Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (9 page)

She pulled a tissue from her pocket, dabbed at her eyes, and blew her nose. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. Poor Mama had the worst luck with men. If only she’d find someone who’d stay alive for once.

After she composed herself, we trudged up the dimly lit staircase to Lou’s third-floor apartment. Mama unlocked the three deadbolts and pushed open the door.

I stepped inside and did a quick survey of a living room that looked more like a frat house. “With all his money, he couldn’t hire a cleaning lady?” I asked.

Mama stared at the mound of soiled laundry piled on the floor just inside the front door, the dirty dishes stacked on the coffee table, the empty bottle of Glenlivet sitting on the end table, the newspapers and mail strewn across the sofa. “I don’t understand. This apartment was spotless the last time I was here.”

“When exactly was that?”

“Monday. After Lou proposed. We came back here to celebrate and—”

“Stop! I get the picture.” Even though I wish I hadn’t. “No need for details.”

“Honestly, Anastasia, you’re such a prude. I’m a red-blooded woman with a healthy sexual appetite.”

“You’re my mother!”

“Yes, dear, and how do you think you got here? The stork?”

“That’s right. He dropped me in the cabbage patch.” The last thing I wanted to hear were details of my mother’s sexual exploits.

A change of subject was in order. “Why don’t you find some clean clothes for Lou while I search through his desk?” And figure out why he went on a bender the night before he met his maker.

Mama headed for the entertainment unit, instead. She chose a CD from Lou’s enormous collection, inserted it in the CD player, and pushed the power button. The room filled with Tchaikovsky’s
Symphony No. 4
. “I need something to soothe my nerves while I tackle this task,” she said by way of explanation.

I kissed her cheek. “I know.” Mama may not have loved Lou the way she loved her husbands, but her grief was genuine. She adjusted the volume to a decibel below blaring, then crossed the room to the bedroom.

“Oh, before I forget.” She turned back toward me. “See if you can find the receipt from Tiffany’s for my ring. I’ll need a copy for the insurance company.”

“Sure, Mama.”

I cleared a stack of
Variety
magazines off Lou’s desk chair and sat down to survey the contents of his desk. The bottom drawer served as a filing cabinet. Given the mess surrounding me, I was surprised to find his files so well-organized. It took me no time to extract a copy of his will, filed under W, and a copy of his life insurance policy, filed under I.

For once Mama was correct. If Lou had any family, he certainly wasn’t close enough to any of them to bequeath them anything. “You were right,” I called to her. “Both Lou’s will and his life insurance policy list the American Heart Association as his beneficiary.” I didn’t comment on the irony, given that Lou had been stabbed right through the heart.

“That’s understandable,” Mama called back. “He told me both his parents and his four grandparents all died of heart disease. And quite young. He said that’s why he walked to and from work every day. No matter how bad the weather, he always made sure he got his exercise.” I heard her choke back another sob. “A lot of good it did him.”

I glanced over at the empty bottle of Scotch. Men concerned with heart health don’t usually down 750 milliliters of Glenlivet in one sitting. Of course, I had no way of knowing how full the bottle had been before Lou emptied it. Out of curiosity, I headed for the kitchen. There on the counter next to the sink stood the empty cardboard carton. I’ve never known anyone to put an opened bottle of booze back in its packaging. Under the circumstances, I drew the only logical conclusion. Lou Beaumont had gotten himself soused sometime after bringing Mama home Monday evening.

But why? Had Lou been a closet alcoholic? Or was there some other reason for his night of binge drinking?

I walked back to the desk, returned the will and insurance policy to their proper folders, and pulled out the file marked INVESTMENTS. It contained only one statement. Back when we had investments, Karl simply added each month’s statement to the front of the folder. I suppose Lou employed a different system. At any rate, the American Heart Association was going to be very happy. According to the statement, Lou’s portfolio was greater than the GNP of many a small third-world nation.

Something just didn’t add up.

