Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (16 page)

“Must be an accident,” I said, turning off the engine to conserve gas.

“A bad one from the looks of things,” said Mama.

Every so often the traffic inched along in fits and starts. I’d turn the ignition key, inch up a car length or two, then shut down the engine to wait for the next creep-along session. We eventually made enough progress that I could see traffic being diverted left onto Broad Street. Normally that intersection is a no left turn. Whatever was going on, it must be blocking the T-intersection of Central and Broad, the main intersection in the heart of the downtown district.

Mama began to squirm, and I knew that could only mean one thing. I shouldn’t have been so generous with my latte. Mama’s bladder waits for no man—even traffic cops.

We were about a dozen cars back from Broad Street when Mama jumped out of the Hyundai. “The nearest restroom will be at Starbucks,” I said, knowing where she was headed without having to be told. “I’ll meet you at the back entrance.”

She nodded, setting off at a brisk pace. I hoped she made it the short distance without suffering a public embarrassment. As I continued to wait in traffic, I once again recited my prayer to the Internal Plumbing Gods, hoping I’d inherited my bladder from another family member and not from Mama.

Mama returned before I’d made it through the detour around whatever was happening. She settled back into the car and said, “I figured you’d still be here when you weren’t waiting in the back parking lot. It’s not an accident.”

“So what’s causing the tie-up?”

“I think you’re going to have to see this for yourself, dear. I don’t want to spoil the impact.”

Mama had that Sylvester the Cat look about her, the one he
always got after stuffing Tweedy Bird into his mouth. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see.”

As we finally neared the intersection, I saw Officer Harley directing traffic. He started to wave the one panel truck and three SUVs ahead of me to turn left, then abruptly put up his hand, stopping the flow. He then pointed to me and signaled me to drive around the truck and SUVs. I hoped none of those vehicles contained people I knew because as I passed them, I sensed some very sharp daggers directed at me.

I drove up alongside Harley. “What’s up?”

“You’d better park your car, Mrs. Pollack.” He pointed toward Elmer Street. “Pull up behind that squad car.”

I knew not to worry that something had happened to Alex or Nick because no way would Mama sport such a satisfied look on her face. Her grandchildren meant the world to her. When I passed the truck and SUVs, I had glanced in my rearview mirror, trying to see what was going on, but because the panel truck and first SUV had started to make their left turn before Harley stopped them, they blocked my view of the intersection at Central and Broad.

I parked as directed, noting the presence of news vans from ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox all parked farther down the street. Mama and I jumped out of the car and hustled back to where Harley continued to direct traffic. However, as soon as I reached the curb, I had a clear view of the blocked intersection and no need for any explanation from Harley or anyone else.

My mother-in-law had staged a walker-in!

Seventeen

Blocking the two crosswalks
at Central and Broad stood all thirteen members of the Daughters of the October Revolution, six per crosswalk. Large red helium balloons that stated
Pedestrians Have the Right of Way!
in bright yellow lettering were tied to each of their walkers. Lucille and her comrades in crime must have been planning this little civil disobedience ever since Harley and Fogarty accused her of keying that BMW.

Lucille stood in the middle of the street. She leaned on her own walker, which she hadn’t used in months, while a reporter from ABC interviewed her. The other network reporters and camera crews stood off to the side, no doubt awaiting their turns.

“Why don’t you haul them away and lock them up?” I asked Harley. “Don’t they need a permit to congregate or something?”

“The mayor and police chief don’t want the negative publicity. Can you imagine how the networks would skewer us if we cuffed a bunch of semi-invalid old ladies and tossed them into lock-up?”

Personally, I thought a night in lock-up might shock some sense into Lucille, but I saw the mayor’s and police chief’s point. Westfield was one of those New Jersey towns prized by Hollywood
film companies for location shoots, and I was all in favor of Hollywood filling the town coffers to keep my taxes down. We
certainly didn’t want to create a situation that gave the film companies an excuse to move to Chatham or Upper Montclair.

“How long have they been here?” I asked.

“Couple of hours. Eventually they’ll get tired and leave. At least, that’s what the mayor and chief hope.”

“Have they made any demands?”

“None that I know. They just took up positions and blocked traffic. Haven’t said a word except for your mother-in-law talking to the cameras. Wonder who called them?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” said Mama.

I couldn’t disagree. I turned back to Harley. “Anything you want me to do?”

“Nah. Just thought you’d want to know what’s going on. You can leave any time you want.”

After we returned to the car, Mama asked, “What do you plan to do about her?”

I thought for a minute before answering. How I responded to Lucille’s protest might negatively impact an already precarious relationship. “Nothing,” I finally said. “I’m going to pretend not to know anything about it. And so should you, Mama. Lucille acts too much like a tantrum-prone toddler. Let’s deny her a stage.”

