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

by Lois Winston

  I held out my arm. “Intravenously.” How the hell was I going to get to work, let alone get through the day?

  Three cups of coffee and a huge helping of protein-rich quiche later, I headed back to my bedroom, stripped, and stepped into an icy cold shower. If that didn’t wake me up, nothing would.

  Twenty minutes later I sent up a prayer to the Goddess of Over-Stressed Single Parents as I slid behind the wheel of my Hyundai. Thankfully, she heard me because I managed to arrive at work on time and in one piece, albeit with still wet hair.

  “You look like drowned shit,” said Cloris as I passed her in the hall.

  “Would you believe that’s a compliment, given the way I feel?”

  She pulled me into the break room and poured me a cup of coffee. “Something happen last night?”

  “Actually, it was a very productive night.” In between yawns and gulps of coffee, I caught her up on my insomniac exploits.

  My cell rang as I was finishing my Tale of the Sleepless Night. I checked the display. Zack. “Hi, Zack.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean in private.”

  “I’m in the break room with Cloris. What’s up?”

  “Find someplace where you won’t be overheard by anyone, then call me back.” He disconnected. I pushed End Call.

  “That was short,” said Cloris. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m not sure. Zack wants me to call him back where no one can overhear me.”

  “Sounds very cloak and dagger. Are you sure he’s not really a spy? Maybe the photography gig is his cover.”

  I suppose anything was possible. The man did jet all around the world, sometimes at a moment’s notice. And he did mention having connections. How many freelance photo-journalists who worked for National Geographic and the World Wildlife Federation had the sort of connections that gave them access to NYPD murder investigations?

  The one place I was guaranteed not to run into anyone else was my Models Room. Really more of a windowless walk-in closet, the Models Room housed finished craft projects and photo props from past, current, and future American Woman issues, along with new product samples sent by manufacturers. Cloris receives champagne truffles; Nicole, the latest products from Bobbi Brown and Chanel; Tessa, all sorts of designer swag. Me? I get pompoms and embroidery floss.

  Freebie envy aside, though, entering my Models Room used to fill me with both a sense of accomplishment and bring out the little kid in me. It now filled me with a sense of dread—ever since three months ago when Ricardo stepped out of that room and pulled a gun on me.

  I walked down the hall and took a deep breath before reaching for the knob. Once inside, overhead light on, door closed and latched behind me, I returned Zack’s call.

  “Are you sure no one can overhear you?” he asked.

  “I’m positive.” But all the same I kept my voice just above a whisper. “Why all the secrecy?”

  “First, you have to promise you won’t breathe a word of what I’m about to tell you to anyone.”

  “You’re creeping me out, Zack.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. You want me to cross my heart or something? Spit on my palm? Swear on my father’s grave?”

  “Not necessary. I believe you’re a woman of your word.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Now, spill.”

  “Let me ask you something,” he said. “Who told you Vince Alto was dead?”

  “Marlowe. He said Vince was found in an alley, his head bashed in with a brick. It was also in the papers and on the news.”

  “That he was found in an alley with his head bashed in?”

  “That’s what I just said.” I knew I wasn’t operating on all cylinders this morning, but I was awake enough to realize this conversation was going around in a great big non-productive circle. “What’s going on, Zack?”

  “Vince Alto isn’t dead.”

  Huh? “Okay, run that by me once more because I could swear you just said Vince isn’t dead.”

  “That’s what I said. He’s in a coma. Apparently, the cops want everyone to believe he’s dead.”

  “How can they keep something like that a secret? Whether on purpose or accidentally, someone at the hospital is bound to let it slip.”

  “He’s in the prison hospital at Rikers.”

  “Vince is in jail? Why? He can’t be a suspect in Lou’s murder if the killer tried to kill him, too.”

  “The cops found tons of kiddie porn on his computer. Really sick stuff.”

