1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun

by Lois Winston

  Ralph squawked from his perch on top of an emptied bookcase. I could have sworn I placed him in the laundry room and closed the door before I left the house. "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark," he editorialized in-between squawks. "Hamlet. Act One, Scene Four."

  The officers stared up at Ralph. "That's one damn smart bird," said the officer sitting next to Mama.

  I nodded as I viewed the mess surrounding me. Every book was toppled from the bookcases. Furniture was overturned, cushions slashed. Pieces of what used to be knickknacks littered the floor. In the time it had taken the burglar to trash my home, he could have carted off three computers, four televisions, two stereos, two DVD players, and the VCR. I couldn't disagree with Fogarty.

  "Any idea what the thief was after, Mrs. Pollack?"

  Not only did I have a pretty good idea what the thief was after, I also had a pretty good idea of the thief's identity. I thought about mentioning Ricardo's call but just as quickly dismissed the idea. "No. No idea."

  If I told the Officers Fogarty and Harley about Ricardo, I'd have to tell them about Karl's secret life. We live in a small town where gossip spreads as quickly as bathroom mildew in August.

  The last thing I needed was to have my dearly departed's affair with Roxie Roulette and its aftermath the topic of town gossip, not to mention emblazoned across the front page of the local paper. I might not be able to protect my kids from the financial disaster we had suffered, but I'd do my damnedest to keep their father's seamier extra-curricular activities from them as long as possible.

  Besides, I had no proof that Ricardo-if that was even his real name-was connected to the break-in. The timing of his calls and the subsequent break-in were probably a coincidence. Murphy's Law throwing me a huge gotcha. I was experiencing a lot of those lately.

  But if it had been Ricardo, maybe he'd now believe I didn't have his fifty thousand dollars and would leave me alone. The Fates could cut me that one small break after dumping so much tribulation on me, couldn't they?

  One of those tribulations chose that moment to arrive home. Lucille, looking like some deranged fashion faux pas in a purple and chartreuse paisley polyester pantsuit, circa nineteen seventy, barged her way into the house. She swatted her cane at Fogarty as he tried to stop her.

  "Manifesto!" she screeched at the top of her lungs.

  "What's in a name?" asked Ralph. "Romeo and Juliet. Act Two, Scene Two."

  The cops reached for their guns.

  Mama screamed.

  "Don't," I yelled. "She's my mother-in-law."

  The officers eyed Lucille, keeping their hands poised on their guns but not drawing them.

  Mephisto, the Devil Dog, lumbered in from the kitchen. Some watchdog! I'll bet a month of triple-shot lattes he'd buried himself under a mound of dirty laundry at the first sign of trouble.

  Steadying herself with her cane, Lucille stooped and with one Schwarzenegger-like arm and a grunt, lifted the lump of dog. Cuddling him against her sagging breasts, she clucked and cooed as she checked him from head to tail. Doggy jowl to Lucille jowl, Devil Dog responded with a drooly slurp.

  Satisfied that the ugly mutt wasn't harmed, Lucille turned her attention, her shrill voice, and her wildly waving cane toward the police. "What's going on here? Where's your search warrant? How dare you ransack the home of a law-abiding citizen!"

  "We've had a break-in, Lucille."

  She glanced around at the chaos. "A burglary? I don't believe it.

  "Flat burglary as ever was committed," squawked Ralph. "Much Ado About Nothing. Act Four, Scene Two." He swooped off the bookcase and landed on my shoulder.

  Ignoring me, Lucille proceeded to harangue the officers. "A police state, that's what this country has turned into, thanks to certain people, and don't pretend you don't know who I mean. Any excuse to stick your snooping noses where they don't belong. Well, I won't stand for it."

  She waved her cane at an upturned end table and broken lamp. "How do I know this isn't all your doing? You people engage in conspiracies and covert operations all the time. I know how you work. I have my sources."

  Fogarty bristled. "Lady, back off, or I'll charge you with obstructing an investigation."

  "You lay one hand on me, young man, and I'll have your badge."

  "Ignore her," I advised him.

