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

by Lois Winston

Twenty dollars for Bashir. Eleven plus a worthwhile tip for Rajat. No matter what the meter said, he’d never settle for less than the twenty demanded by his cousin. And me with twelve dollars in my wallet. It was a good thing Cloris had come along for the ride. I showed her the ten and two ones.

  “You owe me,” she said, whipping out her wallet.

  “You bump all others to the bottom of the list.” And it was a very long list, thanks to Karl Pollack, the aforementioned Dead Louse of a Spouse.

  _____

  Rajat had driven us to the middle of a residential block between Second and Third Avenues in the Kips Bay section of Manhattan. “We’ll have to position ourselves outside at one end of the block or the other,” I said. “We’ll never see her if we duck into one of the shops on Second or Third.”

  “It could be hours before she reappears,” said Cloris. “And what are the chances of her spying us spying on her when she does? If she’s even in there.”

  There was that to consider. We had no way of knowing whether or not two Indian cabbies were now laughing their asses off at our expense. Monica could be in Gramercy Park for all we knew. “Let’s give it an hour or so,” I suggested.

  “The things I do for friendship,” grumbled Cloris. She reached into the one tote bag she’d brought with her and withdrew a plastic container filled with some of the apple zucchini sponge cake muffins from the taping. She popped the lid. “Lunch is on me. I rescued a few before the crew scarfed them all down. You want to head to Second or Third to set up surveillance?”

  “Second. We can take turns dashing into Starbucks if we need a potty break. I’m not sure what’s on Third.”

  Cloris dropped the remaining muffins back into the shopping bag, and we headed east. Several yards from where Rajat dropped us off, we passed a dark blue Taurus with two men sitting in the front seat. I had the odd sense that they were watching us, but it was hard to tell, given their aviator shades. I don’t think Cloris noticed, and I didn’t want to spook her, so I kept walking and didn’t say anything.

  After what I’d been through the past few months, I’ve developed a heightened sense of paranoia when it comes to anything out of the ordinary, but how unusual is it for a couple of guys to be waiting in a car for someone? Not unusual at all. I shrugged off my newly acquired phobia, took another bite out of my muffin, and continued walking.

  For the next hour Cloris and I kept tabs on the brownstone from up the street. Several times a town car pulled up and deposited someone who entered the residence. From our vantage point it was hard to tell much about them other than three appeared to be well-dressed men and one was a rather elegant-looking woman, the kind of people who looked right at home shopping at Barney’s or dining at Nobu.

  “Time is standing still,” said Cloris as she glanced at her watch for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I can’t believe we’ve only been here a little more than an hour. How much longer do you want to wait?”

  “Let’s give it another ten minutes or so,” I suggested. “Maybe it’s a meeting of Has-beens Anonymous. If so, they should all be leaving soon.”

  Cloris agreed, and we split the last remaining muffin. However, before we each took our final bite, a town car pulled up in front of the building. Less than a minute later, one of the men who had arrived shortly after us walked out the front door, stepped into the waiting car and drove off. A second town car pulled up to the curb shortly after the first departed. Five minutes later, Monica exited the brownstone and entered the waiting car.

  The dark blue Taurus pulled out and followed Monica’s town car down the street.

  “Well, that was a huge waste of time,” said Cloris.

  “Maybe not.” I mentioned the guys in the dark blue Taurus.

  “You think they’re following Monica?”

  “Sure looks that way. Don’t you think it’s pretty coincidental that they were parked on the street when we arrived, sat there for over an hour, then left as soon as Monica left?”

  Cloris mulled this over for a minute. “Maybe the police aren’t buying Ray’s alibis after all.”

  “And they’re watching Monica for the same reason we followed her.”

  “So what do you think she was doing in that brownstone for over an hour?”

  I shrugged. “For all we know, that’s her agent’s office.”

  “Do agents hire town cars to pick up and deliver their clients?” Cloris didn’t wait for me to answer, not that I would know one way or another, but neither would she. “Maybe if the clients are Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie,” she continued, “but Monica? I don’t think so.”

