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

by Lois Winston

  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 kille
r.

  _____

  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.”

  She pulled a tissue from her pocket, dabbed at her eyes, and blew her nose. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. Poor Mama had the worst luck with men. If only she’d find someone who’d stay alive for once.

  After she composed herself, we trudged up the dimly lit staircase to Lou’s third-floor apartment. Mama unlocked the three deadbolts and pushed open the door.

  I stepped inside and did a quick survey of a living room that looked more like a frat house. “With all his money, he couldn’t hire a cleaning lady?” I asked.

  Mama stared at the mound of soiled laundry piled on the floor just inside the front door, the dirty dishes stacked on the coffee table, the empty bottle of Glenlivet sitting on the end table, the newspapers and mail strewn across the sofa. “I don’t understand. This apartment was spotless the last time I was here.”

  “When exactly was that?”

  “Monday. After Lou proposed. We came back here to celebrate and—”

  “Stop! I get the picture.” Even though I wish I hadn’t. “No need for details.”

  “Honestly, Anastasia, you’re such a prude. I’m a red-blooded woman with a healthy sexual appetite.”

  “You’re my mother!”

  “Yes, dear, and how do you think you got here? The stork?”

  “That’s right. He dropped me in the cabbage patch.” The last thing I wanted to hear were details of my mother’s sexual exploits.

  A change of subject was in order. “Why don’t you find some clean clothes for Lou while I search through his desk?” And figure out why he went on a bender the night before he met his maker.

  Mama headed for the entertainment unit, instead. She chose a CD from Lou’s enormous collection, inserted it in the CD player, and pushed the power button. The room filled with Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4. “I need something to soothe my nerves while I tackle this task,” she said by way of explanation.

  I kissed her cheek. “I know.” Mama may not have loved Lou the way she loved her husbands, but her grief was genuine. She adjusted the volume to a decibel below blaring, then crossed the room to the bedroom.

  “Oh, before I forget.” She turned back toward me. “See if you can find the receipt from Tiffany’s for my ring. I’ll need a copy for the insurance company.”

  “Sure, Mama.”

  I cleared a stack of Variety magazines off Lou’s desk chair and sat down to survey the contents of his desk. The bottom drawer served as a filing cabinet. Given the mess surrounding me, I was surprised to find his files so well-organized. It took me no time to extract a copy of his will, filed under W, and a copy of his life insurance policy, filed under I.

  For once Mama was correct. If Lou had any family, he certainly wasn’t close enough to any of them to bequeath them anything. “You were right,” I called to her. “Both Lou’s will and his life insurance policy list the American Heart Association as his beneficiary.” I didn’t comment on the irony, given that Lou had been stabbed right through the heart.

  “That’s understandable,” Mama called back. “He told me both his parents and his four grandparents all died of heart disease. And quite young. He said that’s why he walked to and from work every day. No matter how bad the weather, he always made sure he got his exercise.” I heard her choke back another sob. “A lot of good it did him.”

  I glanced over at the empty bottle of Scotch. Men concerned with heart health don’t usually down 750 milliliters of Glenlivet in one sitting. Of course, I had no way of knowing how full the bottle had been before Lou emptied it. Out of curiosity, I headed for the kitchen. There on the counter next to the sink stood the empty cardboard carton. I’ve never known anyone to put an opened bottle of booze back in its packaging. Under the circumstances, I drew the only logical conclusion. Lou Beaumont had gotten himself soused sometime after bringing Mama home Monday evening.

  But why? Had Lou been a closet alcoholic? Or was there some other reason for his night of binge drinking?

  I walked back to the desk, returned the will and insurance policy to their proper folders, and pulled out the file marked INVESTMENTS. It contained only one statement. Back when we had investments, Karl simply added each month’s statement to the front of the folder. I suppose Lou employed a different system. At any rate, the American Heart Association was going to be very happy. According to the statement, Lou’s portfolio was greater than the GNP of many a small third-world nation.

  Something just didn’t add up.