  "Does she..." He cast a sideways glance at Lucille and cupped his mouth with his hand, "you know... have Alzheimer's Disease?"

  Lucille thumped her cane on the carpet. "Don't you dare whisper about me in the third person. I'm saner than any of you."

  Officer Fogarty's expression mirrored his skepticism.

  "She's a communist," I said.

  He nodded in understanding, as if Alzheimer's and communism were one and the same. Maybe to him they were.

  Lucille lowered Mephisto to the floor, then hobbled off down the hall. The dog followed at her heels. They reminded me of the villainous relative with the Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp, except for the fact that Mephisto was a dog and not a cat. I guess I should be glad he didn't have a twin. Or that my mother-in-law wasn't versed in cloning.

  Fogarty started to call her back.

  "Leave her," I said. "Trust me. There's nothing in her room a thief would want."

  He looked to Harley for guidance. The older officer watched Lucille disappear down the hall, then he turned to me and shrugged his oversized shoulders. "It's your house, Mrs. Pollack."

  At least for today, I thought, righting an upturned chair. As I inspected the damage to the seat cushion, the phone rang.

  I excused myself to the kitchen.

  The display on the phone read Out of Area. Probably a telemarketer, but even a telemarketer would be a welcome reprieve at the moment. "Hello?"

  "Where'd you stash the dough?"

  At least now I knew who had broken into my house, but under the circumstances, I would have preferred your garden variety burglar.

  "You trashed my house!" I wondered how long it took to set up a phone tap. Was Batswin or one of her cohorts listening in at this very moment?

  "Smart lady. Now get this: Next time I'll do a lot more than toss the place."

  Scared as I was, his veiled threat sent a surge of defiant anger pumping through my veins. I gritted my teeth to keep from yelling into the phone. "I told you, I don't have your money. That should have been evident after the strip search you conducted on my home."

  Ricardo made a noise that sounded halfway between a tsk and a kiss. "And I told you I know otherwise. Now you know I mean business. I want that money by Friday."

  "You said I had a week." "

  I changed my mind."

  "That's not fair!"

  "Fair?" He snorted. "Fuck fair. Life ain't fair, bitch. Friday. Or else." With that the phone went dead.

  I shuddered to think what Ricardo might do if Batswin and Robbins botched their end and he discovered I'd set him up, especially if their suspicions about him being Mafia were correct. And given that this was New Jersey, how could their suspicions not be correct?

  As much as I loved my house, my neighborhood, and my town, living in New Jersey definitely had its downside. I'd learned to accept the sky-high taxes. At least we got great schools and decent public transportation in return, even if the cops didn't have smart phones. I just never expected the seamier side of the state's reputation to enter my life. I doubt there's much organized crime in North Sandwich, New Hampshire, or Cat Creek, Montana.

  I glanced around the kitchen. So much for assigning cleaning tasks to Mama and Lucille. Dirty dishes teetered in precarious piles in the sink. More soiled plates and glasses were scattered across the kitchen table.

  No one had bothered to put away any of the breakfast food, not even the perishables. I grabbed the nearly full gallon of skim milk and sniffed. Sour milk assaulted my nasal passages with a one-two punch.

  "God damn it!" I screamed, pouring nearly five dollars worth of skim down the drain.

  Based on the state of the kitc
hen, I knew I'd find wet towels on the bathroom floors. Laundry spilling out of the hamper. A layer of cat and dog hair covering every upholstered piece of furniture and all the carpets. And now on top of all that I had to contend with Ricardo's handiwork.

  Between Mama the Scatterbrained and Lucille the Prima Donna Commie, I now had four children instead of two. Nick and Alex were more reliable and considerate than either of their grandmothers.

  Feeling way too much like Cinderella before her fairy godmother dropped in and bibbidi-bobbidi-booed her into a happilyever-after, I put away the food, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped the English muffin crumbs off the counter.

  "There's never a fairy godmother around when you need one," I muttered as I headed back into the living room to find Mama batting her eyelashes at the cops.

  "I HAVE WORK To do," I told Mama after Fogarty and Harley left. "I'll be in my studio."

  "What about this mess?"

