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

by Lois Winston

  Directions: (NOTE—all gluing can be done with either tacky glue or a glue gun except for attaching the muslin to the Dylite® ball. This step must be done with tacky glue.) Cut a 4¾” diameter circle from muslin for the face. Snip ¼” cuts around the perimeter of the muslin circle. Using tacky glue, glue the muslin to the front of the Dylite® ball, smoothing out any wrinkles.

  Poke a hole in the bottom of the Dylite® ball directly under the muslin face. Glue the craft stick into the ball, allowing approximately 3½” of the stick to extend.

  Spread the mop apart on a table. Randomly pull 26 strands from the mop. Set strands aside. With the bottom of the doll head adjacent to the top of the mop, glue the craft stick centered over the mop tape. Glue several strands of mop closest to the head down over the craft stick and mop tape to conceal them. Flip the doll over and repeat the previous step to conceal the mop tape on the reverse side. Wrap one of the set-aside mop strands around the doll’s neck, gluing in place.

  At both the left and right sides of the doll, take the top 18 mop strands. Trim 3” from length, saving trimmed pieces to use for hair. Braid strands for arms, securing each wrist with a rubber band.

  Tie the body together under the arms with one mop strand to form a waist. Trim ends even with bottom of mop.

  Set aside 8 mop strands for pigtails. Cut remaining 16 strands into 3” lengths. Run a line of glue around the edge of the muslin for hairline. Fold strands in half, gluing folded edge to the muslin. Run a second line of glue in front of the hairline. Glue a second row of folded strands in front of the first row. Place the doll face down. Working in even horizontal rows from the base of the neck to the top of the head, continue gluing hair in place.

  Cut remaining 8 lengths of mop strands in half. Tie each half in the middle with one strand. Glue tied section to each side of head for pigtails.

  Glue beads in place for eyes.

  Use blush or chalk to color cheeks.

  Mama claims to descend from Russian royalty. I didn’t doubt it, considering her stubborn streak was as long as the Volga and as deep as Lake Baikal. Later that evening, as I began work on a group of mop dolls, I confronted her about the show. She refused to relinquish credit for the new format.

  “It was my idea!” she insisted as I tried to convince her otherwise. “Lou said so, and he’s the boss. If that woman doesn’t like it, she can quit.” She pounded her fist on my makeshift work table, releasing a cloud of mop doll lint. “Who needs her?”

  I batted at the white fuzz flying in front of my face. I had forgotten the one drawback to crafting mop dolls: they shed more than Catherine the Great. “Lou needs her, Mama.”

  “Lou could replace her like that.” She snapped her fingers under my nose, then crossed her arms over her chest and jutted out her lower lip. Full Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe sulk mode.

  I secured a braided mop doll arm with an elastic band, took a deep breath, and played my trump card. “If you won’t do it for her, do it for me.” Then for good measure, I dug deep into my childhood repertoire and conjured up a pair of hang-dog Hush Puppy eyes. “Please?” How could she resist?

  Mama wasn’t falling for it. “I don’t understand. How does this concern you?”

  So much for hang-dog Hush Puppy eyes. I sighed. “I have to work with the woman. It’s bad enough I’m not getting paid for all this added responsibility, I’d at least like to work in a no-combat zone.”

  Mama thought this over for a moment, then patted my arm. “Don’t worry, dear. If she makes life difficult for you, I’m sure Lou will fire her.”

  Not the answer I’d hoped for.

  _____

  The remainder of the week passed in a cyclonic tumult of magazine deadlines, photo shoots, and mop dolls. In-between, I sandwiched the standard mom duties of laundry, cooking, carpooling, and nagging. Not to mention dousing the spontaneous combustion that flared up at least once a day when a proud Daughter of the American Revolution and an equally proud Daughter of the October Revolution faced off.

  Friday morning, I packed the trunk of my bottom-of-the-line, eight-year-old mud brown Hyundai, and with a quick prayer to the God of Rattletraps, I headed for midtown Manhattan to drop off the models and supplies for Monday’s rehearsal.