“What about all the TV cameras? This will be all over the six o’clock news.”

I braked for a stop sign and turned to her. “Really, Mama, when was the last time I had a chance to watch the evening news?”

_____

I might not have time for the news media, but as it turned out, the news media had plenty of time for me. We arrived home to find additional reporters and camera crews camped in front of the house. They didn’t even give me time to get out of the car before shoving microphones at me.

“Mrs. Pollack, what do you think of your mother-in-law’s protest?”

“No comment.”

“Is it true she was the victim of a hit and run?”

No, actually she was the victim of an unsuccessful
hit
, but even Lucille didn’t know the truth about the accident that resulted in her coming to live with us, not that I was inclined to spill the beans to the obnoxious Barbie doll reporter currently invading my personal space. “No comment.”

“Mrs. Pollack, would you like to make a statement for the press?”

I turned to the reporter who’d asked that question. “Yes, I would.” They all clamored closer, their mics held in outstretched arms to capture my words.

I paused for dramatic effect, then spoke, “You’re all trespassing on private property. Leave or I’ll call the police.” With that I took hold of Mama’s arm and pushed our way through the fourth estate gaggle and into my house, slamming the door behind me.

“So much for pretending we don’t know anything,” said Mama.

“We can still refuse to engage her in conversation about it,” I said. “Don’t bait her.”

“Me?” Mama walked across the living room to where Catherine the Great was sunning herself in the bay window. She picked up the corpulent kitty and kissed the top of her head. “Really, Anastasia, I’d never stoop to that commie pinko’s level.”

Really, indeed
. But I kept my mouth shut as I executed a huge mental eye roll.

Lucille’s shenanigans were the least of my worries, though. Staging protests came second nature to my mother-in-law. Rumor had it, she went into labor with Karl in the middle of a sit-in, protesting the country’s involvement in Vietnam. She’d refused to leave, even after her water broke. Karl was born under the arch in Washington Square. Literally.

Her personality aside, part of me admired Lucille’s dedication, passion, and courage when it came to standing up for what she believed in. I saw nothing wrong with protesting something that mattered. Our country was founded on such principles. However, her latest cause made me suspect she’d developed a Moses complex, expecting traffic to stop for her the moment she stepped into the street the way Moses had stepped off the shoreline and parted the Red Sea. That kind of behavior was not only nuts, it would eventually get her killed.

Unfortunately, once Lucille made up her mind about something, nothing would sway her from her cause. Not a baby who decided to arrive at an inconvenient moment and certainly not our local police department. Lucille had taken on the NYPD. To her the WPD was no more a nuisance than a gnat to a gorilla. I don’t know why I’d thought a night in lock-up might bring her to her senses. Knowing Lucille, she’d look forward to lock-up, all publicity being good publicity. Who else would have called the press to both the center of town
and
my home?

Lucille would always march to the beat of her own Kremlin Marching Band. Somehow we’d deal. Right now, though, I was more concerned with protecting the rest of my family from whomever killed Lou and attempted to kill Vince. I had no idea whether or not Lou and Vince were the killer’s only targets or if more killings were planned. Not knowing the killer’s motive made protecting us nearly impossible. How do you protect yourself and your loved ones from an unknown, mysterious assailant?

The more I pondered my dilemma, the more my thoughts kept zeroing back to Lou’s finances. I thought that if I could solve that mystery, I’d be well on my way to figuring out the identity of the killer.

Of course, Zack would say to leave all this to the detectives investigating the case, but how could I? When your family is in danger, you don’t sit back and wait for help to arrive. You do whatever it takes to protect them from that danger.

I wondered if I’d overlooked some essential clue at Lou’s apartment, perhaps a clue that even Phillips and Marlowe had also missed. Mama still had Lou’s keys. I could run into the city, give the apartment a thorough search, and arrive home in time to cook dinner.

“Why do you need Lou’s keys?” asked Mama.

I told her my plan.

“I’ll go with you. Two can search faster than one.”

I really didn’t want Mama playing sidekick, but she’d made up her mind, and getting Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe to change her mind was as impossible as getting Lucille to accept someone else’s opinion. On anything.

_____

An hour later, thanks to reporters blocking my driveway, the ever-present Lincoln Tunnel backup, and cross-town gridlock, we stood in the outer lobby of Lou’s building. Mama pulled a key ring from her purse and proceeded to unlock the door that led from the lobby to the first floor hallway and staircase.

“What are all those other keys?” I asked, noticing for the first time that the key ring held more than just the key to the foyer lock and the three deadbolts on Lou’s apartment door.

Mama shrugged. “I have no idea. Lou just handed me an extra set of keys. He pointed out the ones I’d need to get into the apartment but never told me about the others. I suppose some are his office keys.”

