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

by Lois Winston

  “And he was at the studio early on the day Lou was killed,” said Cloris, licking flecks of chocolate from her fingers. “Maybe he really didn’t leave after dropping Monica off.”

  “According to Detective Marlowe, Ray has an alibi.”

  “Alibis can be bought.”

  Something else occurred to me. “I wonder …”

  “What?”

  “Maybe everything is an act with Monica. What if she and Ray are secretly working together to sabotage the show? And have been even before the revamp.”

  “That would mean Ray’s accusations—”

  “Were all part of an elaborate scheme to get the show cancelled and rid Monica of Vince. She and Ray collect the balance of her contract, and she’s free to star in her own show without competition from her former partner.”

  “You think another network would hire Monica? She’s a has-been.”

  “With delusions of her own grandeur. It doesn’t matter whether I think she’d get another show, only that she believes she would.”

  “So how do you prove this theory, Sherlock?”

  I grinned at her. “Up to a little spying, Watson?”

  Since Cloris was scheduled to tape her segment the next day, we decided that I’d tag along. Afterward, we’d tail Monica to see what we could learn.

  I spent the rest of the day catching up on the three issues that were in various stages of production. Half the editorial staff were either at the studio or out on photo shoots. The rest were holed up in their cubicles, also playing catch-up, so aside from an occasional chat with Cloris and a break for lunch, I worked free of interruption.

  By four-thirty I’d accomplished more than I’d expected, considering I was operating on less than four hours of sleep. And a good thing, too, since work came to a halt the moment Tessa arrived back at the office.

  “I’m going to kill that bitch!” she screamed.

  Cloris and I both ran out into the corridor at the same time.

  “Who?” asked Cloris

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Sheri-Fucking-Rabbstein. Who the hell does that muumuu-clad whale think she is, telling me how to do my job?”

  Twelve

  Cloris grabbed Tessa by one arm, I grabbed her by the other, and we steered her into the break room. I kicked the door shut with my heel. “From the top,” I said.

  “And don’t leave out any details,” added Cloris.

  Tessa flailed her arms as she paced back and forth in the tiny space between the mini-fridge and the seating area. “That woman is certifiable. She’s got this asinine idea that she can be the next Donna Karan with a line of ready-to-wear muumuus.”

  “And you didn’t know this until today?” I asked. “What about the presentation books she handed out at our first meeting? They outlined the content of each segment.”

  “Didn’t you bother reading it?” asked Cloris.

  “I read it,” said Tessa. “However, now that she’s in charge, she’s made a few changes. She no longer wants a wardrobe makeover for the show. She wants exposure for her Frankenstein creations. Turns out she designed and sewed all those tents she wears. She wants the fashion segment of the show to feature Sheri Originals and she expects me to showcase them in the magazine. Not that she’s got any buyers lined up. She hasn’t even contacted anyone yet.”

  “So where’s she going to sell them?” I asked. “On the Internet?”

  “Hell, no.” Tessa snorted. “She expects buyers from Saks, Bergdorf, Bloomie’s—you name it—to line up at her door once the first fashion segment airs.”

  “And who’s going to buy these tents?” asked Cloris. “Besides descendants of Queen Liliuokalani.”

  “Or senior citizens touring Waikiki Beach,” I added.

  “Oh, she’s got that all figured out,” said Tessa. “Claims she’s done market research.” She made quote marks in the air with her fingers. “‘Muumuus aren’t just for the fashion-challenged, full-figured woman. Muumuus are for everyone. They maximize comfort and minimize figure flaws.’ She’s got an entire ad campaign mapped out and is convinced that once American women embrace the muumuu—her muumuus, mind you—they’ll never go back to Tshirts and jeans.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  Tessa dropped into one of the mismatched molded plastic chairs. “I told her to kiss my ass. There’s no way I’m going to let that woman make a laughingstock out of me.”

  “So you didn’t tape your segment?” I asked.

  “No way.” She folded her arms across her surgically enhanced chest. “And I’m not going to.”

