Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (6 page)

Sheri giggled. “We have a storage closet set aside for all your supplies and models.” She led me back out of the studio, grabbed the hand truck and headed down a hallway past the dressing rooms, unlocking a door at the far end. The closet was more a room, nearly as large as my bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling metal shelving units stood along one wall. A counter with cabinets underneath ran the length of the opposite wall. Additional cabinets hung above the counter. Along the back wall were several wheeled clothing racks holding an assortment of outfits. No muumuus.

“The other editors came by yesterday, but there’s still plenty of room for you,” she said, indicating the empty shelves with a sweep of her arm.

“I had a photo shoot yesterday and didn’t finish the mop dolls until last night.” Why did I feel compelled to offer her an excuse? After all, we weren’t taping for another week.

“Not a problem,” she said. “I’ll help you unpack. I can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with.”

An odd comment, I thought, considering she had specified each project. I ripped the packing tape from the first carton. Sheri reached in and removed a mop doll witch attached to a woven grapevine wreath. Her eyes sparkled; her mouth stretched into a wide grin. “For my front door?”

I nodded. “As you requested. One for each holiday.”

Sheri gingerly fingered the witch. I had dyed the mop black, dyed the strands used for the hair orange, and dressed the doll in a black witch’s hat with a purple felt cape. Yellow felt stars embellished both. She carried a straw broom and a jack-o-lantern. Black plastic spiders climbed over the vines of the wreath.

“Oh, I love it! Thank you!”

And then she did something that knocked the Cynicism Gene right off my DNA helix: she hugged me. So maybe she didn’t blame me for Mama’s credit hijacking, after all.

When she had finished oohing and aahing over each mop doll wreath, Sheri locked the storage room and handed me the key. “See you Monday,” she said with a wiggle-wave of her index finger.

I wiggle-waved back and headed for my car.

By the time I arrived at the office, the day was half over, but I still had at least ten hour’s worth of work ahead of me. I fired up my computer, stared at my to-do list, then did the only sensible thing under the circumstances. I headed for the break room in search of coffee and a chocolate anything. Nothing was so bad that it couldn’t improve with an infusion of caffeine, carbs, and calories.

_____

Or so I thought until Monday morning when I arrived back at the studio to find the proverbial caca had hit the proverbial fan.

Four

Mornings at Casa Pollack
are never pretty, not when two hormonally driven teenage boys and their bodily function-obsessed grandmothers vie for the same bathroom. Call me selfish, but I refuse to share the master bathroom with any of them. I have little enough privacy in this madhouse as it is. And given that I’m the sole pumpernickel-winner, I like to think of my actions as more practical than selfish. I can’t afford to be late for work. Which is why I installed a lock on my bedroom door.

Not sharing my bathroom has its drawbacks, though. Invariably, someone runs late. This morning it was Mama, thanks to Lucille staking claim after the boys departed.

I exited my bedroom to find Mama still in her lilac robe and matching fuzzy mules, pounding her fist on the hall bathroom door. I checked my watch. “Mama, we’ve got fifteen minutes to catch the train.”

“We’ll have to take the next one,” she said. “The commie pinko’s hijacked the bathroom again.”

I sighed. Then capitulated. “Use my bathroom.”

“I can’t. She’s holding my make-up hostage.”

Needless to say, we missed the train. By the time we arrived huffing and puffing into the studio reception area, we were forty minutes late, but I didn’t think forty minutes warranted the reception that greeted us.

Vince looked annoyed.

Monica looked antsy.

Naomi looked frustrated.

Lou looked apoplectic.

Sheri looked fit to kill.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as Mama inserted herself between Sheri and Lou. She tipped her head, awaiting a lip-lock, but Lou appeared too distracted to even notice she’d arrived.

Naomi cleared her throat. “We have a slight problem.”

“
Slight
problem?” Vince snickered. “A regular master of the understatement, isn’t she?”

Monica curled her lip. “The hostess with the mostest.”

“Lou, aren’t you even going to say hello to me?” demanded Mama, one hand on her hip, the other tucked around his arm.

Sheri’s already crimson face deepened three shades darker than her pink carnation print muumuu. Her narrowed eyes targeted Vince and Monica. “The two of you are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Monica stared her down. “What if we are?”

“God works in mysterious ways,” said Vince. He clasped his hands in front of him and glanced ceiling-ward, as if expecting divine acknowledgment to rain down on him from the fluorescent fixture. “Maybe the good Lord isn’t happy with the way you’ve railroaded us.”

“And maybe you’re trying to railroad me,” said Sheri, her voice seething with unrestrained rage.

Vince placed his hand on his chest, his eyes growing wide with surprise. “
Moi
? Surely you don’t think
I’d
stoop to anything so …” He wrinkled his nose and enacted a fake shudder. “So messy.”

“Of course not, darling,” said Monica. “You’d never do anything to jeopardize your manicure.”

Vince held his hands up to study his buffed nails. “So true.”