  “Does seem rather unlikely. Maybe it’s one of those exclusive day spas, and she set up an emergency appointment to have a chipped nail repaired.”

  “I suppose we could walk up and ring the bell. See exactly what kind of business goes on there.”

  “Suppose you don’t.”

  Cloris and I spun around to find a very annoyed looking Detective Marlowe glaring at us.

  “This can’t be coincidence,” I said. “How did you know we were here.”

  “I think you’re smart enough to figure that out, Mrs. Pollack.”

  “The guys in the Taurus called you?”

  “Bingo. Now get lost and leave the police work to the professionals. I don’t need Cagney and Lacey wannabes fucking up two major police investigations.”

  Cagney and Lacey? Marlowe was older than I thought. That show went off the air when I was still a teen. However, something else he said triggered my curious gene. “Two major investigations? You mean there’s more than murder going on here?”

  Marlowe flushed an unflattering shade of red. Apparently, he’d accidently spilled some beans from his jar of closely guarded police secrets. “Get the hell out of here before I lock you both up for impeding an investigation,” he said behind gritted teeth.

  When given the choice between lock-up or a swift departure, there really is no choice. Cloris and I didn’t even bother with a yes, sir response. We spun around and race-walked as fast as we could down the block toward Third Ave.

  But all the way home I wondered what else was going on.

  _____

  Since I saw little point in driving to the magazine after arriving home shortly before the start of rush hour, I figured I might as well not even bother. After the last few days, I deserved a moment or three to myself. The boys weren’t home from baseball practice yet. I had no idea where Mama or Lucille were and didn’t care. Ralph was in his cage, Catherine the Great was sunning herself in the living room bay window, and Mephisto was snoring on Lucille’s bed. If I were lucky, I’d have just enough time to put my feet up on the back porch and sip a glass of wine before chaos once again reigned at Casa Pollack.

  Too bad I didn’t have any Merlot. Or Shiraz. Or Pinot Noir. I thought about searching through Lucille’s drawers and under her bed. Chances were good she had another bottle or two stashed somewhere, but I didn’t want to run the risk of waking Devil Dog. No way was I giving up precious me time to march up and down the sidewalk, pooper-scooper in hand, while that picky canine searched out the perfect place to make his doggie deposit.

  So after tossing in a load of wash, I microwaved a cup of coffee left over from breakfast. I was about to take my second sip when Zack’s silver Porsche Boxster rolled down the driveway.

  He waved as he killed the engine and jumped out. Returning the wave, I watched—no, I stared like a star-struck teeny-bopper at a Justin Bieber concert—as he retrieved his overnight bag and camera case from the trunk. Where is the justice? No man, especially one in his mid-forties, has the right to look that damn good in a pair of jeans.

  “Coffee?” I called, hoping I sounded more neighborly than desperate for adult male conversation.

  “Thanks, but after a trip from Hell, I need something much stronger. Got any bourbon?”

  “Sorry. Not even a bottle of outdated light beer.”

  “Then the drinks are on me.” Bags in hand, he bounded
up the stairs to his apartment.

  A minute later he returned with two ice-filled glasses and a bottle of Maker’s Mark. As he poured, I questioned him about his trip. “Flight problems?”

  “People problems.” We both took a sip before he continued. “Security breach in Chicago. TSA shut down the terminal for three hours while they searched for the guy. Then they first had to rescreen everyone.”

  I took another sip, trying to remember the last time I’d had hard liquor. I couldn’t. Which could just mean that the first sip had already started working on me. I’m such a cheap date. “Life in the new millennium.” I said.

  “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “Life in general sucks, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Zack eyed me over the rim of his glass. “More of the same or something new?”

  I caught him up on events since I’d last spoken with him, forgetting until halfway through that he’d warned me to leave the detecting to the detectives. Too late now. I plowed ahead as Zack’s features grew tighter and tighter. “With Vince out of the picture, Monica and Ray are the likeliest suspects. Monica’s hiding something. I’m sure of it. Especially after Marlowe showed up at our stakeout.”

