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

by Lois Winston

  Lou’s ashen pallor grew paler. “No police!”

  “You mean you haven’t reported this?” I asked.

  “No, and we’re not going to.”

  “But a crime’s been committed.”

  “No,” said Sheri. “Lou’s right. We can’t afford the negative publicity.”

  I glanced at Naomi. Surely she’d see the absurdity of this. But if she did, she wasn’t agreeing with me. “Trimedia already knows what happened. They want to keep this contained. No police. No press.”

  “What about security tapes? Can’t you at least look at those without bringing in the police?”

  “We only have security cameras at the building entrances,” said Lou.

  “This had to have been committed by someone with access to the building,” I said. “Someone who probably came back long after everyone else left on Friday or sometime over the weekend. You should at least have security review the tapes.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said Lou.

  “I’ll take care of it,” offered Sheri.

  Lou nodded in agreement.

  “It still makes no sense not to file a report with the police,” I said.

  “Whether it makes sense or not, that’s the ruling from the suits,” said Naomi.

  I shrugged. “Fine. What happens now?”

  “Our schedule gets pushed back a day,” said Sheri. “We’ll condense rehearsals. Taping still begins next Monday.”

  “Only a day?” I asked. “To clean up and construct a new set?”

  Mama turned to Lou. “As long as you’re changing things, dear, you know I didn’t like those leather sofas. They were much too masculine. We should go with a nice floral damask. In soft pastels, I think. Or maybe a peach and mint stripe. And stainless steel appliances look so industrial. Classic white is best, don’t you agree, Anastasia?”

  I groaned.

  To her credit, Sheri ignored Mama’s prattling and answered my question. “We’ll have a new set by tomorrow morning even if we have to pay the crew triple-time to work through the night. They’re already tracking down replacement furnishings. It may not be as nice as this one, but—”

  Naomi broke in. “You probably need to make another model, Anastasia.” She nodded in the direction of the angel wreath. “Unless you can repair that one.”

  I walked over to the island and lifted the doll wreath to examine it. Definitely not salvageable. Same old rotten luck. I turned to Sheri. “I don’t suppose I get paid triple time, too?”

  She offered me a tight smile. “Not unless you’re unionized.”

  “If I were unionized, I’d be getting paid for all the work I’m putting in on this show.” Nada times three still equaled nothing more than a huge goose egg, no matter how you did the math.

  “That certainly sounds like a pretty good motive for vandalism to me,” said Vince. He offered a malicious smile.

  Mama spun around to confront him. “How dare you accuse my daughter of anything illegal!”

  Monica waved an index finger at the paint-drenched angel wreath. “Vince is right,” she said. “She even left a calling card of sorts. Just like the Pink Panther did when he stole the jewels. Only Peter Sellers left a glove, not a mop. Although, a mop would have made more sense, don’t you think?”

  We all stared at her.

  “How do you figure that?” asked Vince.

  “Well, he was cleaning out safes, wasn’t he?” She laughed at her own joke, a laugh that came out too loud and coarse.

  Vince snorted. “Not bad.”

  I glared at the two of them. No way would I stoop to vandalizing the studio to get out of my contractual obligations, but at the moment I wasn’t beyond strangling both of them for insinuating as much. “Rumor has it neither of you is happy about the format change. How do we know the two of you aren’t behind this?

  “And by the way,” I said to Monica, mimicking her sneer, “Peter Sellers played Inspector Clouseau. David Niven played the jewel thief. And he was known as The Phantom. The Pink Panther was the diamond he stole.” For someone in show business, she had an abysmal knowledge of classic films.

  Monica waved her hand, dismissing me along with the dust motes floating in the air around us. “Whatever.”

  Sheri stamped her foot. “Who the hell cares about The Pink Panther?”

  “Not me,” said Vince. “I’m outa here. See you all tomorrow. Unless The Pink Panther Strikes Again.”

  Monica spun on her Manolos. “I’m right behind you,” she said, following him off the set.

  “Did anyone check the room with the models and supplies?” I asked Sheri after Vince and Monica left.

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The doll wreath was locked up. Whoever took it, either broke into the room or had a key.”

  “So you think maybe the vandal struck elsewhere?” asked Lou, wringing his hands. Perspiration beaded on his brow. “Jeez, what if he destroyed everything in that room? All the models, the props, the wardrobe.”

  A lump of dread settled in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to think about having to make all those mop doll wreaths over again. “What I meant was, if there’s no damage to the door or lock, we can narrow the suspects down to whomever had a key to that room.”

  The five of us headed down the hall, Mama clinging to Lou. “It’s locked,” said Sheri as we arrived at the door and she jiggled the knob. “My keys are in my office.”

  After digging around in my shoulder bag, I produced my key ring, selected the correct key, and inserted it in the lock. The key turned; the tumblers clicked. With a twist of the knob, I pushed the door open.

  Lou ducked his head in for a cursory examination. “Thank goodness,” he said. “No vandalism.” He mopped his brow with his sleeve and exhaled a sigh of relief.

  I stepped inside. The room looked exactly as I had left it Friday. Minus one mop doll wreath. “Who else has a key besides you and me?” I asked Sheri.

  “The other editors. Some of the crew. The janitor.”

  “Any recent problems with anyone?”

  She pierced me with a penetrating stare. “Other than all you editors who don’t want to participate?”

  Ouch. Not looking good for the American Woman contingent. “I meant with the crew and janitor. Lou mentioned union problems.”

  She shook her head. “Not here.”

  “What about Vince and Monica?”

  “What about them?” asked Lou.

  “Do either of them have a key?” I wasn’t ready to believe any of my coworkers would resort to criminal activity to get out of a work assignment. File a lawsuit? Maybe. Trash a studio? Highly unlikely. “There doesn’t seem to be much love lost between you,” I added.

  “Vince and Monica have it too good here,” said Sheri, “and they know it. They get paid an obscene amount of money to work a few hours a day. If the show gets canceled, they’d be lucky to score a gig playing dinner theater in Peoria. For scale. Neither their wallets nor their egos could afford that.”

  Lou grimaced. “Not exactly.”

  Sheri snorted. “You think with our ratings some other network’s going to grab them up? Everyone in the industry knows what a joke they are.”

  Lou swallowed hard. Avoiding eye contact with Sheri, he spoke to the floorboards. “Actually, they have a clause in their contracts that pays them in full if the show is cancelled.”

  “What?” Sheri’s voice rose to glass-shattering level. “Recreating Versailles for their dressing rooms wasn’t enough? What idiot signed off on that?”

  Lou cleared his throat. “There were extenuating circumstances at the time. The negotiations were rather complex.”

  Sheri threw her arms up. “I don’t believe this! How could you? Why?”

  “Why doesn’t matter,” I said. “You two can argue about that some other time. The point is Vince and Monica have good reason to sabotage a show that neither one of them wants to take part in, and they’d walk away with their pockets lined.”r />
  I paused for a moment to let that sink in. “So I’ll ask you again, Sheri, do either Vince or Monica have a key to this room?”

  She grimaced. “They both do.”

  “Then I suggest you concentrate your efforts investigating them and stop trying to blame me and my fellow editors. We may not be happy about getting roped into doing this show, but we don’t behave like juvenile delinquents when things aren’t going our way.” I turned to leave.

  “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. “Thinking 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 d
o 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.