“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” I asked.

Lou disentangled himself from Mama and turned to me, his face the ashen pallor of a man on the verge of a coronary. Mama might not make it to the altar with this one, I thought. “We canceled today’s rehearsal,” he said.

That’s when I noticed the lack of hustle and bustle. The reception area had taken on the aura of a funeral parlor.

“Honestly, Lou, you could have called,” said Mama. “I rushed to get here.”

She wasn’t the only one annoyed. I had plenty of work to do back at the magazine and certainly didn’t need to waste half a day in the city. “Why?” I asked.

“
Why
?” Sheri’s strangled voice pitched higher. “I’ll show you why.” She grabbed me by the hand and dragged me toward the studio. The others followed behind us. “This is why,” she said, kicking open the door.

I stepped inside and stared bug-eyed, my gaze sweeping the formerly pristine stage set. “My God!” Someone had let loose the Tasmanian Devil, and he’d done one hell of a makeover to
Morning Makeovers
.

Clumps of stuffing pulled from slashed cushions lay in cumulus nimbus-like piles across the floor. Deep gashes had been sliced into the wood cabinets and shelves. Splatters of blood red paint
covered every horizontal and vertical surface. And in the midst of all the chaos, sitting propped against a paint bucket on the granite-
topped island, sat my Christmas angel mop doll, looking proud as punch nestled in her gumdrop-decorated wreath. However, instead of a candy cane in her arms, she held a blood red acrylic-soaked paintbrush.

“Oh dear!” said Mama.

“Who did this?” I asked.

“Someone out to sabotage my program,” said Sheri through gritted teeth. She stood hands-on-hips, her glare encompassing Naomi, Vince, Monica, and me.

“
Your
program?” asked Mama, getting in Sheri’s face. “It’s
Lou’s
program and
my
idea.”

“Mama, don’t.” I pulled her away from Sheri. “We’ve been over this,” I hissed in her ear. “Sheri came up with the idea way before you met Lou. Now drop it. We’ve got more serious problems here.”

“Hmmph!” She exhaled a classic Flora pout. “We’ll see about that.”

Lou eyed Mama, eyed Sheri, then shook his head before wrapping a shaky arm around Sheri’s shoulders. Mama stiffened. “We don’t know that it’s sabotage directed specifically toward this show,” Lou said to Sheri. “You know the network has had union problems ever since Trimedia refused to give in to their latest contract demands. We may have been a random target of organized labor high jinks.” But he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

“Like hell,” she said, jerking out of the fatherly embrace. Mama stepped back between them, hip-bumping Sheri out of the way and latching on to Lou’s arm once more.

“What do the police think?” I asked. “And speaking of police, where are they?”

Lou’s ashen pallor grew paler. “No police!”

“You mean you haven’t reported this?” I asked.

“No, and we’re not going to.”

“But a crime’s been committed.”

“No,” said Sheri. “Lou’s right. We can’t afford the negative publicity.”

I glanced at Naomi. Surely she’d see the absurdity of this. But if she did, she wasn’t agreeing with me. “Trimedia already knows what happened. They want to keep this contained. No police. No press.”

“What about security tapes? Can’t you at least look at those without bringing in the police?”

“We only have security cameras at the building entrances,” said Lou.

“This had to have been committed by someone with access to the building,” I said. “Someone who probably came back long after everyone else left on Friday or sometime over the weekend. You should at least have security review the tapes.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Lou.

“I’ll take care of it,” offered Sheri.

Lou nodded in agreement.

“It still makes no sense not to file a report with the police,” I said.

“Whether it makes sense or not, that’s the ruling from the suits,” said Naomi.

I shrugged. “Fine. What happens now?”

“Our schedule gets pushed back a day,” said Sheri. “We’ll condense rehearsals. Taping still begins next Monday.”

“Only a day?” I asked. “To clean up and construct a new set?”

Mama turned to Lou. “As long as you’re changing things, dear, you know I didn’t like those leather sofas. They were much too masculine. We should go with a nice floral damask. In soft pastels, I think. Or maybe a peach and mint stripe. And stainless steel appliances look so industrial. Classic white is best, don’t you agree, Anastasia?”

I groaned.

To her credit, Sheri ignored Mama’s prattling and answered my question. “We’ll have a new set by tomorrow morning even if we have to pay the crew triple-time to work through the night. They’re already tracking down replacement furnishings. It may not be as nice as this one, but—”

Naomi broke in. “You probably need to make another model, Anastasia.” She nodded in the direction of the angel wreath. “Unless you can repair that one.”

I walked over to the island and lifted the doll wreath to examine it. Definitely not salvageable. Same old rotten luck. I turned to Sheri. “I don’t suppose I get paid triple time, too?”

She offered me a tight smile. “Not unless you’re unionized.”

“If I were unionized, I’d be getting paid for all the work I’m putting in on this show.”
Nada
times three still equaled nothing more than a huge goose egg, no matter how you did the math.