  "It's not going anywhere"

  "Really, Anastasia. I brought you up better than that."

  "Mama, I have work to do. Work that can't wait. This can." I glanced at the foyer and the ambrosia glop staining my hardwood floors a garish shade of Halloween orange. "Although it would be great if you could clean up that," I said. "You'll find the Murphy's Oil Soap, a bucket, and a sponge in the basement"

  She didn't look thrilled, but she didn't argue with me as I grabbed my bags of supplies and headed for the back door.

  Now more than ever, I couldn't afford to lose my job, but the last thing in the world I wanted to do at that moment was work on crafts projects. Especially bridal crafts, considering the recent lessthan-happily-ever-after ending of my own trip down the aisle. Someone should definitely update all those male-penned fairy tales.

  The modern version had better warn Cinderella that Prince Charming might have a secret, serious gambling addiction that could leave her and the little princelings up a moat without a paddle. Forget about the ball. Maybe instead of turning a pumpkin into a coach, her fairy godmother should change the huge veggie into a trust fund that the prince can't get his hands on. Just in case happily ever after isn't.

  Which it certainly wasn't for me. Thanks to Karl, I now had to find some way to earn more money. Even if Batswin and Robbins were successful in nabbing Ricardo, I still needed to pay off all that credit card debt, the past-due bills, and the home equity loan.

  And then there was college for the boys.

  I unlocked the studio door, dumped my bags of newly purchased materials on the counter, and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. The bridal crafts could wait. Starring as the celebrity whiner of my own pity party wasn't going to get me out of the mess Karl had plunged me into. Short of winning the lottery-not that I had an extra George Washington to waste on such a longshot solution-I needed to come up with a creative way out of my financial quagmire.

  I began jotting down a list of possible moonlighting jobs that would pay more than minimum wage and didn't require me to paste on a phony, perky smile and ask, "Do you want fries with that?"

  Within a few minutes, I had listed several possibilities. I knew people who knew people. I could call in a few favors and maybe get hired as a crafts expert on one of the local morning programs. I doubted Trimedia would object. Publicity whores that they were, they'd love the exposure-especially if it didn't cost them anything.

  I could put together a proposal for a series of crafts books. The advance would knock a story or two off the Leaning Tower of Debt, and the royalties would help with college tuitions.

  I scowled at the next item on my list. If neither the TV nor book deals panned out, I could always teach in the evenings and on the weekends. Bernadette McPhearson served on the board of the Methodist Home, and one of my other neighbors managed the local A.C. Moore. Both women were constantly after me to teach classes.

  Been there, done that. After ten years of captivity in a junior high school art room, I had sworn I would never teach again. But that was before Karl's clandestine affair with Lady Un-Lucky. Teaching was definitely preferable to the only other idea on my list.

  I glanced down at the remaining item on the page and wrinkled my nose. If I really got desperate, I could mass produce my own crafts and sell them to gift shops and at bazaars and fairs. The thought literally made me queasy. I enjoyed designing projects and making them once, not the mindlessness of assembly line crafting.

  Which was probably why I was sitting making lists instead of tackling those three dozen birdseed roses-for the second timethanks to Batswin and Robbins.

  Of course, all of these money-making enterprises hinged on me not being charged with murder, which necessitated compiling another list. I tore off the first sheet of paper and set it aside. No way could I quietly sit back and leave my destiny in the hands of that undynamic detective duo. I labeled the top of the page Who Killed Marlys? and listed the three most likely candidates:

  Vittorio Versailles?

  Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp?

  Naomi Dreyfus?

  Not that I thought either Naomi or Hugo were killers. My money was on Vittorio.

  Or Emil Pachette?

  Marlys had a date with him Monday night. Had he met her at the office instead of her meeting him in the city? I added his name to the list.

  Or maybe none of my suspects had glue gunned Marlys to death. Maybe her killer was one of the many other people she had stepped on, dissed, or screwed in her quest to conquer the celebrity world of New York fashion.

  Someone from her distant past, even. Was the killer an old acquaintance who had held a grudge for years, perhaps going as far back as high school, his or her hate simmering just below the boiling point until the perfect opportunity presented itself?

