Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (5 page)

“Know what?” she asked.

“That our contracts with Trimedia have trapped us into taking on what amounts to a second full-time job without getting an extra cent.”

“But we have a huge budget,” she said.

“Except we’re not a line item on it,” said Naomi.

We
? I glanced at Cloris. Maybe Naomi hadn’t screwed us after all.

Sheri slumped back in her chair. “I’m sorry. Really. I had no idea.” Then she inhaled a deep breath, settled that perky smile back on her face, and tapped the presentation book in front of her. “Then I guess none of you will be offended that I’ve taken the liberty of planning out all your projects for you.”

_____

“What a control freak,” said Cloris. The eight of us were on the train, returning to our New Jersey office. Naomi had remained in Manhattan.

“Who, Sheri?”

“Of course, Sheri. This show’s a farce.” She pummeled the presentation book resting on her lap. “And we’re nothing more than unpaid drudges.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on her,” I said. “After all, she’s actually made our lives easier.”

“True,” said Jeanie, leaning over from her seat across the aisle to join in the conversation. “I’m just relieved to learn the press release exaggerated concerning the total home makeover.” Instead, Jeanie and I were responsible for finding ways to jazz up the existing residence using lots of imagination and limited cash. Sheri wanted the show to reflect decorating tips viewers with modest budgets could incorporate into their own homes.

“She’s saved us hours of planning,” I said. “But I doubt she’ll bother going to all this trouble for future shows.”

“Why would she?” asked Cloris. “She won’t be the recipient of your labors.”

I fanned through the pages of my book. “She may be a control freak, but she’s also a dynamo. Look at the amount of work she put into this. And in only a few days.”

“How do you know she organized this in a few days?” asked Jeanie.

“Mama met Lou less than two weeks ago. Except …” I chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment. Something didn’t add up. “Mop dolls?”

“Come again?” asked Cloris.

“Sheri wants mop doll crafts for the first taping. I haven’t seen mop dolls around in well over a decade. No crafts store I know even carries mop heads anymore.”

“Meaning?” asked Cloris.

“Meaning, I’ll bet Sheri worked up this pilot program years ago when mop dolls were popular. Friday night she said she’d been trying to get Lou to change the show’s format for ages, remember?” No wonder Sheri seemed so pissed at Lou. And Mama. Sheri had finally gotten her way, but Mama was getting all the credit.

“What exactly is a mop doll?” asked Tessa from the seat behind us.

“A doll made from a cotton string mop.”

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“The kind of mop the janitors use to swab the floors at work.”

“Eww! Gross! Why would anyone want a doll made of something like that?”

I turned to confront her. “Actually, they’re quite cute and easy to make. Very folksy.”

Tessa scrunched her nose. “If you say so.” She turned her head to study her reflection in the window. “Mop dolls and muumuus,” she muttered. “This woman doesn’t need a makeover; she needs a taste transplant.”

“Not to mention a perky-ectomy,” added Janice. “The woman is too Mary Sunshine giggly for my taste.”

“Must be the Karo syrup running through her veins,” said Cloris.

“Personally, I think it’s in our best interests not to make an enemy of Sheri Rabbstein,” said Sheila. “I have a feeling we’re going to have enough problems with Vince and Monica.”

“Too late for me,” I said. “Your mother didn’t kidnap Sheri’s baby and pass it off as her own idea.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” asked Cloris.

“Damned if I know.” But somehow I had to get Mama to relinquish ownership of the new programming. I’d seen the way Sheri looked at Mama and could read between the lines, no matter how many giggles punctuated Sheri’s perky chatter. I didn’t want her taking out her resentment for Mama on me.

Basic Mop Doll

Materials:
24 oz. mop head (available in the cleaning section of most hardware stores, discount centers, and supermarkets), 4" Dylite® (smooth craft foam) ball, 5" x 5" natural muslin, wooden craft stick, 3/16" black half-round beads, rubber bands, tacky glue, glue gun (optional), blush or pink powdered chalk.

Directions:
(NOTE—all gluing can be done with either tacky glue or a glue gun except for attaching the muslin to the Dylite® ball. This step must be done with tacky glue.) Cut a 4
¾
" diameter circle from muslin for the face. Snip ¼" cuts around the perimeter of the muslin circle. Using tacky glue, glue the muslin to the front of the Dylite® ball, smoothing out any wrinkles.