Mama poked her head out from the bedroom and held up a hanger holding a white dress shirt, a necktie draped over each shoulder. One was a royal blue with a small white dot pattern, the other a navy with a red stripe. “Which do you think, dear? The suit is a navy single-breasted.”

I quickly closed the investment folder and shoved it back into the file drawer. Mama didn’t need to know how close she’d come to filthy rich status. No point upsetting her further.

“The red stripe is more stately,” I said. Not that it mattered. Jewish funeral law dictated a closed casket, but this was hardly the time to remind Mama of that fact. Better to humor her.

She nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“See if you can find a wheeled overnighter for the clothes in one of Lou’s closets. And don’t forget shoes and socks.” That should keep her busy a little longer. I wanted to search through the rest of Lou’s papers to see if I could determine what had happened Monday night.

I found no clues on Lou’s desk or by rifling through the remaining desk drawers. The other files contained nothing beyond standard household utility and credit card receipts and a stack of bills awaiting payment. What I didn’t find was the receipt for Mama’s ring.

I walked over to the bedroom. Mama held a pair of tighty-whitey briefs in one hand, a pair of navy silk boxers in the other, and a perplexed expression on her face.

“I don’t think it matters which you choose,” I told her. Did funeral parlors even bother to dress the deceased in underwear?

“Why would Lou have both boxers and briefs? Don’t most men prefer one over the other?”

“That’s more your area of expertise,” I reminded her. “I had only one husband, remember?”

“Of course, dear, but you have that nice Zachary Barnes waiting in the wings. Which is he? Boxers or briefs?”

“Mama! How should I know?”

“Well, if you don’t know yet, I’m sure you’ll know soon.” She folded the boxers and placed them in the garment bag she’d opened on the bed, then tossed the briefs into an open bureau drawer.

An image of Zack parading around in nothing but a pair of silk boxers, the iconic Rolling Stones red tongue graphic splashed across the front, filled my brain. I shook my head and tried to focus on why I’d entered the bedroom. “Did Lou seem upset or nervous at any point Monday?”

“Of course, dear. He was upset about the vandalism to the set.”

“Yes but beyond that. Did he mention anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

I walked back into the living room. Maybe Lou’s mail held a clue. I collected the strewn sections of Monday’s
New York Times
and set it aside. Then I gathered up the mail and began to sort through the pile. Lots of junk. A cable bill. An empty white business envelope with no return address. I sifted through the remaining mail in search of the envelope’s contents. Nothing. Could whatever had come in that envelope be what caused Lou to hit the Glenlivet bottle?

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the scene, putting myself in Lou’s place. I’ve had a stressful day. I come home and open the mail. Something in one of the envelopes upsets me. Or angers me. Upsets or angers me enough that I start drinking. What would I have done with the contents of that envelope?

My eyes sprang open, and I jumped to my feet, nearly toppling the coffee table. I scanned the room, searching for what I knew must be hiding somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. I ran into the kitchen and started opening drawers until I found a flashlight. Returning to the living room, I got down on my hands and knees and systematically checked behind and under each piece of furniture. Nothing.

But I knew it had to be somewhere in this room. I sat back down on the sofa and pretended to crumple a piece of paper and hurl it across the room. A large entertainment unit sat on the wall opposite the sofa. Books filled shelves on either side of the flat screen TV. I bounded back up, this time careful not to knock into the coffee table, and headed for the shelves on the left. And there it was, wedged into a shadowy corner, resting on top of a well-worn copy of Melville’s
Moby Dick
.

I carefully uncrumpled the sheet of paper, holding only the edges with the very tips of my fingers and nails. No point adding my fingerprints to those already on the paper. Just as I finished reading the short note, the door to the apartment flew open.

“Freeze!”

Seven

I froze. Except for
my adrenaline, which was pumping so fast I thought my heart would explode. The two detectives from the day before, guns pointed and ready to fire—at me—stood inside the entryway.

