Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (19 page)

“Another good point,” muttered Cloris.

“Maybe you should make more of an effort to contact your Uncle Chessie,” I told Tessa.

That got me speared by an evil eye. Apparently, Uncle Chessie wasn’t interested in bailing out his niece. Or any of her fellow editors.

_____

On my way home that evening, I stopped at the hospital to check in on Lucille. She turned to face the door as it swooshed open from my push.

“Oh, it’s only you.”

Typical Lucille. All piss and vinegar with never a kind word for anyone other than her fellow Daughters of the October Revolution. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“They won’t let any of my sisters visit.”

“That’s because only immediate family members are allowed in the ICU.”

“I told them they were my sisters.”

“You lied.”

“Hardly.”

“Would you rather I leave?”

She turned to face the window. “Suit yourself.”

I pulled up a chair alongside the bed and sat down. I hope someone upstairs is keeping score because I’m sure I’ve filled my lifetime patience quota and should now qualify for living sainthood. “Did the doctors explain what happened to you?”

She grunted. “A minor stroke. You need to change the way you cook.”

“Your stroke is my fault?”

“Of course it’s your fault! I never had high blood pressure and high cholesterol before I came to live with you. Get me out of here. Now. If I get flesh-eating bacteria, I’ll know who to thank for that, as well.”

Count to a thousand, Anastasia
.

Scratch that. A thousand wouldn’t cut it. I’d better count to a million. I took a deep breath, bit down on my tongue, and willed myself to stay calm. “You can’t leave, Lucille.”

“Why the hell not?” She pounded her fists on the bed, then rattled the side rails. “I know my rights. You can’t keep me here against my will. No one can.”

Actually, I could, and I had the papers to prove it. “You have a brain tumor, Lucille. You need an operation.”

“That’s ridiculous! There’s nothing wrong with my brain. I’d know. I’m perfectly sane.”

Yes, and crusading for the rights of jaywalkers definitely comes from the workings of a rational mind. “No one said you were insane. Did the neurosurgeon speak with you today?”

“How should I know? There’s a constant parade of snot-nosed white coats in and out of here. Half of them don’t even speak English. All poking and prodding and none of them over the age of twelve. What kind of hospital is this you stuck me in?”

Again, my fault.

“They allow children to practice medicine here. Did you know that? I’ll bet you did. You’re letting them use me as a guinea pig, aren’t you? Well, I’ll have none of it. I demand to see birth certificates and medical licenses before I allow another one of them near me.

“And you get out! I don’t want to look at you. You’re trying to kill me. I know it.”

With that she started to stab the call button and yelled, “Nurse! Nurse! Where the hell is everyone? Nurse! Get your ass in here now. Who the hell do you think pays your salary?”

Having been dismissed, I left the room.

“Don’t let it get to you,” said the duty nurse. “It’s the tumor talking.”

Or in Lucille’s case, screaming. “You heard her?”

“Are you kidding? They can hear her in Newark.”

Twenty-one

On my way home
my phone rang as I crept along with rush hour traffic. I didn’t answer. Having once missed a head-on collision by mere inches, thanks to the other driver talking on his cell instead of paying attention to the road, I take the state law against phone usage while driving quite seriously.

As soon as safely possible, I pulled off the road and checked my missed calls. Mama. I didn’t bother to call her back. Within seconds, the phone rang a second time. I checked the display, then powered the phone off before I pulled back into traffic.

Some people have a very odd concept of what constitutes an emergency. Mama was one of them. I’m sure her call had to do with the breaking story that most certainly had headlined the six o’clock news. Mama would have to wait another twenty minutes for her gossip fix regarding Monica’s arrest.

Sure enough, the moment I pulled into the driveway, Mama rushed out the front door and was upon me before I even turned off the engine. “Anastasia, why didn’t you answer your phone? Did you hear the news? Monica Rivers is in jail.”

Nothing like a grand bombardment before I even entered the house. I pulled my key from the ignition and exited the car. “I know, Mama.”

“What? And you didn’t call me? Really, dear, you can’t leave me out of the loop like this. I have a vested interest in
Morning Makeovers
. After all, the show was my idea.”

In
The History of the World as Told by Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe
, the annals will record
Morning Makeovers
as Mama’s idea. She’d see to it, and the truth be damned.

“Not to mention I was nearly poor Lou’s wife,” she added, ending her statement with a dramatic sniff accompanied by a misting of her eyes.

I noted Lou’s formerly ever-present adjective had returned, although given recent discoveries,
poor
Lou would have been a more accurate appellation than
poor Lou
.

Mama took another sniff and a deep breath before continuing. “The evening news gave very few details. Tell me everything you know. Don’t leave out anything.”

“You probably know as much or more than I do, Mama.”

“Nonsense. You were there.”

“At the arrest scene? Of course, not.”

“No dear, at the studio. Did Monica kill poor Lou because he found out about her extra-curricular activities? Surely the detectives filled you all in.”

