulps of coffee, I caught her up on my insomniac exploits.

My cell rang as I was finishing my Tale of the Sleepless Night. I checked the display. Zack. “Hi, Zack.”

“Can you talk?”

“Sure.”

“I mean in private.”

“I’m in the break room with Cloris. What’s up?”

“Find someplace where you won’t be overheard by anyone, then call me back.” He disconnected. I pushed
End Call
.

“That was short,” said Cloris. “Everything okay?”

“I’m not sure. Zack wants me to call him back where no one can overhear me.”

“Sounds very cloak and dagger. Are you sure he’s not really a spy? Maybe the photography gig is his cover.”

I suppose anything was possible. The man did jet all around the world, sometimes at a moment’s notice. And he did mention having
connections
. How many freelance photo-journalists who worked for
National Geographic
and the World Wildlife Federation had the sort of connections that gave them access to NYPD murder investigations?

The one place I was guaranteed not to run into anyone else was my Models Room. Really more of a windowless walk-in closet, the Models Room housed finished craft projects and photo props from past, current, and future
American Woman
issues, along with new product samples sent by manufacturers. Cloris receives champagne truffles; Nicole, the latest products from Bobbi Brown and Chanel; Tessa, all sorts of designer swag. Me? I get pompoms and embroidery floss.

Freebie envy aside, though, entering my Models Room used to fill me with both a sense of accomplishment and bring out the little kid in me. It now filled me with a sense of dread—ever since three months ago when Ricardo stepped out of that room and pulled a gun on me.

I walked down the hall and took a deep breath before reaching for the knob. Once inside, overhead light on, door closed and latched behind me, I returned Zack’s call.

“Are you sure no one can overhear you?” he asked.

“I’m positive.” But all the same I kept my voice just above a whisper. “Why all the secrecy?”

“First, you have to promise you won’t breathe a word of what I’m about to tell you to anyone.”

“You’re creeping me out, Zack.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. You want me to cross my heart or something? Spit on my palm? Swear on my father’s grave?”

“Not necessary. I believe you’re a woman of your word.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Now, spill.”

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Who told you Vince Alto was dead?”

“Marlowe. He said Vince was found in an alley, his head bashed in with a brick. It was also in the papers and on the news.”

“That he was found in an alley with his head bashed in?”

“That’s what I just said.” I knew I wasn’t operating on all cylinders this morning, but I was awake enough to realize this conversation was going around in a great big non-productive circle. “What’s going on, Zack?”

“Vince Alto isn’t dead.”

Huh?
“Okay, run that by me once more because I could swear you just said Vince isn’t dead.”

“That’s what I said. He’s in a coma. Apparently, the cops want everyone to believe he’s dead.”

“How can they keep something like that a secret? Whether on purpose or accidentally, someone at the hospital is bound to let it slip.”

“He’s in the prison hospital at Rikers.”

“Vince is in jail? Why? He can’t be a suspect in Lou’s murder if the killer tried to kill him, too.”

“The cops found tons of kiddie porn on his computer. Really sick stuff.”

So that’s why Vince put up such a stink when Marlowe subpoenaed his laptop. I wasn’t surprised. Vince came across as the slimiest of slime bags. The man made my skin crawl. Now I knew why. Still, the entire sequence of events all seemed too orchestrated. “I think someone set Vince up,” I said.

“You think someone planted the kiddie porn on his computer? Not according to my source. The computer forensics show a damning trail pointing directly to Vince.”

“Oh, I’m sure the kiddie porn is his. I think someone else knew about his sick predilection and sent that bogus e-mail from him to Monica.”

“Knowing the cops would subpoena his laptop.”

“And that
someone
has to be the killer. What better way to misdirect the murder investigation away from yourself than set someone else up for the crime?”

“I’m sure the police are considering that angle,” said Zack.

“According to your source? Just who is your source, Zack? Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You can’t reveal your source, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Cloris thinks you’re CIA and the photo-journalism gig is your cover.”

“Cloris has a vivid imagination.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“CIA or something.”

Zack laughed. “We’re all
something
, Anastasia. Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

With that he disconnected, having neither admitted nor denied the supposition. Maybe Cloris’s imagination wasn’t all that vivid after all.

That made me wonder. If Zack really did lead a double life, was having him live above my garage a good thing or a bad thing? Did it place my family in danger, or provide us with an added amount of safety and security?

I thought about how Zack had come to my aid, helping me secure
my home, installing surveillance equipment, after the Ricardo
incident. However, Zack’s tale of being captured in Guatemala also
came to mind. Maybe documenting native tribal costumes for
National Geographic
had merely been his cover. Maybe he hadn’t
accidently
stumbled upon that pot farm but had been sent specifically to hunt down villages that had switched from growing corn to growing something far more lucrative.