Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (7 page)

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To work. I have a magazine deadline to meet. And thanks to some hooligans, another mop doll to make. Coming, Mama?”

“You go on without me, dear. I’ll stay to help Lou.” She smiled up at him. “Besides, I think a nice long, relaxing lunch is in order, don’t you?”

Lou smiled down at Mama, patting her hand. “An excellent idea, my darling. We have some things to discuss.”

“And afterwards we can go shopping for furniture for the set,” she suggested.

_____

Lou waylaid me as I was about to step into the elevator. “I need to speak with you.” He glanced up and down the hall to make sure we were alone before continuing, his voice lowered to a near-whisper. “I just wanted to let you know I’ll straighten things out with your mother and Sheri.”

“Good luck,” I said.

He winced. “Flora’s such a delicate creature, you know, and I’m afraid I got a bit carried away trying to impress her on the ship.”

My mother? A delicate creature? The Steel Magnolias of way down yonder in the land of Dixie couldn’t hold a candle to the Titanium Flora of the North. Mama had survived widowhood five times and was brave enough to be planning another plunge into matrimonial waters. Besides, she went nose-to-nose and toe-to-toe with Comrade Lucille on a daily basis. She could survive not getting her way once in her life.

“Mama can be very headstrong.”

“And I can be very persuasive.” He reached into his pocket and removed a small robin’s egg blue velvet box. No mistaking that trademark color. Tiffany & Co. With a flick of his thumb, he flipped open the lid, revealing a chunk of ice the size of Cleveland. “By this time tomorrow, Sheri will have her credit, Flora will have her ring, and all will be right with the universe.”

“We still don’t know who trashed the set.”

He snapped the box shut and shoved it back in his pocket. “There is that.”

“You don’t really believe this has anything to do with Trimedia’s union problems, do you?”

“No.” Lou scowled for a moment before something clicked inside him, and he broke out in a broad grin. “Your mother told me you’re a bit of a detective.”

“Hardly. In case you haven’t noticed, Mama tends to exaggerate.”

“She said you solved a murder.”

“I got lucky.”

“So maybe you’ll get lucky again. What do you think?”

“I think everyone has a motive except you and Sheri.” But I didn’t believe any of my coworkers were involved. My money was on Vince and/or Monica. Who knew how far they’d go to avenge the slight their celebrity egos had suffered? But right now I was leaning more toward Monica. She was the only person who hadn’t seemed upset by the vandalism. Everyone else acted angry—or in Vince’s case, annoyed. Only Monica appeared fretful. Like she had something to hide. And what was with the nervous chatter about
The Pink Panther
?

There was also the melodrama outside the ladies’ room at the Marriott Marquis the evening of the press conference. I described the scene I had observed to Lou.

“That’s Ray Rivers,” he said. “Monica’s husband and agent. He’s always accusing Monica of two-timing him. At least once a week he bursts in here hurling accusations. One week it’s Vince, the next week me. As if either of us would want to get involved with that nut job.”

“But if he’s accusing Monica of having an affair with either Vince or you, and Monica gets paid whether the show proceeds or not, then—”

Lou slapped his forehead. “Then Ray’s the vandal. Of course! I should have known. The man’s been a thorn in my rump for years. I’d love to nail him. Too bad Trimedia refuses to let the police get involved.”

“Hold on. I’m only conjecturing here,” I reminded him. “Think-
ing out loud. We have no proof. Ray could have an alibi. For that matter, so could Monica and Vince.”

“But it looks like you’re on to something,” said Lou. “Pursue it. See what you can find out.”

“I told you, I’m no detective.”

“What if I offered to pay you?”

The man had found my Achilles heel. “How much?”

He named a figure that would take care of the upcoming school and real estate tax bill—even with the increase. “I suppose I could snoop around, ask a few questions.”

“Good. It’s settled then. I’d better get back to your mother before she thinks I’ve gone AWOL.”

He hustled back down the hall before I remembered to ask him about those extenuating circumstances in Vince’s and Monica’s last contract.

_____

The next morning Mama and I returned to the studio, Mama
sporting her Cleveland-sized diamond and Sheri all nervous energy
and giggles as she rushed around the new set powwowing with the director and various techies. Looked like Lou had succeeded in smoothing out the credit wrinkles.

“What’s this?” asked Mama, indicating the replacement leather sofas and the same stainless steel stove and refrigerator. “I said damask upholstery and white appliances. Where’s Lou?”