  Placing that thought on hold, I started another sheet: Who Do the Police Think Killed Marlys? My name topped the list. Followed by Erica's.

  If I couldn't find the killer, I'd have to find some way to keep the police from charging either of us. Erica had an alibi and a witness, but what did I have? Just my word that I didn't kill Marlys. Meanwhile, I suspected Batswin and Robbins were in the process of building enough of a case against me to prove otherwise.

  All of this supposition was producing nothing more than a whopper of a headache. I tossed the pad and pencil aside, closed my eyes, and massaged my temples. Enough procrastinating. My birdseed roses wouldn't sprout by themselves, and since I lacked the necessary magic wand, I couldn't bibbidi-bobbidi-boo them into existence, either.

  I tried to focus my attention where it belonged-at least for the next few hours. I couldn't let go of my problems, though. As I snipped, sewed, and glued satin roses and rhinestone tennies, I continued to ruminate over money and murder.

  THE BRIDE WORE TENNIES

  Oh, those aching tootsies! Most brides, if given the choice, would opt for a foot massage rather than the honeymoon suite at the Plaza once the reception ends. Just ask any of your married friends. But why suffer the blisters in the first place? After posing for the wedding photos, remove those torturous stilettos and slip into a pair of handmade bridal tennies to boogie the night away.

  And if you want a unique gift for your bridesmaids, have tennies dyed to match their gowns. Trim with coordinating or matching colored laces and trims.

  Materials: one pair of white canvas tennis shoes; an assortment of lace appliques; pearl, sequin, and rhinestone trims; satin ribbon roses; 21 yds.13/4-inch-wide lace; white craft gem glue; scissors.

  Directions: Remove shoelaces from tennis shoes. Arrange appliques and trims on front and sides of shoes as desired, with one shoe being the mirror image of the other. Glue appliques and trims in place. Allow glue to dry thoroughly. Cut lace in half. Thread a piece of lace through eyelets of each shoe.

  BIRDSEED ROSES

  Rice is out; birdseed is in when it comes to showering the bride and groom in an environmentally friendly way. Use elegant satin roses to store the showering seed, and your guests will have a beautiful memento of the day to take home with the
m.

  Materials: satin fabric in white or to match the wedding colors (one yard of 45-inch-wide fabric will make 77 roses); matching sewing thread; 6-inch lengths of 18-gauge stem wire; green floral tape; silk rose leaves, one or more per flower; pinking shears; sewing machine

  Directions: Using the pinking shears, cut a 4 x 5-inch piece of satin for each rose. With right sides together, machine baste 4-inch sides of satin together with 1/4-inch seam allowance. Turn right side out. Hand gather lower edge of tube, wrapping thread ends tightly around gathers to form the base of rose. Insert stem wire through bottom, bending the end inside the rose into a loop to keep it from slipping out. Wrap the base and stem of the rose with floral tape, adding leaves as you wrap. Fill each rose with a teaspoon of birdseed. Tuck in the top edge of satin about 11/2 inches to keep the birdseed contained. A flick of the wrist will release the birdseed to shower the bride and groom.

  I was just finishing up the first pair of tennies when I heard Mama clomping up the outside stairs.

  "You never told me why you came home so early," she said as she opened the door and entered.

  "Long story." I grabbed two matching lace appliques and positioned them over the toes of the second pair of tennies, adjusting the angle first in one direction, then the other. "I had a lot of work to do and decided I'd be more productive at home. Less interruptions. Of course, I had no idea I'd walk into Chaos Central."

  "Well, I'm glad you're home early." She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on a chair.

  Her cheeks glowed from the cold; her eyes twinkled with excitement. "I had the most marvelous inspiration this morning as I showered. You know how I always get my best ideas in the shower, don't you?"

  "Hmm?" I glanced up to find her waving a handful of colorful, glossy brochures in the air between us. I stifled a groan but couldn't manage to hide my frown. Mama's ideas never came cheap.

  "Don't pout, Anastasia. Trust me. You're going to love this."

  "Love what?"