  Mama poked her head out from the bedroom and held up a hanger holding a white dress shirt, a necktie draped over each shoulder. One was a royal blue with a small white dot pattern, the other a navy with a red stripe. “Which do you think, dear? The suit is a navy single-breasted.”

  I quickly closed the investment folder and shoved it back into the file drawer. Mama didn’t need to know how close she’d come to filthy rich status. No point upsetting her further.

  “The red stripe is more stately,” I said. Not that it mattered. Jewish funeral law dictated a closed casket, but this was hardly the time to remind Mama of that fact. Better to humor her.

  She nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  “See if you can find a wheeled overnighter for the clothes in one of Lou’s closets. And don’t forget shoes and socks.” That should keep her busy a little longer. I wanted to search through the rest of Lou’s papers to see if I could determine what had happened Monday night.

  I found no clues on Lou’s desk or by rifling through the remaining desk drawers. The other files contained nothing beyond standard household utility and credit card receipts and a stack of bills awaiting payment. What I didn’t find was the receipt for Mama’s ring.

  I walked over to the bedroom. Mama held a pair of tighty-whitey briefs in one hand, a pair of navy silk boxers in the other, and a perplexed expression on her face.

  “I don’t think it matters which you choose,” I told her. Did funeral parlors even bother to dress the deceased in underwear?

  “Why would Lou have both boxers and briefs? Don’t most men prefer one over the other?”

  “That’s more your area of expertise,” I reminded her. “I had only one husband, remember?”

  “Of course, dear, but you have that nice Zachary Barnes waiting in the wings. Which is he? Boxers or briefs?”

  “Mama! How should I know?”

  “Well, if you don’t know yet, I’m sure you’ll know soon.” She folded the boxers and placed them in the garment bag she’d opened on the bed, then tossed the briefs into an open bureau drawer.

  An image of Zack parading around in nothing but a pair of silk boxers, the iconic Rolling Stones red tongue graphic splashed across the front, filled my brain. I shook my head and tried to focus on why I’d entered the bedroom. “Did Lou seem upset or nervous at any point Monday?”

  “Of course, dea
r. He was upset about the vandalism to the set.”

  “Yes but beyond that. Did he mention anything else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I walked back into the living room. Maybe Lou’s mail held a clue. I collected the strewn sections of Monday’s New York Times and set it aside. Then I gathered up the mail and began to sort through the pile. Lots of junk. A cable bill. An empty white business envelope with no return address. I sifted through the remaining mail in search of the envelope’s contents. Nothing. Could whatever had come in that envelope be what caused Lou to hit the Glenlivet bottle?

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the scene, putting myself in Lou’s place. I’ve had a stressful day. I come home and open the mail. Something in one of the envelopes upsets me. Or angers me. Upsets or angers me enough that I start drinking. What would I have done with the contents of that envelope?

  My eyes sprang open, and I jumped to my feet, nearly toppling the coffee table. I scanned the room, searching for what I knew must be hiding somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. I ran into the kitchen and started opening drawers until I found a flashlight. Returning to the living room, I got down on my hands and knees and systematically checked behind and under each piece of furniture. Nothing.

  But I knew it had to be somewhere in this room. I sat back down on the sofa and pretended to crumple a piece of paper and hurl it across the room. A large entertainment unit sat on the wall opposite the sofa. Books filled shelves on either side of the flat screen TV. I bounded back up, this time careful not to knock into the coffee table, and headed for the shelves on the left. And there it was, wedged into a shadowy corner, resting on top of a well-worn copy of Melville’s Moby Dick.

  I carefully uncrumpled the sheet of paper, holding only the edges with the very tips of my fingers and nails. No point adding my fingerprints to those already on the paper. Just as I finished reading the short note, the door to the apartment flew open.

  “Freeze!”

  Seven

  I froze. Except for my adrenaline, which was pumping so fast I thought my heart would explode. The two detectives from the day before, guns pointed and ready to fire—at me—stood inside the entryway.