  Prior to widowhood, I drove a two-year-old Camry, but finances—or more precisely, a lack of them—had forced me to trade comfort and car payments for a free-and-clear clunker that wheezed like a three-pack-a-day emphysema victim. However, for the past three months the Hyundai had managed to provide dependable, if noisy, transportation and—fingers crossed—would continue to do so.

  Eighteen miles and an hour and a half of bumper-to-bumper traffic later, I pulled into a parking garage a block from the studio. Lugging one carton with me, I left the other five in the car for additional trips.

  Ever since 9/11, visitors have to show photo ID and sign in at all New York office buildings. On top of that, any unattended packages immediately raise suspicion. I was hoping I could convince the security guard to let me stack the cartons in the lobby while I made trips back and forth to the car, but I wasn’t holding my breath. He could just as soon decide I was a new breed of middle-aged suburban soccer mom terrorist and call in the bomb squad to blow up my mop dolls.

  Once at the security desk, I placed my first carton on the counter while I hunted in my purse for my driver’s license. “I have five more cartons to bring in from my car,” I said, handing over the license. “I’m headed up to the Morning Makeovers studio. Is it okay if I pile the cartons somewhere instead of making six separate trips upstairs?”

  The guard, a middle-aged Hispanic man with a baby face and a Hulk Hogan body, studied my ID, glanced down at a list in front of him, then stood up. The next thing I knew, he was pushing a hand truck around from the back of the counter. “Ms. Rabbstein had this sent down for you, Ms. Pollack. She said you’d be bringing in a bunch of cartons.”

  He parked the hand truck in front of me and handed back my license, along with a card. “This here’s your temporary ID until you’re issued a permanent one. I’ll keep an eye on this carton while you get the rest. I’d do it for you, but I can’t leave my post.”

  Definitely not the reception the cynic in me had expected, either from the security guard or Sheri. I glanced at his name badge. “Thank you, Hector.”

  He tipped his cap. “Not a problem, ma’am.”

  I headed back toward the parking garage, hand truck in tow. Ten minutes later I returned, panting from the effort of maneuvering the carton-laden hand truck against the tide of New York City pedestrians. I really needed to start exercising. I’d even added it to my to-do list, right under finding a cure for cancer and a solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

  Carcinomas, the Middle East, and aerobic workouts would have to wait, though. I needed to deal with Sheri. This would be our first one-on-one encounter, and I didn’t know what to expect. However, her thoughtfulness regarding the hand truck gave me hope.

  Once upstairs, I parked the hand truck in the hallway, took one last deep breath and headed for her office. Finding the door slightly ajar, I rapped a quick knock-knock before stepping inside. Sheri stood at the window, talking on the phone, her back to me. Her free hand twisted the hem of a black cardigan that covered the top half of a yellow, peach, and mint green diagonally striped muumuu.

  “Yes, we had an agreement,” she told the caller, “but you have to understand … No! How can you think that? I’ve told you. I wouldn’t—”

  I cleared my throat. “Sheri?”

  She spun around, her eyes wide, her cheeks glowing fire hydrant red. Without releasing her death grip on the sweater, she help up her index finger, then turned back to the window and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Look, Max, I have to go. Someone’s here. Can we discuss this later? Over dinner? I’m sure we can work something out.” She paused for a moment, nodding her head as she listened. “All right. Tonight. I love you, too.”

 
; I watched as she took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling, before she hung up the phone and turned to me. “Anastasia, I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our appointment.”

  Great. She’s already pissed over Mama stealing her idea. Now I’m late for our appointment, and I get caught eavesdropping on a lover’s quarrel. Nice work, Anastasia. Hand truck thoughtfulness aside, for someone who didn’t want to make an enemy, I’d certainly gotten off to a slam-bang start.

  “Sorry about being late.” I shrugged. “Traffic. No matter how much time you allow yourself, it’s never enough.” Without pausing, I launched into damage control. “Look, I didn’t mean to intrude. Your door was open, and I—”

  Sheri held up her hand. “No need. It was nothing. Really. Don’t worry about it.” She smiled as she rounded her desk, but the smile didn’t mask the hurt and worry in her eyes. “Come see the set,” she said, grabbing my arm. “You’ll love what we’ve done.”

