Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (8 page)

I had no idea what kind of homework required cleats, but I was too tired to don my Grand Inquisitor’s hat.

Zack took the seat opposite me. “Lucille’s done time? Tell me you’re kidding.”

Nick bounded up the basement stairs, cleats in hand. “Found ’em.” As he raced out of the room, he said, “Yeah, and every time she gets locked up, Alex and I get stuck taking care of Demon Dog.”

I shook my head. “She’s slowed down a bit since her accident. Inciting political upheaval is physically challenging when you’re an arthritic eighty year old who’s recently undergone hip replacement surgery.”

“Eighty? Then she was barely out of her teens back in the early fifties.”

“So?”

“The heyday of communism in this country was in the thirties, and most of the people enamored of it back then grew disillusioned with it well before the fifties and the McCarthy hearings. How’d she become such a die-hard Commie?”

“You’d have to ask her. But don’t hold your breath. Lucille isn’t very forthcoming about her past. Even Karl knew nothing. Or so he claimed.” I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and savored the wine. “I needed this.”

“Rough rehearsal?” Zack had ridden into the city on the same train as Mama and I that morning. Between what the boys told him and Mama’s non-stop prattle on the ride from Westfield to Manhattan, Zack knew as much about my life as I did. Maybe more.

“We never got around to rehearsal.”

“More vandalism?”

I shook my head. “Worse. Murder.”

“Jeez!” Zack finished his wine in one gulp. “Who?”

I told him about Poor Lou. Poor
dead
Lou.

“That makes you two for two,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Two Trimedia murders. And you discovered them both.”

I winced. He had a point. How many other women’s magazine editors find themselves in the middle of not one but two company murders? “And both times the killers have implicated me. First with my glue gun, now with my mop dolls.” Not a pattern I wanted repeated.

“Murder! Murder!” squawked Ralph, still atop his perch on the boom box. “
You have done well, that men must lay their murders on your neck
.
Othello
. Act Five, Scene Two.”

I scowled. “You call one step ahead of the bill collectors doing well?” I asked the buttinsky parrot.

Zack refilled his wine glass and topped off mine. “You know, I’m no expert on the subject, but maybe you should consider a safer line of work. I know Navy SEALs who don’t stumble across dead bodies as often as you do.”

“And how many Navy SEALs do you know?” Before he could answer, the phone rang. Zack grabbed the handset and handed it to me.

“Hello?”

“Anastasia, this is Naomi. I have some news.”

Six

I leaped up, nearly
toppling my chair to the floor. “The police caught Lou’s killer? Is it Ray?” During my interview with the detectives I’d told them about the incident I’d observed at the press conference and my conversation with Lou the day before his death.

“No, they haven’t. This isn’t exactly good news.”

Unlike some editorial directors, Naomi respected her editors’ private lives and wasn’t in the habit of calling us at home. The downy hairs on my arm stood at attention; my stomach executed a triple flip-flop. “Then what?”

She took a deep breath and expelled it with a rush. “Trimedia has decided to go ahead with the show. Once the police finish going over the crime scene, we’re all to report back to the studio.”

“But how—?”

“Corporate handed full responsibility for the program over to Sheri. I wanted to give you enough warning because you’ll have to make another Valentine mop doll. The police will hold onto the original as evidence.”

As well as the knitting needle. And they could keep it. That was one tool I never wanted to see again. As a matter of fact, I was seriously considering tossing out all the knitting needles I owned. I’d buy some dowel rods the next time I needed to make curly doll hair. I even contemplated calling Goodwill to pick up all my knitted sweaters and scarves. I wanted nothing that could remind me of poor Lou impaled by a Susan Bates size 11 aluminum needle.

“When do you think they’ll let us back in the studio?” I asked, glancing at Zack. His eyebrows raised in question.

“Sheri seems to think within a day or two.”

“Before Lou’s even buried?”

Naomi’s voice took on a bitter edge. “Business is business, and the show must go on.”

I hung up from Naomi and filled Zack in on the part of the conversation he hadn’t overheard. “So if the killer knocked off Lou to get the show cancelled, he hasn’t succeeded.”

“Which also means the killer might strike again.”

And that meant none of us was safe. Not Mama. Not the
American Woman
editors. Not even Sheri. Who knew to what lengths the killer would go? With shaky hands, I reached for my wine glass and chugged the remainder of the Merlot. “Someone has to find Lou’s killer before he strikes again.”

Zack’s lips tightened as he stared at me for a minute without saying anything. When he finally spoke, he sounded more like a father reprimanding an errant teenager than my tenant. “You’d better leave that to the police. The way I hear it, only dumb luck kept you from getting killed last time you played Sherlock Holmes.”

Dumb luck, an X-Acto knife, and a cell phone, actually. But I like to think that I learn from my experiences, and being locked in the trunk of a killer’s Mercedes was certainly an experience I’ll never forget.