“Probably in his office,” said Sheri, all smiles.

Mama spun on her heels and headed off in search of her fiancé. Twenty minutes later she returned, all flustered. “I can’t find Lou. No one’s seen him.”

“I’m sure he’s around somewhere, Mama.”

She grabbed my arm. “What if something’s happened? What if he’s had a stroke or heart attack?” Given Mama’s track record with men, this was certainly a possibility, except that her men always waited until after she married them to croak. She turned to the nearest crew member. “You. Check the men’s room.”

But Lou wasn’t in the men’s room. Lou didn’t seem to be anywhere. “He probably left the building for a few minutes, Mama. Maybe he had a meeting.”

But Mama wasn’t buying it. She gripped my arm so tightly that I had to pry her fingers loose. I led her to a chair and sat her down. “Look, if he isn’t back by the time I’m finished, I’ll help you track him down, but right now I have to rehearse my segment. They’re waiting for me, and I haven’t even collected my models and supplies yet.”

She jumped out of the seat. “Let me help you.”

Mama followed me out of the studio and down the hall to the models and supply room. I unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Mama screamed.

Five

“Lou!” Mama dropped to
the floor. “Anastasia, do something! Get help!”

But Lou was beyond help. His body lay sprawled on the floor, my Valentine mop doll wreath sitting on his chest. The knitting needle I planned to use to demonstrate making curly hair for one of the mop dolls was impaled through both the doll and Lou’s heart.

Mama reached for the knitting needle. I grabbed her wrist. “What are you doing?” she shrieked. “We have to save him!”

“He’s dead, Mama.” I lifted her to her feet and wrapped my arms around her. “You can’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”

“Dead? Nooooo! You don’t know that.”

I figured Lou’s open-eyed, blank stare was a dead giveaway—no pun intended—but I didn’t say anything, just held firm to Mama. She struggled to break free, throwing her head back and letting loose a blood-curdling scream that echoed off the walls. Within seconds the doorway was crammed with the curious.

“What’s going on?” asked Sheri, pushing her way through the jaw-gaping crowd. But before anyone could answer, she saw for herself. “Ohmigod! Is he …?”

“What do you think?” answered Vince.

“As a doorknob,” said Monica. She wrinkled her nose at Lou’s prostrate body.

“Ever seen a live doorknob?” asked Vince.

Sheri glared in disgust at the two of them. “The man was murdered. How can the two of you make jokes?”

Vince raised his eyebrows and offered us a smile that was more sardonic than apologetic. Then he placed his hand on the small of Monica’s back and elbowed the two of them out of the storeroom.

Sheri stared after them for a moment before whipping out her cell phone and punching in 911. In a voice choked with tears she reported the homicide.

The finger-pointing began before the police arrived. While Lou’s corpse lay in state in the storeroom, accusatory whispers assailed every corner of the studio, the hallways, and the reception area. No techie, clerk, or gopher was without a theory, and none was too shy to voice them.

“Had to be Alto.”

“My money’s on Monica.”

“Could be one of them editors. Hell, I’d probably kill, too, if someone forced me to work without pay.”

“What about Ray? He’s always accusing Lou of boinking Monica.”

“Ray’s certifiable. He accuses everyone of getting it on with Monica.”

“I heard Sheri really ripped a new hole into Lou the other day.”

“Can’t say as I blame her. Seems like Lou dumped his common sense overboard on that boat trip. What do you think he saw in that harebrained dimwit he took up with?”

“Beats me but at least with Lou gone to the great TV studio in the sky, we won’t have to put up with that old bat and her silk damask demands.”

“Maybe she killed him.”

“If she did, she’s dumber than I thought. Rumor has it Lou was loaded. A smart broad would’ve waited until after the
I do
’s.”

I could understand people suspecting Monica, Vince, and Sheri.
I
could even conceive of them darting suspicious glances at the
American Woman
editors. But Mama? I hurried back to where I had parked her on a couch in Lou’s office.

I found her staring glassy-eyed at her engagement ring as tears streamed down her cheeks and plopped onto the skirt of her nubby linen Pierre Cardin suit. “Mama, I want you to take this.” I sat next to her and handed her a glass of water and a Xanax I’d coaxed from Naomi. One dose wouldn’t turn Mama into a happy pill junkie, but it might calm her enough to get her through the police interview.

She took the pill without question. After a few sips of water she
heaved a deep sigh and turned to me. “Everything’s ruined, Anastasia. For me. For you. The boys. Lou was the answer to our prayers.”
She hiccupped a sob. “A man to take care of us. No more money worries.”