  “You’ll lose your job,” said Cloris.

  “Unless she loses hers first,” said Tessa, a sly smirk flirting at the edges of her mouth.

  “There’s something she’s not telling us,” I said to Cloris. Tessa’s smirk grew wider. Her predecessor had slept her way into the position of Fashion Editor. Had Tessa done likewise? I stabbed an index finger in the air, inches from her too-perfectly-pert-to-be-real nose. “You know someone on the Trimedia board, don’t you? That’s how you got your job. And you’re planning to pull a few strings to get Sheri axed, aren’t you?”

  She brushed my hand away. “My connections may have opened a few doors for me, but my talents landed me this job.”

  Cloris raised both eyebrows. “What sort of talents?”

  Tessa gasped. “Nothing like that! My Uncle Chessie sits on the Trimedia board.”

  “Uncle Chessie?” asked Cloris. I could see the wheels spinning. “As in Chester Longstreth? Of Longstreth Pharmaceuticals? The man who owns half the state?”

  Tessa nodded. “My grandmother’s brother on my mother’s side. But Uncle Chessie only owns half of Warren and Sussex Counties, not the entire state.”

  “We’ll take up a collection for the poor man,” said Cloris under her breath.

  Ignoring Cloris, I peppered Tessa with questions. “And you’ve put in a call to him? What’s he going to do?”

  Tessa’s chin notched up an inch. “Of course I called him. Wouldn’t you? I told you I wasn’t going to sit still for this crap. Working the show without extra compensation is bad enough, but that woman’s a certifiable lunatic. Someone has to stop her.”

  “So what did dear old Uncle Chessie say?” asked Cloris.

  Tessa lost her smirk and began to worry the lipstick from her bottom lip. “I haven’t exactly spoken to him yet.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “He’s been on safari in Kenya for the last month. I’ve emailed him several times, but I haven’t heard from him. He must be out of satellite range.”

  Or he had no intention of getting involved. Especially if the other board members were solidly behind Sheri and her vision for the show and its marriage to the magazine. “So you got into a cat fight with Sheri, stormed off the set before taping your segment, and can’t get in touch with your uncle. Now what?” I asked.

  Tessa stood and headed for the door. “I’ll think of something.”

  “She’ll be gone by morning,” said Cloris after the click-clack of Tessa’s Manolos on the terrazzo floor faded into the general office hubbub of ringing phones and whirring computer printers.

  I couldn’t disagree. “I’ll bet Sheri placed a call to the board the moment Tessa stormed out of the studio.”

  Cloris sighed. “Wish I’d been there.”

  “Why?”

  “Must have been some cat fight. A real battle of the prima donnas.”

  “Not me, thank you. I have enough of that on a daily basis with Mama and Lucille.”

  _____

  The next morning I took the train into the city instead of driving to the office, and met up with Cloris at Penn Station. I grabbed two of her four tote bags and together we hopped on the subway to the studio.

  Twenty minutes later the usual suspects were gathered around the set’s kitchen island where Cloris attempted to instruct Monica in the fine art of separating yolk from white. Not surprisingly, Mo
nica handled eggs as well as she handled mop strands. An hour later Cloris was down to her last three eggs from her original four dozen.

  “That’s it,” she said. “The recipe calls for three eggs, and I’m not running out to buy any more.” She quickly snatched and separated two of the remaining eggs into two glass bowls. Then she grabbed both the last egg and Monica’s hands.

  “Hey, camera guy,” she called out, “this is going to be the one and only take for the eggs, so put down the donut and roll the tape or press the magic record button or whatever it is you guys do.”

  Sheri stormed across the set. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Making sure the city doesn’t run out of eggs.”

  “Screw the city. I’ll send someone out to buy more eggs. Monica has to separate them.”

  “Says who?” asked Cloris, still holding fast to Monica’s hands.

  “Little Miss Napoleon here,” said Monica, indicating Sheri with a tilt of her head. “In case you hadn’t heard, she’s running the universe now. It’s her way or the highway.”