This time I’d be more careful. No need to tell Zack, though. After all, steel buns to drool over or not, he was still only my tenant. Not my husband. Not my boyfriend. Hardly more than an acquaintance, really. What right did he have to lecture me and order me around?

I tamped down the urge to bristle. “You’re right. This time the case is in the hands of New York’s finest, not some inexperienced rural county detectives. I’m sure they’ll have the killer locked up before we go back to the studio for rehearsals and taping.”

Curly Doll Hair Directions

You can create curly doll hair for any size handmade doll, not just mop dolls. Choose a yarn, crochet cotton, or embroidery floss that suits your doll. Bulky yarns work best for bigger dolls; worsted weights for medium sized dolls; and finer yarns, crochet cottons, and floss for small dolls.

Tie the yarn to the end of a knitting needle and wrap tightly, tying off the yarn at the opposite end of the needle. The smaller the knitting needle, the tighter the curls. You can also use shish kabob skewers or dowel rods of varying diameters.

Soak the wrapped needles in hot water, then remove and use a towel to blot up the excess water. Allow the yarn to air dry thoroughly before removing from the needles. You can also place the needles on a cookie sheet and heat in a 225 degree oven to speed up the drying process.

When the yarn is dry, carefully remove it from the needles. Cut into pieces twice the desired length. Apply to doll’s head in the same manner described in the basic mop doll directions.

A hot hunk in tight-fitting black jeans had me in his arms. We were dancing a barefoot samba on the pink sands of Bermuda. He drew me closer and whispered in my ear, “Anastasia?”

“Hmm?”

“Anastasia! Wake up!”

Poof ! My eyes sprang open. Good-bye hot hunk. Hello Mama. She stood over me, shaking my arm.

“Mama, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“Only if heartsick counts.” She nudged me over and plopped down on the edge of the bed. Catherine the Great bounded up after her and with a purr of contentment, settled herself onto my pillow, her tail across my face.

“We need to talk,” said Mama.

I brushed aside the tail and glanced at the clock. Ten minutes past six. Mama had better have a damn good reason for robbing me of a precious twenty minutes before the alarm was set to go off. Not to mention robbing me of that hot hunk. Although I suppose I was partially to blame since I’d obviously forgotten to lock my bedroom door last night.

“If this has anything to do with having to share a room with Lucille, I don’t want to hear it. Your only other option is the sofa in the den. I’m not sharing my bed with you.”

We’d been through that before. Call me selfish but as the only breadwinner in the house, I needed a decent night’s sleep, and that wasn’t possible with Mama camped out next to me. Been there. Done that. Not doing it again.

“This has nothing to do with that commie pinko. Wake up and focus, dear. We need to plan poor Lou’s funeral.”

I rolled to my side and propped my head up with my fist. “We?”

“Well, of course. Who else will do it? That incompetent, idea-stealing assistant of his? She can’t even decorate a set properly. I’m certainly not letting her have anything to do with poor Lou’s funeral arrangements.”

“Mama, you barely knew the man. Surely he has family that will be handling his funeral. Besides, it may be some time before the coroner’s office releases his body.”

“They have to release him immediately. Lou was Jewish.”

“Lou
Beaumont
was a Jew?”

“Yes, dear, and the coroner is going to have to respect his religious beliefs. It’s up to me to see to that.”

“I think a murder investigation trumps the Talmud, Mama.”

Mama learned all about Jewish funereal law when Arnie Goldberg, Husband Number Four, lost his footing and plunged off the edge of the Grand Canyon during their honeymoon. Jews are supposed to be buried within twenty-four hours after death. By the time Arnie’s body was retrieved and shipped back to New Jersey, he made it with only minutes to spare.

Of course, being Mama, she ignored the “buried” part of the law because she insists on having all her husbands close to her. So, like Husbands Number One, Two, and Three before him and Number Five after him, Arnie was cremated and now resides with the rest of Mama’s deceased husbands in a row of bronze urns on a shelf in my dining room. Nothing speaks to an enjoyable dining experience like Flora’s Dead Husbands Shrine staring down at you from above while you eat.

“I’m sure his family will handle the arrangements, Mama.”

“Lou had no family.”

“None?”

“None that he ever mentioned. He would have told me, dear. We were very close.”

“You knew the man for three weeks, Mama. I’m sure he didn’t tell you everything about himself in that time.”

“Well, if he didn’t tell me, he didn’t tell anyone else, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“The detective asked if I had contact information for his next of kin, and when I told him he had none that I knew of, he said the others had said the same thing.”

“What others?”

“Shake the cobwebs from your brain, dear! The other people the police questioned at the studio, of course.”

I thought for a moment. There had to have been someone else in Lou’s life that he’d been close to before Mama came along. Someone who would have been notified of his death. “His will would mention beneficiaries and an executor,” I said. “And Trimedia offers a small life insurance policy as part of our benefits package. He’d have a beneficiary named on that. I’m sure the police have already taken steps to secure those documents and notify the appropriate people.”