“You!” said one by way of recognition. He holstered his gun. His partner did likewise. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Can I move?” I asked, barely opening my mouth to speak.

The first detective nodded.

Before I could answer his question, Mama poked her head out from the bedroom. “I thought I heard someone.” Then recognizing the detectives said, “Oh hello, boys. Have you caught my poor Lou’s killer already? Was it that nasty you-know-who, like I suspected?”

“No, ma’am,” said the one on the left. The two were pretty much
interchangeable, except for a few pounds and even fewer inches. They both sported graying buzz cuts that screamed
marine sergeants
, right out of central casting, the ones from World War II-era movies. Only these guys wore off-the-rack navy gabardine instead of khakis or camouflage. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember their names, although I’m sure they had introduced themselves prior to questioning me yesterday.

“What are the two of you doing here?” asked the shorter one, short being a relative term since both towered over six feet.

Although he’d directed the question to me, Mama answered, “We came to pick up some clothes for poor Lou’s funeral. And maybe find some clues to the identity of his killer.”

“Why didn’t you open the door when we knocked?” Again, addressed to me, but this time by the taller, slightly thinner detective, and this time Mama didn’t answer.

Instead, she turned to me. “Why didn’t you answer the door, Anastasia?”

I nodded toward the entertainment unit.
Symphony No. 4
had long since ended, replaced by the
1812 Overture
. “May I?” When the shorter detective waved his consent, I reached for the volume control and lowered Mr. Tchaikovsky’s volume down to that of background music.

I wanted to roll my eyes and exclaim, “Duh!” but decided sarcasm directed toward men with guns wasn’t the brightest move. Instead, I simply said, “I’m sorry, detectives, but I didn’t hear your knock over the rockets and cannon fire.”

“Where are my manners?” exclaimed Mama with a clap of her hands. “Would you boys like some coffee or tea?”

The two detectives exchanged a quick glance. Then the shorter one said, “That would be great, ma’am. Coffee. If it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all.”

Mama bustled off to the kitchen, and the two detectives turned their full attention to me. “Clues?” asked the taller one.

“Or destroying evidence?” asked the shorter one.

I glared at both of them. They’d certainly established good cop/bad cop pretty quickly. “Clues. I have nothing to hide, and neither does my mother. Frankly, it never occurred to me that you hadn’t already searched Lou’s apartment. I was hoping to discover something you might have overlooked, given my mother knew Lou and you didn’t.”

“The way we understand it,” said the shorter detective, “your mother only met Lou a few weeks ago. How intimately could she have known him?”

“If you’re inferring what I think, detective, you’re not only way out of line, your skills are questionable. What would be her motive? Wouldn’t it make more sense to kill Lou
after
they’d married? Not to mention
after
he’d had a chance to change his will?”

“How do you know he hadn’t already changed it?” asked the taller detective.

I pointed to the desk. “Bottom drawer. Filed under W. And while you’re checking, his life insurance policy is also there. Filed under I. When you’re through making sure I’m not lying, there’s something I found that might interest you.”

The taller detective strode across the room to the desk, opened the file drawer, and thumbed through the folders until he found both documents. After checking them out, he turned to his partner, “She’s right. The vic left everything to charity.”

“As I could have told you,” I said.

“What else did you want to tell us?” asked the shorter one.

I still held the uncrumpled sheet of paper between the tips of my thumb and index finger. “Something either angered or frightened Lou Monday night.”

“What makes you think that?” asked the taller detective.

I told him what Mama had said about the state of the apartment and pointed to the empty bottle of Scotch. “He downed the entire bottle. The cardboard packaging is still on the kitchen counter.”

“Pardon me for saying so, ma’am,” began the taller detective, “but maybe the guy was just having second thoughts about—” He cocked his head in the direction of the kitchen where Mama was still puttering around with the coffee.

“Or maybe after he came back from bringing my mother home, he opened his mail and found this.” I extended my arm and dangled the paper in front of him. “I found the empty envelope on the sofa with the other mail. He’d balled the contents up and hurled it across the room.”