  I took another sip of bourbon, held my breath, and forced myself to make eye contact with Zack. Why did I feel like I’d just been caught cutting class?

  He didn’t speak for the longest time, just shook his head and looked at me with those Paul Newman blue eyes of his. “I may regret this,” he finally said.

  “Regret what?”

  “I have connections.”

  “Good guy connections or bad guy connections?”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “Hey, this is New Jersey. You never know.”

  “Good guy connections. In New York. I’ll see what I can find out if—”

  I knew what was coming. “If I promise to keep my nose out of police business?”

  “Think of your kids, Anastasia. They’ve already lost their father. Now their mother is sticking her nose into a killer’s business. You’re untrained and unarmed. Do you really want your mother and mother-in-law raising those boys?”

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time,” I mumbled. Then clarified, “The detecting, not Mama and Lucille raising Nick and Alex.” However, I really had no defense. I’d acted irresponsibly and downright dangerously. Not to mention stupidly.

  “I never used to be like this,” I said. “Ask anyone. It’s all Karl’s fault.”

  “Karl?”

  “AKA Dead Louse of a Spouse?”

  “Right. Karl. He’s dead. How’s this his fault?”

  “I never would have been forced to start acting like Jessica Fletcher if he hadn’t screwed his bookie, not to mention me and our kids.”

  “That was three months ago, and the bookie’s behind bars.”

  I shrugged. “Once you unleash the sleuthing genie, she digs in her heels.”

  “Then I suggest you find a way to shove her back into her bottle and cork it good and tight before you find yourself in a situation you can’t craft your way out of.”

  “Point taken,” I conceded.

  Fourteen

  Karl used to call me a cheap date because more than one cocktail or glass of wine usually puts me to sleep. Several hours earlier I had polished off enough of Zack’s Maker’s Mark to give Rip Van Winkle a run for his money. I should have been out cold, yet at one in the morning I was still wide awake. My brain refused to shut down, hammering me with questions when I should have been deep in Slumberville.

  I decided that rather than toss and turn and stare at the alarm clock for the next five and a half hours, I might as well get up and get some work done. Since I’d pay for my lack of sleep tomorrow—correction, later today, given the hour—I might at least have something to show for pulling an all-nighter other than a rumpled bed.

  I donned my robe and slippers and padded down to the basement. Naomi wanted crafts projects for the magazine that tied into the television show but didn’t duplicate the crafts presented on the show. String dolls seemed a logical off-shoot of mop dolls.

  Because the show schedule and the magazine production schedule weren’t in synch yet, along with everything else we editors were juggling, we also had to scramble to revise magazine issues already in various stages of production. Luckily, American Woman featured a Christmas All Year Round column where I showcased a Christmas craft project in each issue. This made it relatively easy for me to swap out the ornament scheduled for the September issue with an angel string doll ornament.

  As I mindlessly assembled the materials and tools I’d need from my cache of supplies, my mind focused on questions that had nothing to do with dolls of any sort: Had Lou been a multi-millionaire, a con artist, or just a cheap son-of-a-bitch looking to screw his ex-wives out of their alimony? Who sent Lou that cryptic note, and what did it mean? What was on Vince’s computer that he’d rather go to jail than hand over? Who did Monica visit in that Kips Bay brownstone, and did it have anything to do with the murders? Why were the cops following her? What was the other investigation Marlowe let slip? I couldn’t make sense out of any of it. The only thing I was certain about was that a killer was still on the loose. A killer who might have his or her sights set on the American Woman editors. Or Mama.

  Angel String Doll Ornament

  Materials: 24 yds. white/silver crochet cotton, small amount of white crochet cotton, 18mm painted wood head bead, ½ yd. each 1⁄8” wide red and green satin ribbon, three miniature red silk poinsettias, 12” silver chenille stem, 5” x 5” piece of cardboard, tacky glue or glue gun, scissors.

  Directions: Cut three 10” pieces of white/silver crochet cotton and set aside. For the body, wrap white/silver crochet cotton around the cardboard 70 times. Tie at one end with one of the 10” pieces of crochet cotton. Cut through all the lengths of crochet cotton at the opposite end.