  The generic talk-show desk and chairs with a faux New York city skyline backdrop had been replaced by a country great room, complete with gas fireplace and overstuffed leather sofas. A kitchen-to-die-for took up a sizable section to the left. “We’ll do the craft demos here,” she said, pointing to the granite-topped island that separated the kitchen from the seating area. “What do you think?”

  “Very nice.” A heck of a lot nicer than my own humble abode with its chipped Formica countertops and worn upholstery. “When can I move in?”

  Sheri giggled. “We have a storage closet set aside for all your supplies and models.” She led me back out of the studio, grabbed the hand truck and headed down a hallway past the dressing rooms, unlocking a door at the far end. The closet was more a room, nearly as large as my bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling metal shelving units stood along one wall. A counter with cabinets underneath ran the length of the opposite wall. Additional cabinets hung above the counter. Along the back wall were several wheeled clothing racks holding an assortment of outfits. No muumuus.

  “The other editors came by yesterday, but there’s still plenty of room for you,” she said, indicating the empty shelves with a sweep of her arm.

  “I had a photo shoot yesterday and didn’t finish the mop dolls until last night.” Why did I feel compelled to offer her an excuse? After all, we weren’t taping for another week.

  “Not a problem,” she said. “I’ll help you unpack. I can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with.”

  An odd comment, I thought, considering she had specified each project. I ripped the packing tape from the first carton. Sheri reached in and removed a mop doll witch attached to a woven grapevine wreath. Her eyes sparkled; her mouth stretched into a wide grin. “For my front door?”

  I nodded. “As you requested. One for each holiday.”

  Sheri gingerly fingered the witch. I had dyed the mop black, dyed the strands used for the hair orange, and dressed the doll in a black witch’s hat with a purple felt cape. Yellow felt stars embellished both. She carried a straw broom and a jack-o-lantern. Black plastic spiders climbed over the vines of the wreath.

  “Oh, I love it! Thank you!”

  And then she did something that knocked the Cynicism Gene right off my DNA helix: she hugged me. So maybe she didn’t blame me for Mama’s credit hijacking, after all.

  When she had finished oohing and aahing over each mop doll wreath, Sheri locked the storage room and handed me the key. “See you Monday,” she said with a wiggle-wave of her index finger.

  I wiggle-waved back and headed for my car.

  By the time I arrived at the office, the day was half over, but I still had at least ten hour’s worth of work ahead of me. I fired up my computer, stared at my to-do list, then did the only sensible thing under the circumstances. I headed for the break room in search of coffee and a chocolate anything. Nothing was so bad that it couldn’t improve with an infusion of caffeine, carbs, and calories.

  _____

  Or so I thought until Monday morning when I arrived back at the studio to find the proverbial caca had hit the proverbial fan.

  Four

  Mornings at Casa Pollack are never pretty, not when two hormonally driven teenage boys and their bodily function-obsessed grandmothers vie for the same bathroom. Call me selfish, but I refuse to share the master bathroom with any of them. I have little enough privacy in this madhouse as it is. And given that I’m the sole pumpernickel-winner, I like to think of my actions as more practical than selfish. I can’t afford to be late for work. Which is why I installed a lock on my bedroom door.

  Not sharing my bathroom has its drawbacks, though. Invariably, someone runs late. This morning it was Mama, thanks to Lucille staking claim after the boys departed.

  I exited my bedroom to find Mama still in her lilac robe and matching fuzzy mules, pounding her fist on the hall bathroom door. I checked my watch. “Mama, we’ve got fifteen minutes to catch the train.”

  “We’ll have to take the next one,” she said. “The commie pinko’s hijacked the bathroom again.”

  I sighed. Then capitulated. “Use my bathroom.”

  “I can’t. She’s holding my make-up hostage.”

  Needless to say, we missed the train. By the time we arrived huffing and puffing into the studio reception area, we were forty minutes late, but I didn’t think forty minutes warranted the reception that greeted us.

  Vince looked annoyed.

  Monica looked antsy.

  Naomi looked frustrated.

  Lou looked apoplectic.

