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

by Lois Winston

  Actually, exams didn’t start until next week, but I’d make sure the boys were aware of my lie. I knew they’d cover for me. What kid in his right mind would want to attend a stranger’s funeral, even to get out of school? “I’m sure Lou would understand,” I added.

  Mama pouted. “I’d think it’s more important to support their grandmother in her time of need. They can always make up a missed exam. Surely the school has contingencies for emergency absences like a death in the family.”

  Family? Lou? Maybe eventually he would have become family, but with Mama’s track record? I bit my tongue and wrapped my arm around her shoulders as I escorted her toward the door. “I’ll be there for you, Mama. It’s more important than ever that Alex and Nick keep their grades up and don’t cause any extra work for their teachers. They’re going to need letters of recommendation when they apply for college scholarships.”

  Mama sniffed loudly. “Lou would have paid for their college educations, you know. We talked about it.”

  “That was very generous of him.” And most likely a conversation that had only occurred in Mama’s mind. However, it no longer mattered. Lou was dead, and his millions were all going to charity.

  _____

  All the usual suspects and then some showed up for Lou Beaumont’s funeral. I had feared few people would attend, and I’d have to deal with another Mama meltdown. I needn’t have worried. Even though Campbell’s had provided one of their larger rooms, it appeared, from the crowd milling around the chapel foyer, every seat would be taken.

  I wasn’t surprised to see Detectives Phillips and Marlowe observing the goings-on from two inconspicuous corners of the room. Didn’t every murder mystery ever written or filmed have the investigators scoping out the mourners at the victim’s funeral? Clichés had to be based on truth, otherwise they wouldn’t be clichés. So the arsonist always sticks around to watch the firefighters put out the blaze, and the killer always attends the dead guy’s funeral.

  I scanned the room, a bit unnerved by the realization that a murderer might be lurking nearby, gloating over his handiwork. Then again, I may have been working alongside the killer from the time Trimedia indentured me to their new and improved version of morning TV.

  Vince? Monica? Both had motive up the wazoo. Or was the killer someone I’d never met? The room was packed with strangers. How many of them had some reason to murder Lou Beaumont?

  I eased my way around a knot of people and headed toward the room where the service would be held. The eight seats that made up the front row of the left side of the chapel had been reserved. I assumed two for Mama and me, two for Alex and Nick. Mama had probably informed Campbell’s they’d be in attendance prior to me putting the kibosh on that idea.

  But what about the remaining seats? According to Mama, Lou had no family. His will and insurance policy seemed to bear that out. Maybe it was just Campbell’s policy to cordon off the first row. Once the service began, some of the standing-room-only crowd would surely grab up those remaining front seats.

  Mama had insisted we arrive two hours early. “To make certain everything is in order, and there are no last-minute details to tend to,” she said.

  Given her experience with all matters funereal, I didn’t question her, just played my part as dutiful daughter and chauffeur and counted the hours until I could return home, kick off my heels, and make a dent in the mountain that was my to-do list. I was so far behind that I knew I’d be pulling at least one all-nighter, if not more, before we put the current issue to bed.

  Dutifully, I tamped down my feelings of resentment over the wasted hours. I was here for my mother, and that was more important than work deadlines. Or so I kept telling myself.

  Campbell’s had printed up programs for the funeral. As Mama flitted about prior to the start of the service, I found a few inches of unoccupied space along one wall and perused the schedule. I was soon joined by several of the American Woman editors.

  Cloris leaned over my shoulder to see what I was reading. “All those guys intend to speak?”

  I nodded. “From the little I’d seen of Lou, I had him pegged as a bit of a loner with few friends.”

  “He struck me more as the type who used his millions to buy friendship,” said Jeanie.

  “But notice who’s missing,” said Janice, looking over my other shoulder. “Wouldn’t you think, no matter how they really felt about him, that Vince, Monica, and Sheri would have demanded a few minutes of mic and limelight time?”

  “Definitely,” agreed Cloris. “Not only are they not listed, I don’t recognize any of the names that are listed except for Alfred Gruenwald.”