  So that’s why Vince put up such a stink when Marlowe subpoenaed his laptop. I wasn’t surprised. Vince came across as the slimiest of slime bags. The man made my skin crawl. Now I knew why. Still, the entire sequence of events all seemed too orchestrated. “I think someone set Vince up,” I said.

  “You think someone planted the kiddie porn on his computer? Not according to my source. The computer forensics show a damning trail pointing directly to Vince.”

  “Oh, I’m sure the kiddie porn is his. I think someone else knew about his sick predilection and sent that bogus e-mail from him to Monica.”

  “Knowing the cops would subpoena his laptop.”

  “And that someone has to be the killer. What better way to misdirect the murder investigation away from yourself than set someone else up for the crime?”

  “I’m sure the police are considering that angle,” said Zack.

  “According to your source? Just who is your source, Zack? Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You can’t reveal your source, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Cloris thinks you’re CIA and the photo-journalism gig is your cover.”

  “Cloris has a vivid imagination.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “CIA or something.”

  Zack laughed. “We’re all something, Anastasia. Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

  With that he disconnected, having neither admitted nor denied the supposition. Maybe Cloris’s imagination wasn’t all that vivid after all.

  That made me wonder. If Zack really did lead a double life, was having him live above my garage a good thing or a bad thing? Did it place my family in danger, or provide us with an added amount of safety and security?

  I thought about how Zack had come to my aid, helping me secure my home, installing surveillance equipment, after the Ricardo incident. However, Zack’s tale of being captured in Guatemala also came to mind. Maybe documenting native tribal costumes for National Geographic had merely been his cover. Maybe he hadn’t accidently stumbled upon that pot farm but had been sent specifically to hunt down villages that had switched from growing corn to growing something far more lucrative.

  If Guatemalan drug lords were anything like Mexican drug lords, were we all in danger thanks to my too-sexy-for-his-own-good tenant? After all, a significant number of Guatemalan immigrants lived in New Jersey. Any number of them could be part of that Guatemalan drug pipeline.

  For all I knew, Zack had a price on his head. That meant none of us was safe. I didn’t care what sort of security clearance the government required for Zack to divulge his true occupation. He’d damn well better come clean to me. I had my kids and Mama to think of, as Zack so often reminded me.

  _____

  As soon as I returned home that night, I jotted a note and taped it to Zack’s door. Need to see you ASAP. A. Then I waited. And waited. And waited. By ten o’clock I could no longer keep my eyes open. I opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. No lights on in Zack’s apartment. No silver Porsche Boxster parked in the driveway.

  I returned to the kitchen and called his cell.

  This is Zachary Barnes. If I’m not answering, I’m probably on a plane to somewhere or already there and out of satellite range. Leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible, which could be anywhere from a few minutes to a few months.

  Great
. I hung up without leaving a message.

  Fifteen

  For the next two days I obsessed about Guatemalan hit squads, even though I so didn’t need another obsession taking over my life. Obsessing about my lack of money, mountain of debt, looming college tuition, and whether or not Lou’s killer had his sights set on Mama or me should have been enough obsession for any one person. Whoever doled out obsessions needed to start picking on someone else. The last thing I needed was worrying about some machete-wielding maniac out to revenge his brother/cousin/uncle/warlord back in the hills of Guatemala, while the cause of that obsession was out gallivanting who-knew-where doing who-knew-what.

  By the time Zack arrived home late Friday afternoon, I’d obsessed myself into a frenzy of unprecedented histrionic proportion. Lack of sleep—due to said obsessing—and a case of PMS to end all PMS had contributed to my Crazy Lady transformation which I unleashed on an unsuspecting Zachary Barnes the moment he pulled into the driveway and parked his car.

  “You and I need to talk,” I screamed, not caring whether the neighbors heard me. Hell, people clear across town probably heard me.

  “I want answers, and I don’t care what sort of government clearance I need. You’re not putting my kids in danger. I won’t allow it.” I shook with rage. Tears rushed down my cheeks. “You tell me the truth, Zack. You tell me now. Or you can pack up and clear out this minute.”