“Only on
Law & Order
and in mystery novels, Mama. Denouements rarely occur in real life.”

Mama grabbed my arm. Her eyes grew wide with excitement. “You’re going to be on
Law & Order
? How long have you been keeping this secret?
SVU
or
Criminal Intent
? I do love that Jeff Goldblum. Do you think they’d allow me on the set when you shoot your scenes?”

“Focus, Mama. No
Law & Order
. And no detectives showing up at the studio to fill us in on Monica’s arrest.”

“But you just said—”

“I was only trying to make a point. Real life is different from fiction.”

Mama glared at me. “And you think I don’t know that? Since when do you make fun of your mother, Anastasia? I brought you up better than that.”

My stomach rumbled. I suppose now wouldn’t be the best time to ask if she’d prepared dinner. Instead, I kissed her cheek. “Yes, Mama, you did, and I’m sorry.”

Although no doubt Anastasia Pollack costarring with Jeff Goldblum would also one day become a chapter in
The History of the World As Told by Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe
. If only! I could sure use a
Law & Order
costar’s paycheck.

“Oh, by the way,” said Mama as we entered the house, “
that woman
called for you.”

That woman
could only mean one woman. “Sheri?”

“That’s what I just said, didn’t I?”

“Did she leave a message?”

“She wants you to meet her somewhere for a location shoot tomorrow.”

“What location shoot? I wrapped up taping my latest segment this morning.”

“How should I know? We’re certainly not—what is it the kids call it nowadays? BFFs? Anyway, I didn’t speak with her. Alex answered the phone and took the message. He said she told him it was part of the revised schedule, be there at eight, and don’t be late. He wrote the address down on the pad by the kitchen phone. And she said you’d probably do better taking the subway, that there’s next to no parking in the area.”

I went into the kitchen and grabbed the note off the pad. The Bronx? The woman expected me to be in the Bronx by eight in the morning? I’d have to set my alarm for the crack of dawn.

As I’d expected, Mama had done nothing in the way of dinner preparation. Given Mama’s abilities in the kitchen—or more accurately, lack of them—perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. However, it would be nice to come home occasionally and not find everyone waiting around for me to fill their empty, growling bellies.

Admittedly, I enjoyed those evenings when I arrived home to find Zack in my kitchen. Along with all his other admirable qualities, the man was a damned good cook. Too bad he wasn’t standing in my kitchen right now.

“Where are the boys?” I asked Mama. “I don’t suppose anyone bothered to walk Mephisto?”

“The boys are out running an errand with Zack, and you know I won’t go near that demon.”

“What kind of errand?” I asked as I headed for the mud room to grab Devil Dog’s leash.

Mama shrugged. “Just an errand of some sort.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing, dear. Why do you always believe I have ulterior motives?”

With that, Ralph made his presence know for the first time since we entered the kitchen. From his perch on the refrigerator he squawked, “
Had he the motive and the cue for passion that I have?
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
. Act Two, Scene Two.”

Ralph spread his wings, then preened, awaiting applause for his outstanding performance. Mama graced him with a screwing up of her face and a muttered “filthy bird” under her breath. Then to me, “You didn’t answer me, dear.”

“I should think it’s obvious, Mama. Because you usually do have ulterior motives. Alex and Nick—and you—need to leave Zack alone. I rely on his rent money and don’t want him running off because you’re all trying to create some sort of romantic set-up.”

Mama gave me one of those I-know-something-you-don’t-know smiles of hers. “I hardly think you need worry about that, dear.”

“Oh?”

“Really, Anastasia, you can be so dense sometimes. Haven’t you noticed the way that man looks at you? And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him when you think no one is watching you.”

“Mama, stop playing matchmaker. I’m recently widowed, remember?”

“Under the circumstances, I think you have every right to jump back into the dating pool. Sooner rather than later. There’s a lot of competition out there, dear, in case you hadn’t noticed, and you’ve got a very eligible and interested bachelor practically living under your roof.”

“He’s living over my garage, not under my roof.”

“Same difference.”

“This conversation is over. I need to start dinner.”

“No need. Dinner should arrive momentarily.”

_____

“You really have to stop doing this,” I told Zack later that evening as we cleaned up from a Chinese take-out feast.

“Doing what?”

“Allowing my mother and kids to manipulate you.”

“Is that what you think is going on?”

“Isn’t it pretty obvious?”

Zack placed a plate in the dishwasher, then turned to face me. “I’m a big boy, Anastasia. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. Haven’t in a long time.”

“But—”

“I spend most of my life alone. It’s an occupational hazard. I enjoy spending time with you and your family, but if you think I shouldn’t—”

“I didn’t say that. I just don’t want my sons taking advantage of you.”

“And you?” He smiled, a mischievous smile with a glint in both eyes. “What about you?”