“Are you telling me you planned to marry Lou for his money? That you didn’t love him?”

“I was doing it for us, dear. Lou had more money than he knew what to do with. What’s so wrong with helping him spread the wealth a bit? And I
was
fond of him. Besides, look where marrying for love has gotten me? Five dead husbands and hardly two nickels to rub together. I thought I’d try something different this time around.” She heaved another sigh, held her hand at arm’s length, and inspected the Cleveland-sized chunk of ice on her third finger. “Do you think Tiffany’s will give me a refund on my ring?”

Great. Mama, the Queen of Romance, had become Goldie the gold digger in her dotage.

The police kept us for hours as two homicide detectives questioned all of us one at a time. I don’t know what Mama told them when it was her turn, but she was with them a good deal longer than anyone else. And when they escorted her from the office they’d commandeered for interviews, they looked like they’d been the ones to undergo the grilling.

Mama, on the other hand, had resorted to her natural busybody self, all signs of her emotional breakdown gone. Whether it was the effect of the happy pill or her own stoic resilience, I couldn’t say, but she did have more than her share of experience dealing with death.

“Now, you dear boys will keep me informed about your progress in capturing my poor Lou’s killer, won’t you?” She craned her neck to face the two men who were both well over six feet tall.

“Of course, ma’am,” said one.

Mama patted his arm. “If you need any help, you be sure to give me a call. I started watching
CSI
and
Law & Order
after that nasty business I told you about. Believe me, getting tied up with a Ruskie in a bathtub for hours certainly changed my perspective on life, not to mention my television viewing choices. I could be a big help to you boys.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Apparently Mama had regaled them with her tale of how Ricardo the Loan Shark broke into my house three months ago, hog-tied her to Lucille, and dumped them in the bathtub. I don’t know how the detectives managed to remain straight-faced. I reached for Mama’s arm and nudged her along. “Come on, Mama. We need to let these gentlemen continue with their investigation.” I turned to them. “We can go?”

They nodded. “For now,” said one of them.

Mama and I had only taken a few steps down the hall when she stopped short and turned back to them. “And you won’t forget what I told you about you-know-who,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper that could be heard halfway down the corridor.

“No, ma’am. We’ll check into it,” said the detective standing to the left.

“What was that all about?” I asked as we stepped into the elevator.

“What was what, dear?”

I eyed Mama with skepticism, not about to fall for her Miss Innocent act. “Who’s you-know-who and what did you tell the detectives?”

“I told them the truth, of course.”

I silently counted to ten on a swiftly exhaled rush of exasperation and balled my fists, fighting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake. “The truth about what?”

The elevator came to a stop, and we stepped out into the street level lobby. Turning to face me, Mama exhaled her own breath of annoyance before answering in a tight, clipped voice. “I told them all about that nasty Sheri and how she tried to steal my idea. As far as I’m concerned, she’s the prime suspect. She had motive, opportunity, and method.”

Who said network television isn’t educational? Thanks to her nightly diet of police dramas, Mama had police jargon down pat. I resisted the urge to say, “Ten-four, good buddy,” but since she seemed to be challenging me, I decided to play along. As we exited the building and headed down the street, I asked, “And exactly what was Sheri’s motive, Detective Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe?”

Mama stopped in the middle of the crowded sidewalk and turned to face me. As pedestrians darted around us, she lifted her chin and puffed out her chest. “Jealousy, of course.”

I raised both eyebrows. “If that’s the case, why didn’t she kill you?”

With a roll of her eyes, a click of her tongue, and a shake of her head Mama said, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Anastasia. Why would anyone want to kill me?”

_____

We didn’t arrive home until after seven. Lights blazed from every window of the house even though we were well into Daylight Savings Time, and the sun was just beginning to lower in the sky. Time for another mom lecture on how pennies saved on electricity grew into dollars for college.

As I opened the front door, classic rock assaulted my ears. Across the living room, Catherine the Great leaped from her throne atop the sofa and sauntered over to greet Mama with a loud purr and a rubbing of fur against stockinged legs.

Mama stooped to pick up her oversized Persian and hugged the white fur ball to her chest. “I’m afraid there won’t be any caviar for you now,” she said, nuzzling her face into Catherine the Great’s long-haired coat. After some cooing and cuddling, Mama lifted her head to speak to me. “Lou promised nothing but the best for my Catherine the Great.”