Poke a hole in the bottom of the Dylite® ball directly under the muslin face. Glue the craft stick into the ball, allowing approximately 3
½
" of the stick to extend.

Spread the mop apart on a table. Randomly pull 26 strands from the mop. Set strands aside. With the bottom of the doll head adjacent to the top of the mop, glue the craft stick centered over the mop tape. Glue several strands of mop closest to the head down over the craft stick and mop tape to conceal them. Flip the doll over and repeat the previous step to conceal the mop tape on the reverse side. Wrap one of the set-aside mop strands around the doll’s neck, gluing in place.

At both the left and right sides of the doll, take the top 18 mop strands. Trim 3" from length, saving trimmed pieces to use for hair. Braid strands for arms, securing each wrist with a rubber band.

Tie the body together under the arms with one mop strand to form a waist. Trim ends even with bottom of mop.

Set aside 8 mop strands for pigtails. Cut remaining 16 strands into 3" lengths. Run a line of glue around the edge of the muslin for hairline. Fold strands in half, gluing folded edge to the muslin. Run a second line of glue in front of the hairline. Glue a second row of folded strands in front of the first row. Place the doll face down. Working in even horizontal rows from the base of the neck to the top of the head, continue gluing hair in place.

Cut remaining 8 lengths of mop strands in half. Tie each half in the middle with one strand. Glue tied section to each side of head for pigtails.

Glue beads in place for eyes.

Use blush or chalk to color cheeks.

Mama claims to descend from Russian royalty. I didn’t doubt it, considering her stubborn streak was as long as the Volga and as deep as Lake Baikal. Later that evening, as I began work on a group of mop dolls, I confronted her about the show. She refused to relinquish credit for the new format.

“It was my idea!” she insisted as I tried to convince her otherwise. “Lou said so, and he’s the boss. If that woman doesn’t like it, she can quit.” She pounded her fist on my makeshift work table, releasing a cloud of mop doll lint. “Who needs her?”

I batted at the white fuzz flying in front of my face. I had forgotten the one drawback to crafting mop dolls: they shed more than Catherine the Great. “Lou needs her, Mama.”

“Lou could replace her like that.” She snapped her fingers under my nose, then crossed her arms over her chest and jutted out her lower lip. Full Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe sulk mode.

I secured a braided mop doll arm with an elastic band, took a deep breath, and played my trump card. “If you won’t do it for her, do it for me.” Then for good measure, I dug deep into my childhood repertoire and conjured up a pair of hang-dog Hush Puppy eyes. “Please?” How could she resist?

Mama wasn’t falling for it. “I don’t understand. How does this concern you?”

So much for hang-dog Hush Puppy eyes. I sighed. “I have to work with the woman. It’s bad enough I’m not getting paid for all this added responsibility, I’d at least like to work in a no-combat zone.”

Mama thought this over for a moment, then patted my arm. “Don’t worry, dear. If she makes life difficult for you, I’m sure Lou will fire her.”

Not the answer I’d hoped for.

_____

The remainder of the week passed in a cyclonic tumult of magazine deadlines, photo shoots, and mop dolls. In-between, I sandwiched the standard mom duties of laundry, cooking, carpooling, and nagging. Not to mention dousing the spontaneous combustion that flared up at least once a day when a proud Daughter of the American Revolution and an equally proud Daughter of the October Revolution faced off.

Friday morning, I packed the trunk of my bottom-of-the-line, eight-year-old mud brown Hyundai, and with a quick prayer to the God of Rattletraps, I headed for midtown Manhattan to drop off the models and supplies for Monday’s rehearsal.

Prior to widowhood, I drove a two-year-old Camry, but
finances—or more precisely, a lack of them—had forced me to trade comfort and car payments for a free-and-clear clunker that wheezed like a three-pack-a-day emphysema victim. However, for the past three months the Hyundai had managed to provide dependable, if noisy, transportation and—fingers crossed—would continue to do so.

Eighteen miles and an hour and a half of bumper-to-bumper traffic later, I pulled into a parking garage a block from the studio. Lugging one carton with me, I left the other five in the car for additional trips.