“And I’m telling you there was no one, dear. Why do you find it so hard to believe me?”

I bit my tongue on that one. “Mama, I need to get ready for work. We’re going to have to continue this discussion later tonight.”

“Later tonight will be too late.”

“There’s nothing you or I can do about it.”

“There’s plenty we can do. I made a list.” With that she pulled a piece of paper out from the pocket of her robe and shoved it in my face. Under the heading of
Lou’s Funeral
, Mama had written:

1. Have Anastasia take the day off.

2. Arrange with funeral home to pick up Lou’s body.

3. Decide on specifics of service.

4. Pick out Lou’s clothes and deliver to funeral home.

5. Invite guests.

6. Arrange for after service catering.

I suppose by now I shouldn’t be surprised by her organizational skills when it came to planning funerals. After all, Mama had enough funeral planning experience to open up her own funeral home. “Why do I need to take the day off ?”

“How else am I going to get around? I need you to drive me. Besides, I’d think you’d want to help.”

“Why is that?”

“Honestly, Anastasia! How else are you going to snoop around Lou’s apartment to find clues to his killer?”

I bolted upright, knocking a startled Catherine the Great from her pillow perch. “You have a key to Lou’s apartment?”

“Of course, dear. We
were
engaged.”

Too bad I didn’t have any personal leave days left for the year. Or sick days. I’d have to come up with some work-related reason for a trip away from the office and into Manhattan. Under the circumstances, Trimedia should consider a trip to Lou’s apartment as job-related. After all, until his killer was caught, none of the magazine staff was safe. If nothing else, I’m sure they didn’t want to see their premiums skyrocket when all their murdered employees’ heirs cashed in our life insurance policies.

_____

Naomi didn’t exactly agree that sleuthing out clues at Lou’s apartment qualified as a job-related activity, but neither did she want herself or any of her magazine staff targeted as the killer’s next victim. “Be careful, Anastasia.”

“There’s one more thing,” I told her.

“Yes?”

“I don’t have any days off left.”

Naomi sighed into the phone. “I’ll cover for you with Human Resources, but you’ll have a much bigger problem with me if this issue isn’t ready to put to bed on time.”

“I’ll meet my deadline,” I promised. I didn’t add,
just don’t ask me how
. I’d worry about that later.

_____

“Where to first?” I asked Mama. The boys had already departed for school. Ralph and Catherine the Great were both fed. Mama and I were finishing up breakfast, having already both showered and dressed. Lucille and Mephisto were camped out in the hall bathroom and would probably remain there for some time. Don’t ask. I was happy to duck out of the house without having to face either of them this morning.

“Campbell’s,” said Mama.

“Campbell’s? In Manhattan?”

“Of course, dear. Where else? Lou was an important man. He should have a funeral befitting him.”

The Campbell Funeral Chapel, located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, catered to celebrities, dignitaries, and the filthy rich. People like Jackie Kennedy Onassis and John Lennon had lain in state behind their polished mahogany doors. Lou Beaumont hardly made the cut.

“And who’s going to pay for this?”

“Don’t worry about such minor details, dear. I’ll have them bill Trimedia.”

Trimedia
? The skinflint corporate entity that scrutinizes every receipt I submit for reimbursement, down to the last pompom and glue stick? If Mama could pull that off, I’d nominate her for Fed chairman.

But damned if she didn’t.

An hour later I stood by in amazement as she fluttered her teary eyes and beguiled the funeral director into billing all the funeral expenses directly to Trimedia. No questions asked. I wondered why instead of having inherited Mama’s stubby legs, I couldn’t have been blessed with her ability to charm any two-legged creature with a Y chromosome. Such a talent would have come in handy at many times in my life, especially three months ago when I faced down a killer.

_____

After Mama chose everything from a string quartet and the music it would play at the funeral to the coffin Lou would rest in for all of a few hours before doing the ashes-to-ashes thing, we headed over to his apartment in the Murray Hill section of the city.

“Are you sure you have the right address?” I asked Mama. We stood in front of a narrow, five-story walk-up sandwiched between two towering condo complexes.

Mama led the way up a set of crumbling concrete steps. “Of course, I’m sure. Why?”

“This isn’t exactly what I pictured, given Lou’s wealth.” Then
again, maybe Lou’s net worth had been greatly exaggerated by
either the corpse in question or the woman who’d set her sights on him. Exactly how much money did the producer of a Grade Z morning talk show make? I’m sure Lou hadn’t commanded anywhere near the number of zeros in his contract as the producers of the A-list talkfests he competed against for morning viewers.

Mama choked back a sob as she unlocked the outer door to the building. “Lou and I planned to go apartment shopping this weekend. He said he never saw the point in moving before because he spent so little time at home.”