  Sheri had turned an unflattering shade of purple that perfectly matched her muumuu du jour, several flowing yards of plum and indigo vertical stripes. I suppose she thought the stripes were slimming. Hardly. She looked like a giant eggplant with short, stubby arms and legs.

  Naomi stepped between Cloris and Sheri. “Cloris is right. Let her do it her way. Some of us have other jobs to get to. We can’t stand around here all day.”

  “I’m the producer,” screamed Sheri.

  “And I outrank you on both the corporate management chart and in seniority,” said Naomi, her voice remaining calm. “You have a problem with that, Ms. Rabbstein, file a complaint with Human Resources.”

  Sheri and Naomi stared each other down for what seemed like forever, Sheri about to explode, Naomi maintaining her dignified and elegant but determined persona.

  Of course, Sheri flinched first. “Fine, we’ll do it your way. For now.” Then she spun on her heels and marched off the set.

  “I’d clap but my hands are occupied,” said Monica.

  Naomi turned back to her. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

  “Fine by me,” said Monica, “but I’m out of here at noon whether we finish or not.”

  Cloris and I exchanged a quick glance. If Monica left the set at noon, so would we.

  “Ready?” asked the cameraman.

  “As we’ll ever be,” said Cloris.

  While the cameraman recorded them, Cloris instructed Monica, at the same time manipulating Monica’s hands. The egg cracked in half perfectly. Cloris continued her puppet master technique, separating the final egg.

  Still holding the empty shells in Monica’s outstretched hands, she smiled into the camera. “See? Easy peasy, as one of my cooking colleagues likes to say.”

  “Cut!”

  The remainder of the taping went relatively smoothly, mostly because Sheri didn’t return to the set. Cloris treated Monica like a spoiled, petulant three-year-old as they proceeded to whip up the ingredients for apple zucchini sponge cake muffins. Between Naomi, Cloris, and the director, they worked out a system whereby Monica seemed to be mastering each step, but in reality, did very little. Without Madame Napoleon dictating orders, we finished up well before noon. I helped Cloris clean up her equipment while Monica headed for her dressing room.

  “We can share a cab back to Penn Station,” said Naomi.

  “I’m staying in the city,” said Cloris. “I scheduled an interview with the owner of Rice to Riches.”

  Naomi turned to me. “Anastasia?”

  “Can’t. I need to pick up some supplies first.”

  Naomi nodded. She started to head out, then turned back. “Why were you at the studio today?” she asked me.

  “Uhm … Cloris needed help carting all her stuff.” Lame, Anastasia. You’d think being the mother of two teenage boys I’d be able to come up with a better excuse than that! After all, I’d heard every excuse in the proverbial book from the time Alex and Nick could string together two sentences.

  “I see.” Naomi eyed us both. “Whatever the two of you are planning, don’t call me to post your bail.”

  “Are you sure about this?” asked Cloris after Naomi left the studio.

  “All we’re going to do is follow her. Surreptitiously, of course,” I added. I found it hard to believe Monica was as inept as she’d like to make us believe. Whether it was connected to the vandalism and murders? Who knew? Maybe we’d get lucky with a little Sherlocking.

  Putting my own New York spin on a tired cliché, I continued, “Something definitely stinks in Staten Island, and it’s got Monica’s name written all over it.”

  “As long as we don’t wind up on Staten Island,” said Cloris.

  “Hey, it’s Monica,” I assured her. “Do you really think she’d be caught dead on Staten Island?”

  “Point taken, Sherlock.”

  We headed for the elevator. My plan required we make it down to the lobby and plant ourselves in an inconspicuous spot before Monica headed out. We should have plenty of time. Monica always took forever in her dressing room. Once she left the building, we’d follow at a discreet distance.

  As the elevator descended, something occurred to me. Since we were the only people occupying the car, I said. “Did you notice no one mentioned a word about the not-so-dearly departed Vince Alto?”

  “Maybe they’re all talked out from yesterday.”

  “Maybe. I just expected at least a bit of snark from Monica.”