  I doubted Mama knew any of the speakers besides the CEO, either. “Perhaps when Campbell’s made their notification calls, they asked people if they’d like to say a few words on Lou’s behalf,” I suggested.

  “Well, if you ask me,” said Cloris, “too many of them agreed.”

  “Jeez!” said Janice. “If you figure ten minutes apiece, the eulogies alone will take two hours.”

  “And how many of these guys will only talk for ten minutes?” asked Jeanie.

  I groaned. “We’ll be stuck here for most of the day.”

  A minute later we were all ushered into the chapel for the start of the service, and I parted from the gaggle of editors, who all grabbed seats as far to the rear as possible. Too bad I couldn’t join them. As I took my seat in the front row, I noted that four women, all somewhere around Mama’s age, had taken four of the remaining six seats.

  Between the rabbi Campbell’s provided, the requisite prayers, the music and the eulogies, the service dragged on forever. Men who were pretty much interchangeable in their ordinariness eulogized Lou with One From Column A/Two From Column B platitudes.

  Each had known Lou at some point in his past, often his very distant past—the childhood friend, the army buddy, the college roommate, the guy he’d shared an apartment with after graduation, and on and on and on. I wasn’t convinced any of them actually knew what had been Present Day Lou all that well, especially since most of the eulogies seemed to be more about the speakers than the deceased.

  Some people just can’t resist the offer of a microphone.

  “We’ll all miss Lou.”

  “Tragic loss for all of us.”

  “Lou was such a great guy.”

  Not a personal remark among them. These guys may as well have been pulled from Central Casting. Maybe they were.

  After three interminable hours the service broke up, and we were all ushered into a back parlor for refreshments. The spread rivaled the cocktail hour at the most lavish of weddings I’d ever attended.

  I heaped my plate. Not only was I starving, but it had been more than three months since my taste buds had enjoyed the pleasures of smoked salmon, one of my favorite foods. Given my financial situation, it would probably be my next lifetime before I’d again have such an opportunity.

  Mama glanced at my plate and made a moue of displeasure. “Really, Anastasia, where are your manners? You can always go back for seconds.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s well past lunchtime, and this crowd descended on the buffet table like vultures on carrion. They’ll scarf up every last crumb within the next five minutes.”

  Before Mama could respond, Sheri, dressed for the occasion in a black linen muumuu, sidled up to us. One of the women, a big-boned, graying brunette who had shared the front row with Mama and me, accompanied her.

  In her typical Sheri-sing-song voice she asked, “Anastasia? Flora? Have you met Rochelle Beaumont?” I swear that woman missed her calling. She would have made a perfect nursery school teacher.

  “Beaumont?” I asked. “A relative of Lou’s?”

  “His wife,” said Sheri.

  I don’t know whose jaw dropped faster or fell lower, mine or Mama’s.

  Nine

  “Ex-wife,” clarified Rochelle.

  “Of course,” said Mama, recovering quickly. She extended her hand to Rochelle b
ut flashed a glare at Sheri before she continued to speak. “Flora O’Keefe. Poor Lou’s fiancée. I’m delighted to meet you. Lou told me he’d been married once. A long time ago.”

  “Rochelle is Ex Number One,” said Sheri. She didn’t bother to hide her smirk as she pointed across the room to one of the other women who’d shared our row. “The blonde chatting with Monica is Adele, Ex Number Three. And over there at the buffet table? The one wearing the navy Donna Karan pantsuit?” She pointed to an over-processed redhead who had also shared our row. “That’s Veronica, Ex Number Four.”

  “And I’m Ex Number Two,” said a woman coming up to join us. The final member of our row, this one looked like the poster child for Facelifts Anonymous. She nodded to Ex Number One. “Hello, Rochelle.”

  Rochelle acknowledged her with a terse nod of her head. “Francine.”

  Francine turned her one-too-many procedures face to Mama. “You must be Lou’s latest. Sheri mentioned he’d taken up with the Future Ex Number Five. Frankly, I can’t see why anyone would want that cheating deadbeat. He lost his millions years ago, and that’s all he ever had going for him.”