“That certainly sounds like a pretty good motive for vandalism to me,” said Vince. He offered a malicious smile.

Mama spun around to confront him. “How dare you accuse my daughter of anything illegal!”

Monica waved an index finger at the paint-drenched angel wreath. “Vince is right,” she said. “She even left a calling card of sorts. Just like the Pink Panther did when he stole the jewels. Only Peter Sellers left a glove, not a mop. Although, a mop would have made more sense, don’t you think?”

We all stared at her.

“How do you figure that?” asked Vince.

“Well, he was cleaning out safes, wasn’t he?” She laughed at her own joke, a laugh that came out too loud and coarse.

Vince snorted. “Not bad.”

I glared at the two of them. No way would I stoop to vandalizing the studio to get out of my contractual obligations, but at the moment I wasn’t beyond strangling both of them for insinuating as much. “Rumor has it neither of you is happy about the format change. How do we know the two of you aren’t behind this?

“And by the way,” I said to Monica, mimicking her sneer, “Peter Sellers played Inspector Clouseau. David Niven played the jewel thief. And he was known as The Phantom. The Pink Panther was the diamond he stole.” For someone in show business, she had an abysmal knowledge of classic films.

Monica waved her hand, dismissing me along with the dust motes floating in the air around us. “Whatever.”

Sheri stamped her foot. “Who the hell cares about
The Pink Panther
?”

“Not me,” said Vince. “I’m outa here. See you all tomorrow. Unless
The Pink Panther Strikes Again
.”

Monica spun on her Manolos. “I’m right behind you,” she said, following him off the set.

“Did anyone check the room with the models and supplies?” I asked Sheri after Vince and Monica left.

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The doll wreath was locked up. Whoever took it, either broke into the room or had a key.”

“So you think maybe the vandal struck elsewhere?” asked Lou, wringing his hands. Perspiration beaded on his brow. “Jeez, what if he destroyed everything in that room? All the models, the props, the wardrobe.”

A lump of dread settled in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to think about having to make all those mop doll wreaths over again. “What I meant was, if there’s no damage to the door or lock, we can narrow the suspects down to whomever had a key to that room.”

The five of us headed down the hall, Mama clinging to Lou. “It’s locked,” said Sheri as we arrived at the door and she jiggled the knob. “My keys are in my office.”

After digging around in my shoulder bag, I produced my key ring, selected the correct key, and inserted it in the lock. The key turned; the tumblers clicked. With a twist of the knob, I pushed the door open.

Lou ducked his head in for a cursory examination. “Thank goodness,” he said. “No vandalism.” He mopped his brow with his sleeve and exhaled a sigh of relief.

I stepped inside. The room looked exactly as I had left it Friday. Minus one mop doll wreath. “Who else has a key besides you and me?” I asked Sheri.

“The other editors. Some of the crew. The janitor.”

“Any recent problems with anyone?”

She pierced me with a penetrating stare. “Other than all you editors who don’t want to participate?”

Ouch. Not looking good for the
American Woman
contingent. “I meant with the crew and janitor. Lou mentioned union problems.”

She shook her head. “Not here.”

“What about Vince and Monica?”

“What about them?” asked Lou.

“Do either of them have a key?” I wasn’t ready to believe any of my coworkers would resort to criminal activity to get out of a work assignment. File a lawsuit? Maybe. Trash a studio? Highly unlikely. “There doesn’t seem to be much love lost between you,” I added.

“Vince and Monica have it too good here,” said Sheri, “and they know it. They get paid an obscene amount of money to work a few hours a day. If the show gets canceled, they’d be lucky to score a gig playing dinner theater in Peoria. For scale. Neither their wallets nor their egos could afford that.”

Lou grimaced. “Not exactly.”

Sheri snorted. “You think with our ratings some other network’s going to grab them up? Everyone in the industry knows what a joke they are.”

Lou swallowed hard. Avoiding eye contact with Sheri, he spoke to the floorboards. “Actually, they have a clause in their contracts that pays them in full if the show is cancelled.”

“What?” Sheri’s voice rose to glass-shattering level. “Recreating Versailles for their dressing rooms wasn’t enough? What idiot signed off on that?”

Lou cleared his throat. “There were extenuating circumstances at the time. The negotiations were rather complex.”

Sheri threw her arms up. “I don’t believe this! How could you? Why?”

“
Why
doesn’t matter,” I said. “You two can argue about that some other time. The point is Vince and Monica have good reason to sabotage a show that neither one of them wants to take part in, and they’d walk away with their pockets lined.”

I paused for a moment to let that sink in. “So I’ll ask you again, Sheri, do either Vince or Monica have a key to this room?”

She grimaced. “They both do.”

“Then I suggest you concentrate your efforts investigating them and stop trying to blame me and my fellow editors. We may not be happy about getting roped into doing this show, but we don’t behave like juvenile delinquents when things aren’t going our way.” I turned to leave.