  Thread the loose ends from the body tie through the bead head. Apply a dab of glue to the bottom of the bead head to secure the head to the body. Tie the ends into a knot at the top of the head. Tie another knot close to the cut ends to form a hanging loop.

  For the arms, wrap white/silver crochet cotton around the cardboard 12 times. Cut open at one end. Cut the second piece of 10” crochet cotton in half. Use one half to tie off one end of the arm ½” from the cut edge. Braid the lengths for 5” from the tied edge. Tie off the braid with the second 5” piece of crochet cotton. Trim the arm ends ½” from the tie.

  Place the braid centered in the middle of the body. Using the remaining 10” piece of crochet cotton, tie the body under the arms.

  For hair, cut 1” lengths of white crochet cotton. Fold in half. Glue the cut ends to the top of the bead head for looped bangs. For the remainder of the hair, cut 3” lengths of white crochet cotton. Glue in the same manner around the sides and back of the head, working in even rows from the neck up to the crown.

  Fold the chenille stem into a sideways figure 8. Bend the loops up slightly. Tie the chenille stem to the center back of the angel with a piece of white/silver crochet cotton. Secure in place with a dab of glue.

  Make a small bow from the green ribbon. Glue under the bead head at neck. Make a small bow from the red ribbon. Glue to the top of the head.

  Twist the poinsettias into a bouquet. Glue the arms around the bouquet. Tie the remaining ribbon together into a bow with long streamers. Glue the bow under the flowers.

  I crafted a dozen angel string dolls in three different color combinations, using white/silver crochet cotton and a silver chenille stem for four, red/white/green variegated crochet cotton and a red metallic chenille stem for a second group of four, and white/gold crochet cotton with a gold chenille stem for the remaining four. My fingers worked from rote while my mind dwelled on murder. Several hours later I was still wide awake, my angels finished but my head no closer to puzzling out who had killed Lou and Vince or why.

  I padded back to my bedroom, took a shower, and
dressed for work. The clock read 4:38. I sat down at my computer, typed up the directions for the string dolls, and transferred them onto a jump drive. I checked the clock again. 5:10.

  Still wide awake, I headed for the kitchen, dragged out the crock pot, and prepared a slow cook meal for dinner. 5:43. I grabbed eggs from the fridge and whipped up one of Cloris’s quiche recipes for breakfast.

  6:12. Quiche in oven. Coffee made. Dinner cooking. Murder still unsolved.

  _____

  “Yo, Mom! Wake up!”

  My eyelids sprang open. I lifted my head to find myself staring at a perplexed looking Alex. In the kitchen. Totally disoriented, I tried to find my bearings, but an incessant beep, beep, beep kept me from focusing on the here and now.

  “You want that out of the oven?” he asked. “It smells like it’s done.”

  “What?” I yawned, filling my lungs and brain with much needed oxygen. Slowly, very slowly, both last night and my senses came back to me. Especially my sense of smell. I turned toward the stove. The clock read 6:52.

  The quiche!

  I jumped up, donned a pair of oven mitts, and pulled the slightly scorched quiche from the oven. “Breakfast’s ready,” I said.

  “You okay, Mom?”

  “Sure. I couldn’t sleep last night. Guess it finally caught up with me.”

  Did it ever! Middle-aged moms definitely shouldn’t fall asleep at the kitchen table. Face planted on a bamboo placemat. I gingerly touched my embossed cheek. My shoulder screamed four letter words at me. Every other body part chimed in with a rousing chorus of profanity.

  Alex was giving me one of those Who are you and what have you done with my mother? looks.

  I chose to ignore him. “Tell your brother breakfast is ready.”

  “Nick! Breakfast!” he shouted.

  “I could have done that.” Actually, maybe not. Right now forming words in my brain, then moving them from my vocal chords and past my lips, was taking Herculean effort. Raising my voice to shouting level? Way too much work.

  Alex set a glass of orange juice on the table for me. I gulped down the rush of sugary vitamin C.

  “Coffee?” he asked.