  “Too bad you weren’t smart enough to accept a lump sum settlement,” said Rochelle. “A man who cheats on his wife is sure to cheat on his girlfriend.” She turned to Mama, her tone softening. “He wasn’t marrying you for your money, was he, Flora?”

  I’m not sure Mama heard Rochelle because she was totally focused on Sheri. If looks could kill, Sheri would already be buried under six feet of loam.

  “You did this deliberately, didn’t you?” Mama spat out the indictment.

  Sheri placed a palm over her heart and played the innocent. “Did what? All I did—at your daughter’s request, I might add—was e-mail the funeral director a copy of Lou’s phone directory. How is it my fault that he wasn’t honest with you?”

  I grabbed Mama’s arm. “I think we should say hello to Mr. Gruenwald, don’t you, Mama?” With that I pulled her away before Lou’s funeral ended in a knock-down, drag-out cat fight.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered to her as we headed across the room.

  Mama heaved a sigh. “I feel like that woman just ran me over with a bulldozer, but don’t you worry, dear.” She patted my hand. “Truth be told, I can’t remember if I ever mentioned to Lou how many times I’ve been married.”

  “But you were widowed each time. You didn’t cheat on your husbands, then divorce them. Big difference, Mama.”

  “True. However, every story has two sides. Maybe those women actually cheated on my poor Lou and claimed it was the other way around in order to collect alimony. What do they call that, dear? Revisionist history, isn’t it?”

  More like refusing to face reality. At least on Mama’s part. However, I was more concerned by Rochelle’s pronouncement of Lou’s insolvency, especially since I’d seen financial statements that proved otherwise. Had Lou been pulling a fast one on his ex-wives all these years to avoid paying them alimony?

  Or had he been pulling a fast one on Mama with doctored financials? Maybe he’d thought Mama was loaded and wanted to marry her for her money.

  That made no sense. Mama had told him of my financial situation. Or so she claimed, but maybe she’d been as truthful with him as he’d been with her. In other words, maybe they’d been manipulating each other.

  Then there was that Tiffany diamond the size of Cleveland. I glanced down at Mama’s hand. The huge chunk of ice twinkled up at me, but was it a Tiffany twinkle or the twinkle of a very convincing fake? It certainly looked real to me, but what did I know? After all, I’m the clueless wife who thought everything was just hunky-dory in her own marriage.

  What I did know was that at least one of Lou’s ex-wives hadn’t been receiving her alimony checks. Maybe the others weren’t, either. A CORPSE TELLS NO TALES. The note I found may have in some way referred to a threat from one of Lou’s ex-wives. I wondered if any of the ex-Mrs. Lou Beaumonts had paid a visit to the TV studio the day of Lou’s murder.

  Or maybe one of them had family connections. The thought stopped me in my tracks. It wouldn’t be the first time a bitter ex-wife hired a hit man.

  Mama turned to me. “What’s the matter, dear? Why did you stop?”

  “You look upset, Mrs. Pollack.” I turned to find Detective Marlowe towering over me.

  “Mama, why don’t you go say hello to Mr. Gruenwald? I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

  “Of course, dear. Nice to see you, Detective.”

  Marlowe nodded to Mama. “Ma’am.”

  When she was out of whisper-shot, I asked, “I don’t suppose you’d tell me if you found anything wonky regarding Lou’s financials?”

  “Sorry. Can’t divulge anything regarding an ongoing investigation.”

  “Somehow I knew you’d say that.”

  “Mind telling me why you’re so interested?”

  “I suppose not.” If he did his job properly, he probably already knew about Lou’s exes. If he didn’t know, he certainly should. So I reiterated what had just transpired.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “Your mother had no idea she was going to be the deceased’s fifth wife?”

  “None.”

  “Interesting.”

  “In what way?”

  He just stared at me, close-mouthed, with not a hint of what he was thinking showing on his face. I stared back, waiting to see who blinked first. Marlowe refused to play. Instead, he turned and strode across the room toward his partner.

  This guy made me long for Batswin and Robbins.