  Sheri looked fit to kill.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as Mama inserted herself between Sheri and Lou. She tipped her head, awaiting a lip-lock, but Lou appeared too distracted to even notice she’d arrived.

  Naomi cleared her throat. “We have a slight problem.”

  “Slight problem?” Vince snickered. “A regular master of the understatement, isn’t she?”

  Monica curled her lip. “The hostess with the mostest.”

  “Lou, aren’t you even going to say hello to me?” demanded Mama, one hand on her hip, the other tucked around his arm.

  Sheri’s already crimson face deepened three shades darker than her pink carnation print muumuu. Her narrowed eyes targeted Vince and Monica. “The two of you are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  Monica stared her down. “What if we are?”

  “God works in mysterious ways,” said Vince. He clasped his hands in front of him and glanced ceiling-ward, as if expecting divine acknowledgment to rain down on him from the fluorescent fixture. “Maybe the good Lord isn’t happy with the way you’ve railroaded us.”

  “And maybe you’re trying to railroad me,” said Sheri, her voice seething with unrestrained rage.

  Vince placed his hand on his chest, his eyes growing wide with surprise. “Moi? Surely you don’t think I’d stoop to anything so …” He wrinkled his nose and enacted a fake shudder. “So messy.”

  “Of course not, darling,” said Monica. “You’d never do anything to jeopardize your manicure.”

  Vince held his hands up to study his buffed nails. “So true.”

  “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” I asked.

  Lou disentangled himself from Mama and turned to me, his face the ashen pallor of a man on the verge of a coronary. Mama might not make it to the altar with this one, I thought. “We canceled today’s rehearsal,” he said.

  That’s when I noticed the lack of hustle and bustle. The reception area had taken on the aura of a funeral parlor.

  “Honestly, Lou, you could have called,” said Mama. “I rushed to get here.”

  She wasn’t the only one annoyed. I had plenty of work to do back at the magazine and certainly didn’t need to waste half a day in the city. “Why?” I asked.

  “Why?” Sheri’s strangled voice pitched higher. “I’ll show you why.” She grabbed me by the hand and dragged me toward the studio. The others followed behind us. “This is why,” she said, kicking open the door.

 
; I stepped inside and stared bug-eyed, my gaze sweeping the formerly pristine stage set. “My God!” Someone had let loose the Tasmanian Devil, and he’d done one hell of a makeover to Morning Makeovers.

  Clumps of stuffing pulled from slashed cushions lay in cumulus nimbus-like piles across the floor. Deep gashes had been sliced into the wood cabinets and shelves. Splatters of blood red paint covered every horizontal and vertical surface. And in the midst of all the chaos, sitting propped against a paint bucket on the granite-topped island, sat my Christmas angel mop doll, looking proud as punch nestled in her gumdrop-decorated wreath. However, instead of a candy cane in her arms, she held a blood red acrylic-soaked paintbrush.

  “Oh dear!” said Mama.

  “Who did this?” I asked.

  “Someone out to sabotage my program,” said Sheri through gritted teeth. She stood hands-on-hips, her glare encompassing Naomi, Vince, Monica, and me.

  “Your program?” asked Mama, getting in Sheri’s face. “It’s Lou’s program and my idea.”

  “Mama, don’t.” I pulled her away from Sheri. “We’ve been over this,” I hissed in her ear. “Sheri came up with the idea way before you met Lou. Now drop it. We’ve got more serious problems here.”

  “Hmmph!” She exhaled a classic Flora pout. “We’ll see about that.”

  Lou eyed Mama, eyed Sheri, then shook his head before wrapping a shaky arm around Sheri’s shoulders. Mama stiffened. “We don’t know that it’s sabotage directed specifically toward this show,” Lou said to Sheri. “You know the network has had union problems ever since Trimedia refused to give in to their latest contract demands. We may have been a random target of organized labor high jinks.” But he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  “Like hell,” she said, jerking out of the fatherly embrace. Mama stepped back between them, hip-bumping Sheri out of the way and latching on to Lou’s arm once more.

  “What do the police think?” I asked. “And speaking of police, where are they?”