I stared at him, unsure how to respond. Was Mama right? Did Zack have feelings for me beyond casual friendship? I knew what the man stirred in me, and I’d tried my damnedest to stomp out those feelings.

Hell, drop-dead gorgeous and successful, Zack Barnes was a dream catch. He could have anyone he wanted. Why on earth would he be interested in a middle-aged widow with a spreading bottom, debt up the wazoo, and two teenage sons? Not to mention Mama, Lucille, and a motley menagerie. Any sane man would break the world’s sprint record fleeing the scene.

But Zack wasn’t any man, as I found out, when a moment later—before I’d figured out how to answer him—he cupped my face in his hands, dipped his head, and kissed me. The man kissed me like I’d never been kissed in my life.
Sorry Karl. Had I known there were men who kissed like Zack, I never would have married you
.

And look how much better off I’d be right now. Damn. I’d been cheated in more ways than one. Not only by Karl but by every other guy I’d ever dated.

All these thoughts tumbled through my brain and more, while in the background I could swear I heard Alex, Nick, and Mama high-fiving each other. I didn’t care. I was too busy kissing Zack back. And having the time of my life doing so.

All good things must come to an end, though, and eventually both Zack and I needed to come up for air. I dreaded the awkwardness that I anticipated, the moments after the kiss. What to say? I hadn’t experienced a first kiss in a very long time and never one that made every other kiss—first or not—pale by comparison.

But Zack didn’t let awkwardness ensue. “I’m glad that’s over with,” he said.

Then we both laughed.

And kissed again.

“Mama is going to be impossible to live with from now on,” I told him a few minutes later after we traded the kitchen for the greater privacy of the back porch.

“Cheer up,” he said. “With her track record, she’ll be on to Husband Number Six in no time.”

“Which will leave me with Lucille.” A less than happy thought. I’d rather have ten conniving Mamas living under my roof than one curmudgeon of a mother-in-law. Unfortunately, I was stuck with Lucille. Till death do us part.

I caught Zack up on my hospital visit before turning the conversation to Monica’s arrest. “But I guess you knew about that investigation, too? From your ex-wife?”

In the fading light he answered with an enigmatic smile. Nothing more.

“As I suspected. Keeping any other secrets from me?”

He made an exaggerated show of pondering the question for a moment before answering, “No, I think that’s about it.”

“Good to know.”

“Do you have any idea how Monica’s arrest will impact the show? Vince certainly won’t be coming back and now Monica.”

I told him what Naomi thought and how Sheri was already revamping the program, including dragging me to the Bronx early tomorrow morning. “I sure hope Naomi is right about a quick cancellation. This crazy schedule has to end. Fifteen minutes once a week has morphed into two full-time jobs without the benefits of a second pay check. Trimedia is either going to have zombies for editors or a strike on their hands. None of us can keep up this pace much longer.”

I punctuated my words with a yawn before nestling into Zack’s chest and promptly falling asleep.

_____

I woke up the next morning in my own bed. Alone. Someone had removed my shoes but not my clothes, tossed a quilt over me, and set my alarm for five thirty. Zack. Mama would have said to hell with Sheri and let me sleep.

After showering and dressing—or more accurately, redressing—I left the house before anyone else woke up and hiked the three blocks to the train station. If I lived to see retirement—a rather speculative
if
, given my financial situation—I planned to celebrate by catching up on all those missed Z’s. At my present rate of sleeplessness, I figured that would place me in contention to overtake Rip Van Winkle’s record.

The address Alex had scribbled down wasn’t far from the Castle Hill Avenue station on the 6 line. According to Google maps, somewhere around thirty-five miles as the crow flies. More like forever and a day via public transportation.

Other than the occasional trip to the Bronx Zoo when Alex and Nick were little, I’d never set foot in the Bronx. Then again, I’d rarely set foot in any of the outer boroughs except for taking the subway to Queens for Mets games, and I hadn’t done that since before the demise of Shea Stadium and the erection of the new Citi Field.

For the most part, Staten Island, Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx were as foreign to me as Kalamazoo, Michigan, or Kracker Station, Mississippi. I had no idea how long it would take to arrive at my destination and hoped the two hours I’d allotted for the commute would be sufficient, given that once in Manhattan, I’d first need to take three subway lines, then walk several blocks.

Two hours and fifteen minutes after leaving my house, I arrived at the Castle Hill Avenue station, already late, dripping sweat from an exceptionally hot June morning, and still blocks from my destination. I glanced around to get my bearings. The area resembled Chicago more than New York, due to the train switching from underground to elevated tracks once we crossed the Harlem River from Manhattan into the Bronx.

One-story retail shops lined the main thoroughfare—a nail salon, thrift shop, real estate office, bank, hardware store, bodega, and several take-out restaurants featuring Mexican, Indian, and Chinese menus—most with signage declaring
Habla Español
or advertising
Halal
foods. An odd neighborhood for a
Morning Makeovers
photo shoot. What was Sheri thinking?