The detective withdrew a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. Grabbing the typed message by the corner, he dropped it into the bag before reading it, then passed the bag to his partner. “We’ll need to fingerprint you to eliminate your prints,” he said.

“No need. I made sure not to leave any.”

Before either of them could say anything further, Mama returned
to the living room. She carried a tray laden with a coffee pot and all the necessary accoutrements—down to china cups and saucers. Mama always entertained in a manner befitting the descendant of Russian nobility (according to her) and the former social secretary
of the Daughters of the American Revolution. In other words, when
it came to entertaining, Mama never did anything half-assed, even when entertaining cops looking to nail her or her daughter for murder.

I grabbed the tray from her and set it down on the coffee table. Mama positioned herself in the center of the sofa and began her hostess-with-the-mostest ritual. “How do you take your coffee, Detective Phillips?” This was directed to the taller detective, the good cop. I made a mental note.

I also noted something else I hadn’t noticed before. Phillips sported the most miniscule soul patch I’d ever seen. Or maybe he hadn’t looked in the mirror when he shaved that morning.

In my book, soul patches took first place as the most dumb-ass male fashion statement ever conceived. And that includes bowties and Nehru jackets. Every time I saw a guy sporting a soul patch, I had an uncontrollable urge to grab a razor and a can of shaving cream and sneak up on him. A nearly microscopic soul patch was the most dumb-ass of all the dumb-ass soul patches to date.

“Black, ma’am,” he answered. Mama handed him his coffee, then offering him a plate and napkin, said, “Please, help yourself to some cookies. My poor Lou had such a sweet tooth, and these will go stale if no one eats them.”

She picked up a second cup and began to pour. “And you, Detective Marlowe?”

Wait a minute.
Phillips?
And
Marlowe
? I must have been brain dead when these guys questioned me yesterday. How else to explain forgetting such a pairing. Obviously, someone at the NYPD had a delicious sense of humor.

And let’s not forget the God of Strange Coincidences. How else did I explain coming across three such weird cop pairings in the last three months? First Simmons and Garfinkle. Then Batswin and Robbins. Now Phillips and Marlowe. Either Morris County and the NYPD were in cahoots, or this was the coincidence to beat all coincidences.

“Same for me, ma’am,” said Marlowe, answering Mama. Shorter cop. Bad cop. Soul patch-free cop. “Black.” Mama repeated her routine for Detective Marlowe, handing him his coffee, then offering the cookies.

As she poured coffee for me and herself, I wondered if either cop got the joke. A glance at their stern faces told me these guys had slept in late the day God passed out the humor genes.

Mama turned to the detectives and asked, “Now what have you boys learned in your investigation so far?”

Instead of answering her, Marlowe studied the china cup and saucer. “Kind of frou-frou for an old bachelor, wouldn’t you say, Phillips?” He turned to Mama. “More your style. You recently purchase them, Mrs. O’Keefe?”

“Goodness, no! This is Royal Albert bone china. The Duchess pattern. It belonged to Lou’s grandmother on his mother’s side. He treasured it. Now there’s no one left in his family. I suppose the lawyers will just sell it all off.” Mama heaved a huge sigh. “Such a shame, don’t you think, boys?”

They both nodded. Seriously. Solemnly. Me? I felt an eye roll and a huge belly laugh coming on at the thought of Lou Beaumont sticking out his chubby pinky finger to sip daintily from a Royal Albert Duchess coffee cup.

Twenty minutes later Marlowe and Phillips had wolfed down every last cookie crumb while divulging no information in regard to their investigation into Lou Beaumont’s death. They then told Mama and me we’d have to leave the apartment while they conducted their investigation. Mama finished packing up the clothes she’d picked for Lou’s funeral, and we headed back to Campbell’s.

_____

“What did the note say?” asked Cloris when I caught her up the next morning at work. We’d ducked into the break room where she deposited a still warm loaf of chocolate-cherry bread fresh from the test kitchen.