Ever since 9/11, visitors have to show photo ID and sign in at all New York office buildings. On top of that, any unattended packages immediately raise suspicion. I was hoping I could convince the security guard to let me stack the cartons in the lobby while I made trips back and forth to the car, but I wasn’t holding
my breath. He could just as soon decide I was a new breed of
middle-aged suburban soccer mom terrorist and call in the bomb squad to blow up my mop dolls.

Once at the security desk, I placed my first carton on the counter while I hunted in my purse for my driver’s license. “I have five more cartons to bring in from my car,” I said, handing over the license. “I’m headed up to the
Morning Makeovers
studio. Is it okay if I pile the cartons somewhere instead of making six separate trips upstairs?”

The guard, a middle-aged Hispanic man with a baby face and a Hulk Hogan body, studied my ID, glanced down at a list in front of him, then stood up. The next thing I knew, he was pushing a hand truck around from the back of the counter. “Ms. Rabbstein had this sent down for you, Ms. Pollack. She said you’d be bringing in a bunch of cartons.”

He parked the hand truck in front of me and handed back my license, along with a card. “This here’s your temporary ID until you’re issued a permanent one. I’ll keep an eye on this carton while you get the rest. I’d do it for you, but I can’t leave my post.”

Definitely not the reception the cynic in me had expected, either from the security guard or Sheri. I glanced at his name badge. “Thank you, Hector.”

He tipped his cap. “Not a problem, ma’am.”

I headed back toward the parking garage, hand truck in tow. Ten minutes later I returned, panting from the effort of maneuvering the carton-laden hand truck against the tide of New York City pedestrians. I really needed to start exercising. I’d even added it to my to-do list, right under finding a cure for cancer and a solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

Carcinomas, the Middle East, and aerobic workouts would have to wait, though. I needed to deal with Sheri. This would be our first one-on-one encounter, and I didn’t know what to expect. However, her thoughtfulness regarding the hand truck gave me hope.

Once upstairs, I parked the hand truck in the hallway, took one last deep breath and headed for her office. Finding the door slightly ajar, I rapped a quick knock-knock before stepping inside. Sheri stood at the window, talking on the phone, her back to me. Her free hand twisted the hem of a black cardigan that covered the top half of a yellow, peach, and mint green diagonally striped muumuu.

“Yes, we had an agreement,” she told the caller, “but you have to understand
…
No! How can you think that? I’ve told you. I wouldn’t—”

I cleared my throat. “Sheri?”

She spun around, her eyes wide, her cheeks glowing fire hydrant red. Without releasing her death grip on the sweater, she help up her index finger, then turned back to the window and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Look, Max, I have to go. Someone’s here. Can we discuss this later? Over dinner? I’m sure we can work something out.” She paused for a moment, nodding her head as she listened. “All right. Tonight. I love you, too.”

I watched as she took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling, before she hung up the phone and turned to me. “Anastasia, I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our appointment.”

Great. She’s already pissed over Mama stealing her idea. Now I’m late for our appointment, and I get caught eavesdropping on a lover’s quarrel.
Nice work, Anastasia
. Hand truck thoughtfulness aside, for someone who didn’t want to make an enemy, I’d certainly gotten off to a slam-bang start.

“Sorry about being late.” I shrugged. “Traffic. No matter how much time you allow yourself, it’s never enough.” Without pausing, I launched into damage control. “Look, I didn’t mean to intrude. Your door was open, and I—”

Sheri held up her hand. “No need. It was nothing. Really. Don’t worry about it.” She smiled as she rounded her desk, but the smile didn’t mask the hurt and worry in her eyes. “Come see the set,” she said, grabbing my arm. “You’ll love what we’ve done.”

The generic talk-show desk and chairs with a faux New York city skyline backdrop had been replaced by a country great room, complete with gas fireplace and overstuffed leather sofas. A kitchen-to-die-for took up a sizable section to the left. “We’ll do the craft demos here,” she said, pointing to the granite-topped island that separated the kitchen from the seating area. “What do you think?”

“Very nice.” A heck of a lot nicer than my own humble abode with its chipped Formica countertops and worn upholstery. “When can I move in?”