Caviar for a cat? I eyed the corpulent feline in my mother’s arms and wondered about the witchcrafting skills Mama must have acquired during her Caribbean cruise. She’d certainly cast a spell over the recently departed Lou Beaumont. “She’ll survive.”

Mama sighed. Her shoulders sagged. I wasn’t certain whether from the weight of her emotions or her cat. “As will we all, I suppose.”

I draped my arm around her shoulders and pecked her cheek. Poor Mama. She’d had the best of intentions, and as badly as she felt now, I was glad she wasn’t marrying Lou. Not that I wanted him dead, but I hated to think Mama the
r
omantic had planned to marry a man she didn’t love in order to provide financial security for herself and her family.

She slipped out from under my arm and began walking toward the bedroom she shared with Lucille. “I hope you don’t mind, but I need to rest a bit from all the excitement of the day. Be a dear and call me when dinner’s ready.”

“Sure, Mama.”

Dinner. I sniffed. The pungent aroma of herbs and spices assailing my olfactory glands told me someone had beaten me to that task. Surely not Lucille. She never lifted a finger in the kitchen. And Nick and Alex limited themselves to nuking leftovers in the microwave. I followed the tantalizing scent in search of the Dinner Fairy and found my too-sexy-for-his-own-good tenant standing at the kitchen sink. His arms were submerged to the elbows in sudsy water, my emerald green
Kiss the Cook
apron looped over his neck but left untied at the waist. Black jeans cupped a pair of steel buns that swayed to the sounds of the Rolling Stones coming from the boom box on top of the refrigerator as Zack sang along about getting no satisfaction.

I sucked in my lips, stifling the groan that had skyrocketed from an area south of my belly into the back of my throat.
Propriety, Anastasia. Propriety. You’re supposed to be in mourning
. But mourning a louse wasn’t easy, especially when an Adonis was scouring my frying pan. Besides, my resistance was down. Stumbling over dead bodies tends to do that to me.

Zack’s deep baritone shifted to singing about being on a losing streak.

Story of my life lately.

And as if that weren’t enough, the Adonis, who must also be a reincarnation of the magical Merlin, had somehow cast a spell over my sons. Both sang backup while Alex loaded the dishwasher and Nick swept the floor. Ralph held court on top of the boom box, bobbing his beak from side to side like a feathery metronome.

Oh, no, no, no.

Hey, hey, hey
.

Nick spied me first. “Hi, Mom! We were too hungry to wait, so Zack made dinner.”

The cook in question turned at the sound of his name. “Hope you don’t mind. There’s leftover beef stir-fry and couscous with roasted pine nuts in the microwave for you and Flora.”

Mind? Why should I mind my very own personal chef-hunk? I collapsed into a chair and waved away his concern. “Hey, feel free to take over KP any time.” As long as he didn’t demand a rent reduction. I needed every penny of that monthly rent check he wrote me.

Alex removed a still-steaming plate of food from the microwave and set it in front of me. Nick brought me a napkin and silverware. “Time to hit the books,” said Alex with a wink to his brother before the two of them dashed from the kitchen. Subtle my sons are not.

“Tell Grandma Flora dinner’s ready,” I called to their departing backs.

After lowering the volume on the boom box, Zack poured two glasses of wine from a half-empty bottle of Merlot sitting on the kitchen counter. I raised an eyebrow. I hadn’t been able to afford wine in months, and Zack wasn’t irresponsible enough to have served Nick and Alex.

Handing me a nearly full glass, he answered my silent question. “Nick said he found it hidden in the back of his closet while searching for a missing sneaker.”

I should have known. “Lucille. No wonder she’s always tripping over her cane or walker. She’s not supposed to mix alcohol with her medication.” Not that Lucille has ever followed orders from any authority figure. My mother-in-law answers to no man. Or woman. I paused for a moment and listened to the relative quiet of the house. No senior citizen bickering coming from the bedroom wing. “By the way, where is our resident Comrade in Arms?”

“Haven’t seen her.”

I shrugged. “Out fomenting revolution, no doubt. If she winds up in jail this time, she’s out of luck. I no longer have the money to bail her out, and the house is mortgaged up the wazoo.”

Nick darted through the kitchen on his way to the basement. “Grandma says she’s too tired to eat. Have you seen my cleats, Mom?”

I quoted my standard response. “They’re wherever you last left them,” then added, “I thought you had homework.”

“I’m doing it.”