“
A CORPSE TELLS NO TALES
.”

Cloris paused from slicing the bread. “Whose corpse? Lou’s? And what sort of tales?”

I grabbed a slice and shrugged. “Beats me. The possibilities are endless. However, I’m guessing Lou knew what the note referred to, judging from the bottle of Scotch he downed.”

Cloris finished slicing the bread and took a piece for herself while I poured coffee. “But he could have polished off the Scotch prior to opening his mail,” she said as we sat down at the table.

“True, but it seems more likely the note led to the drinking. Mama said Lou was in a great mood when he took her home.” I skipped the part about
why
Lou had been in a great mood. The thought grossed me out enough. No need to fill Cloris’s head with the image of Mama and Lou dancing the naked horizontal Mambo.

“The note could have something to do with Lou’s relationship with Mama or the show’s new format or any number of things we’re unaware of,” I continued, grabbing another slice. “This is incredible! Whoever first came up with the idea of marrying chocolate and cherries should qualify for sainthood.”

Cloris nodded her agreement as she gobbled up another slice.

“After all,” I continued, “what do we really know about Lou Beaumont?”

Cloris closed her eyes and mulled for a moment. Or maybe she was just having a gastronomic orgasm. I know I was. “Only what you’ve heard from your mother and what we’ve heard from Sheri,” she finally said. “And I wouldn’t put much stock in anything Sheri said about Lou. The woman has visions of her own grandeur.”

“Mama’s not the most reliable source, either,” I reminded her. “Which leaves us knowing very little about the man.”

“Nothing else turned up at his apartment?”

I wolfed down another slice before I answered her. “The man owned a huge collection of classical CDs, treasured his grandmother’s Royal Albert china, and named the American Heart Association as the beneficiary of both his will and his life insurance policy. Other than that, he’s still pretty much a mystery to me. And I’m guessing to the detectives investigating his murder, as well.”

“If the note refers to the new show format,” said Cloris, “we’re back to our same list of suspects—Ray, Monica, or Vince.”

“But what if it refers in some way to Mama? What if the corpse didn’t refer to Lou? Maybe the killer wanted someone else dead, not Lou.”

“If that’s the case, the killer might be someone we haven’t even met. Certainly if he or she wanted Lou to end his relationship with your mother, the killer would’ve gone after her, not Lou.”

I didn’t even want to consider that possibility. Even with all her eccentricities and the headaches they caused me, I couldn’t imagine life without Mama. “My gut tells me Lou’s death is connected to the changes he made to the show.”

Cloris chuckled. “Oh? Was that what the rumble I just heard meant? And here I thought it was your gut demanding the last slice of chocolate-cherry bread. I guess that means you don’t want it?”

Before Cloris could lay claim to the last slice of chocolate-cherry bread, I reached behind my chair, grabbed the knife from the counter, and cut the remaining piece in half. “Guess again,” I said, offering her one half as I popped the other half into my mouth.

_____

Later that afternoon Mama called me at work.

“Campbell’s phoned,” she said.

I heard the panic in her voice. “What’s wrong, Mama?”

“The coroner released poor Lou’s body to them a few minutes ago. We’ve scheduled the funeral for tomorrow morning. Eleven o’clock.”

I sensed a huge problem about to be dumped on yours truly. Almost reluctantly, I asked her, “And?”

“They said they’d be happy to contact Lou’s friends, family, and coworkers for me if I e-mailed over a list.”

And there was the problem. “But you don’t have a list, do you? What did you tell them?”

“That I’d get right back to them. Anastasia, you have to help me. What am I going to do? We can’t hold a funeral for someone as important as poor Lou and only invite a handful of people from his show.”

The only person I knew who might be able to bail out Mama was the one person I knew Mama didn’t want at the funeral, let alone want to speak to ever again. In Mama’s eyes, Sheri was
Suspect
Numero Uno
. “There is someone you could contact,” I said.