  I don’t know what I expected after that tirade, but it certainly wasn’t what happened next. Zack closed the gap between us in one long stride and wrapped me in his arms.

  “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just take a deep breath and calm down. No one is going to hurt you or the boys. I promise.”

  I gulped air and tried to stop crying, but the damn dam had burst, and the tears wouldn’t let up. Deep in the back of my mind I realized I was in the throes of a full-fledged panic attack, but rational Anastasia had fled the scene, leaving a bundle of raw emotion in her place.

  Yet in another recess of my emotion-soaked brain it suddenly occurred to me that having Zack’s arms wrapped around me felt incredibly wonderful. My PMS-rampaging hormones began to mellow. One by one they sighed in contentment. Even though my tears continued to flow, they now spilled forth for an entirely different reason.

  Zack’s reaction to my meltdown gobsmacked me with the reality of my life. I was lonely. I was hurt. I was damn angry. And it was all Karl’s fault. Even the Guatemalan hit squad.

  Without Karl’s deceit, I would have had no need to rent out the apartment over the garage. I’d still be using it for my studio. I never would have met Zack, and I wouldn’t now be worrying about Guatemalan hit squads coming after me and my family. Even in death Karl had found a way to continue screwing me.

  While my mind was placing blame on Karl, Zack led me upstairs, unlocked his door, and sat me down on his sofa. My anger at Karl settled my sobs, although the tears continued to fall silently, splashing onto my lap. I swiped at my eyes, trying to stem the tide, but I had little success.

  This was the first time I’d allowed myself to cry since Dead Louse of a Spouse had died. From time to time I’d well up, especially in the first few weeks as my life devolved from American Dream to Teeming Landfill of Shit, but anger had kept the tears at bay. No longer.

  “Here. Drink this,” said Zack.

  He held a glass of something dark and rich looking and most likely alcoholic in front of me. I reached for it. “Will it help?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t hurt. Drink up.”

  I did as I was told, taking a tentative sip at first. Cognac. Zack held an open bottle of Remy Martin in his other hand. My tears abated; my anger returned. “You live above a garage but drink cognac that costs more than my weekly supermarket bill? Who the hell are you?”

  “Ah, we’re back to that.” Zack poured himself a glass of the cognac and sat down beside me.

  I gulped down the remainder in my glass, letting the burn reinforce my anger. Slamming the glass onto the coffee table, I twisted to face him. “Damn right. You owe me some answers.”

  He refilled my glass. “Sip. Don’t gulp.”

  Damn him. “I’ll gulp if I want.” I picked up the glass and polished the cognac off in one chug. The jolt skyrocketed straight to my head. Damn. Why was I acting so peevish?

  Zack shook his head. “Maybe we should talk before you get too drunk to hear anything.”

  That jolt had reinforced my peevishness. I picked up the bottle and poured more into my glass. “Maybe I need to get drunk. It will help me forget.”

  Zack grabbed both my glass and the bottle. “That’s not going to solve anything.”

  I grabbed the glass back. “Says who?”

  “Forget what?”

  “Huh?”

  “See, you’re already having trouble following. What are you trying to forget?”

  “Oh, that.” I waved away my confusion with another long swallow. “Everything. Karl. Bills. Guatemalan hit squads—”

  “Guatemalan hit squads?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Zack. I figured it all out. Cloris was right. You are CIA or something. You didn’t go down to Guatemala to shoot a spread about inda … inde … indig—.” Oh hell. I couldn’t even get the word out. At least, the cognac was working.

  “Indigenous?” he offered.

  “Right. That. Whatever. Native costumes. That was only your cover. You went to flush out pot farms and disrupt a drug pipeline. And now they’re probably after you, and that puts me and my kids and Mama in harm’s way.