  _____

  Mama insisted on staying at the funeral home until the last mourner had departed, which made it rush hour by the time I drove out of the parking garage. Rush hour. In Manhattan. On a Friday afternoon. The end of May. Welcome to the gridlock capital of the world. The trip from the Upper East Side to the Lincoln Tunnel queue, a distance of less than three and a half miles that would take ten minutes anywhere else in the country, took us over an hour.

  The remainder of the trip wasn’t much better, and it didn’t help that Mama needed to make a wee-wee stop in Weehawken.

  “Didn’t you go before we left the funeral home?”

  “Of course, I did, dear. But that was over an hour ago. My bladder isn’t what it used to be, you know.”

  Oh, I knew. I prayed fervently every night to the Patron Saint of Interior Plumbing that I hadn’t inherited Mama’s weak bladder. Only time would tell. From what I’d observed of Mama and other female relatives, wee-wee issues didn’t begin until sometime past menopause. For that reason, I also prayed my little red friend would stick around for at least another decade.

  “Hold it in,” I told her. “I’ll pull over at the first rest area.”

  The Vince Lombardi Rest Area was a mere few yards beyond the Turnpike entrance. Unfortunately, it was closed due to police activity of some sort.

  “I can’t make it all the way home,” said Mama.

  Which meant we needed to detour off the Turnpike. Which meant it was past six o’clock by the time I turned onto our street—to find a black and white Westfield police cruiser parked in front of my house.

  “What now?” I pulled into my driveway, turned off the Hyundai’s engine, and stared at the house. Whatever awaited me inside couldn’t be good news. The police never brought good news to your door, and they’d been to my home way too many times in the past few months. It was definitely someone else’s turn to deal with life’s crap.

  I was more pissed than scared. Call it ESMP—Extra-Sensory Mom Perception—but somehow I knew my kids were okay. The eye roll Alex greeted me with when he swung open the front door confirmed that my ESMP hadn’t let me down.

  “Grandmother Lucille,” he said. Not a question, a statement.

  I could hear Lucille arguing with Harley and Fogarty. The two officers and I had more than a nodding acquaintanceship at this point, and I recognized their voices. A growling dog, a hissing cat, and a squawking parrot added to the
cacophony.

  “You didn’t think we did anything wrong, did you?” asked Nick, standing beside his brother.

  “You think I don’t know who the troublemaker is in this family?”

  “Just making sure,” said Nick.

  Forget communism. My mother-in-law had an anarchist’s disregard for authority. She does what she wants, when she wants. On top of that, she expects the seas to part at her command.

  This was a non-issue when Lucille first moved in with us five months ago to recuperate from the hit-and-run that nearly killed her. She could barely take a step or two at the time. Other than doctors’ appointments and physical therapy sessions, she spent most of her time confined to the house. Once her mobility returned, she should have been back in her own apartment in Queens, but thanks to Karl, I was stuck with her. Permanently. And now, so was the rest of Westfield.

  “What’s she done this time?” asked Mama, who’d finally caught up with me and stood at my elbow.

  “They’re accusing her of keying a car,” said Alex.

  “Not just any car,” added Nick. “A Z4 roadster.”

  Great. She couldn’t pick on a twelve-year-old Hyundai. She had to key a BMW that costs almost as much as a college education.

  “You can’t prove a thing,” Lucille shouted at Harley and Fogarty.

  “We can get a search warrant for your keys to test them,” said Harley.

  “A fine waste of taxpayer money that would be,” said Lucille.

  I was about to step into the fray when someone banged on the back door. “Nick, see who that is, will you?” As he headed toward the kitchen, I entered the living room. “What’s going on here?”

  Harley and Fogarty turned away from Lucille and approached me. “Mrs. Pollack,” they said in unison, by way of greeting.

  “Seems your mother-in-law’s been taking the law into her own hands,” said Harley, the senior partner.

  “How so?”

  “She bashed her cane onto the hood of a vehicle that stopped short to avoid hitting her when she jaywalked across Central. Later, the driver came out to find his car had been keyed while it was parked in the lot behind Starbucks. He’s accusing your mother-in-law.”