  “Or Sheri,” Cloris added. “Neither one of them seemed to like the guy.”

  “He did come across as the personification of slime. Still, no one deserves that fate.”

  Cloris thought for a moment. “I don’t know about that. I can think of a few brains that could use a good bashing.”

  Good thing I knew her sense of humor. Besides, if Cloris wanted to kill someone, she’d just clog his arteries with cholesterol.

  Once the elevator arrived, we headed for the lobby entrance of Duane Reade where we positioned ourselves to observe without being observed. One thing you can always count on in New York—either a Starbucks or a Duane Reade on every corner, equally handy for caffeine hits and pantyhose rips. I never thought I’d wind up using one for surveillance, though.

  After ten minutes of trying to look inconspicuous and not like shoplifters, we spied Monica step from the elevator and head for the street. Cloris and I slipped out of Duane Reade and followed her. What we hadn’t planned for was the town car with driver waiting at the curb. As soon as Monica slipped into the back seat, the car pulled out into traffic.

  Thirteen

  “Now what?” asked Cloris.

  I jumped off the curb, flagged down an oncoming cab, and yanked open the door before the driver even came to a complete stop. “Hurry. Get in,” I said, pushing Cloris in front of me. She scooted across the seat. I dove in behind her. “Follow that town car!” I yelled at the turbaned driver.

  He turned and stared at me through the Plexiglas partition. “You are kidding me, missus?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? Go. Now. Before we lose them!”

  “I will follow, but I do not break New York state driving laws,” he said.

  Leave it to me to wind up with the one law-abiding cabbie in Manhattan. I glanced at the name on his license, then glanced at Monica’s town car, already at the next block. “Look, Rajat, I’m not asking you to break any laws, but I do need to know where that town car goes. It’s very important. A matter of life and death.” I did a quick mental inventory of my wallet before adding, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Rajat flashed me a huge and very white-toothed grin from his rearview mirror as he pulled away from the curb.

  Just as the light at our corner changed to red.

  A block ahead of us Monica’s town car raced through a yellow light.

  “We may as well get out,” said Cloris.
“We’ll never catch them now.”

  “Not to worry, missus,” said Rajat. “I will find the destination for your car and deliver you there directly.” He picked up his cell phone and placed a call, breaking one of those very same New York State driving laws. Shortly, he began speaking in rapid-fire Urdu. Not that I would know Urdu from Swahili, but I was assuming someone named Rajat Patel spoke Urdu and not Swahili.

  “For all we know,” whispered Cloris, “he’s placing a takeout order for Tandoori chicken.”

  “And taking us for a ride,” I whispered back, but I was willing to give Mr. Rajat Patel a few minutes benefit of doubt. I leaned forward and strained to locate Monica’s town car while keeping tabs on the ticking meter.

  Make that a very few minutes.

  Three blocks later I rapped on the partition. “You’ve lost him. Pull over.”

  Rajat shook his head. “No, no, missus. I will bring you to the destination of the town car. You are not to worry, please.”

  Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one with only twelve dollars in his wallet. What was I thinking when I told him I’d make it worth his while? The meter already read over seven and spun higher with every passing second. “I’m running out of money, Rajat.”

  “Do not worry, missus. We accept credit cards. VISA. MasterCard. American Express. Discover.”

  Too bad mine were all maxed out, thanks to my dead louse of a husband.

  “We will arrive momentarily at your desired destination,” added Rajat. Several blocks and several dollars later he turned the corner and pulled up behind a parked Yellow Cab. The driver of the other taxi walked over to our cab and began speaking with Rajat.

  “There’s no town car here,” I said.

  Rajat pointed to a brownstone across the street. “The passenger from the town car you wished to follow is inside that building.”

  “How the heck do you know that?” asked Cloris.

  Rajat rolled down the back window on Cloris’s side. “May I present my cousin Bashir, missus. He was in a taxi cab in front of us and followed your town car for you.”

  Bashir stuck his hand through the open window. Palm up. “Please to pay me twenty dollars, missus.”