  “And what about that voicemail of yours? Who goes off where they can’t be reached for months at a time? No photo-journalist I’ve ever known. Only spies and Special Forces and Navy SEALS. You lied to me. You men are all alike. Karl. Lou. You. All liars.”

  “Really? How many photo-journalists have you known?” he asked. “Not to mention Special Forces and Navy SEALS.”

  “None. But that’s besides the point. No one is out of communication these days unless they choose to be. Even the astronauts up in the International Space Station make and receive calls.”

  With that last bit of information my steam ran out. I started crying again, all the more so because Zack hadn’t denied anything I said. Through my tears, I watched him get up and walk into the bathroom. He returned shortly and placed a wet washcloth on the back of my neck.

  “You’ve been keeping a hell of a lot bottled up for the past three months,” he said. “Cry as much as you need to. Then we’ll talk.” He strode across the room and opened the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To let Alex and Nick know where you are. Have they had dinner yet?”

  I shook my head. “I’m a lousy mother.”

  “You’re a great mother, just scared and overwhelmed. Had you planned anything?”

  “Chicken. In the fridge. Needs to go on the grill.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  I gulped back a huge sob. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Somebody has to.” With that he was out the door.

  _____

  I woke to a full bladder and the sound of chirping birds. I had no memory of how I got into bed. No memory of anything beyond Zack leaving to cook dinner for my kids. Zack! Talk about recall remorse. One minute I’m blubbering all over the man; the next minute I’m screaming at him like a half-cocked banshee. Pathetic! Maybe if I kept my eyes closed, I’d never have to face him again.

  Unfortunately, my bladder had a different agenda. I tossed off the quilt and rolled over—right into an upholstered barrier. My eyes sprang open. This wasn’t my bed. This wasn’t even my house.

  “Good morning,” said an all too familiar voice. “Coffee will be ready shortly.”

  “What time is it?” I asked, stretching the kinks out of my body. Forty-two-year-old women should not spend the night on a couch. I ached in places I didn’t even know could have aches.

  “Nearly six.”

  “What? I sle
pt twelve hours?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Hold that thought.” I raced to the bathroom, hoping I made it before my bladder gave out.

  When I returned, Zack continued, “As I was saying, I don’t think a ten on the Richter scale would have woken you. Around eleven I removed your shoes, tossed a blanket over you, and went to bed.”

  He handed me a cup of coffee, and I polished off half before speaking. “I can’t remember the last time I slept twelve hours. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I slept for five uninterrupted hours.”

  I noted Zack had already dressed for the day and that a packed duffle stood by the door. “Another trip?”

  “I haven’t had time to unpack.”

  “Where were you the last few days.”

  “D.C.”

  “D.C.? As in home of Spies R Us?”

  “As in headquarters of National Geographic,” he said. “I’m not a spy, and there are no Guatemalan hit squads after me. Where did you ever get that idea?”

  I tried to explain the convoluted path to my hysteria, but my explanation sounded irrational and lame, even to me. Still, was the idea really that farfetched? Finally, I just said, “How do I know you’re telling me the truth? It’s not like I can call the government and ask if they have a spy named Zachary Barnes on their payroll.”

  “I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.”

  “I trusted Karl. Look where that got me.”

  “Point taken, but I’m not Karl.”

  “Point taken. Will you at least tell me how you found out about Vince?”

  “If I do, you’re going to owe me big time.”

  “I already owe you. Who is it?”

  “My ex-wife.”

  “How—?”

  “She’s with the Manhattan D.A.’s office, and she could get into a hell of a lot of trouble if word got out that she discussed an ongoing investigation with me. That’s why I got all cloak and dagger with you and why you can’t breathe a word of what I told you to anyone. Okay?”

  I nodded. “So you’re really not a spy? The photo-journalism isn’t a cover?”

  Zack pointed to the bookcases across the room. “Feel free to check out my work from my first published spread over twenty years ago to the latest issue of National Geographic.