Which meant I could also search Lou’s office today. Forget dinner. I’d scramble up a batch of eggs for all of us when we got home. I wasn’t about to pass up the chance to do a bit of Sherlocking without fear of discovery by Sheri or anyone else connected with the show.

Mama and I climbed up the two flights to the third floor. “Good.” I sighed in relief as we stood in front of Lou’s apartment door. “No crime scene tape.”

I wasn’t sure what I would have done had I found the yellow and black DO NOT CROSS warning crisscrossed over the entrance. Lucille might not mind an occasional night in lock-up for the cause, but I wasn’t about to learn first hand whether I did or not.

“Why would there be crime scene tape, dear? Lou was killed at the studio, not in his apartment. This isn’t a crime scene.”

I suppose Mama had learned that from watching
Law & Order
. Still, I wasn’t convinced and was relieved to discover I didn’t have to contemplate breaking the law to solve a murder.

I didn’t know what I hoped to find, especially since I had no idea what to look for. Besides, Phillips and Marlowe had already searched the apartment. Was it likely two NYPD detectives would overlook or dismiss, a piece of crucial evidence? I had to do
something
, though, and right now the only
something
I could think to do was search through Lou’s belongings.

The apartment was much the way we’d left it three and a half weeks ago. The empty bottle of Glenlivet still stood on the coffee table, the mail still scattered around the table and couch. I walked over to Lou’s desk and opened the file drawer to find the folders containing Lou’s will, insurance policy, and brokerage statement all still in place. I guess Phillips and Marlowe hadn’t found anything amiss with them either.

I pulled the brokerage statement from its folder and studied it. Last time I’d focused on nothing other than the bottom line—all those numbers to the left of the decimal point. This time I started at the top. “Oh. My. God.”

“What is it, dear?” Mama stood behind me, looking over my shoulder.

I pointed to the name of Lou’s brokerage firm. Bernard L. Madoff Investment Securities LLC. How had I missed that? “I suppose now we know what happened to all of Lou’s money.”

Like many other New Yorkers, Lou Beaumont had invested his life’s savings with the man responsible for pulling off the largest Ponzi scheme in history. I checked the date on the statement. November 30, 2008. Less than two weeks before Madoff’s arrest. I suppose Lou had held onto this last statement all these years as a reminder of the fortune he thought he owned.

This explained why Lou wasn’t paying the alimony he owed his ex-wives and why he’d bought Mama a cheap diamond. Had he not died, I wonder how long he would have tried to string Mama along with false promises. Or maybe the man had lived in total denial, unable to accept the fact that his fortune wasn’t worth the paper this last statement was printed on. We’d never know.

_____

“To the studio?” Mama asked as we exited Lou’s building.

“Home,” I replied.

“I thought you wanted to search through Lou’s office?”

“Not anymore. We’ve unraveled the mystery of his finances. What would be the point of searching through his office?”

Mama gave me one of those looks that translates into did-I-really-raise-such-a-dense-daughter? “To discover who killed him, of course.”

“Don’t you think that if there were some major clue concerning Lou’s killer lurking within his desk drawers, the police would have discovered it by now?”

“Like they discovered he’d been swindled by Bernie Madoff ?”

“I’m sure they already know. I’m the one who didn’t look closely enough at that brokerage statement the first time we were here. Besides, it doesn’t seem likely that Lou was killed over his finances.”

“What about those money-grubbing ex-wives of his?”

“First of all, only one of Lou’s ex-wives complained about money. Rochelle said she took a lump sum when she and Lou di
vorced, and we never talked to any of the other wives besides Francine.”

“She certainly seemed bitter enough to kill.”

“But it was old news, Mama. Why would she wait years after the fact?”

“Maybe she wasn’t desperate enough until now. She did look like she needed some corrective plastic surgery.”

“I think Francine’s problem is that she’s had one too many plastic surgeries. The woman has a face only the late Michael Jackson could have loved. Anyway, if she’d killed Lou, she would have been arrested by now.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“For one thing, she didn’t strike me as someone with enough gray matter to plot a murder and get away with it. More importantly, the building has surveillance cameras at all the entrances. If Francine had showed up at the studio that day, she would have been caught on camera.”

Mama finally conceded. “I suppose you’re right, dear. Might as well go home and see what kind of trouble the commie pinko has gotten herself into since we left. Do you think she’s still blocking traffic? Or maybe the police finally hauled her off to jail.”

Mama relished that idea a little too much. I understood she and Lucille would never get along, but the discord they created in my home only added to the stress in my life. Each took too much pleasure in egging the other on.

Part of me wished Mama and Lou had married and ridden off into the sunset for whatever time they would have had together—with or without Lou’s millions. There would have been a lot less bickering at
Casa Pollack
.

_____

We arrived back in Westfield to find the news vans gone from the street but my house overrun with Daughters of the October Revolution.