1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun

by Lois Winston

  "He wasn't such a bad lookin' dude, that Karl. Coulda happened."

  "He was an auto parts salesman, Dicky! Marlys wouldn't look twice at a guy like that." "

  "Hey, Karl was hung."

  "How would you know?"

  I seen him at the gym once or twice. Besides, high-class broads like to go slummin'."

  "But if you knew Anastasia was working with the police, why did you go along with it?"

  "Jeez, Erica! Don't go stupid on me. I needed to get them all out of the way long enough to hit the place again, didn't I?"

  "Friday night?"

  "Yeah, I wiped her out. Fenced the stuff to pay off your old man. But all that crap didn't make much of a dent in the fifty G's. Wasn't worth shit as far as your Uncle Nardo was concerned."

  "Uncle Nardo? How's he involved in this?"

  "Use your head, Sweet Cheeks. He's a fence, ain't he? Anyways, he claims what with eBay sellin' electronics crap so cheap and newer models coming out every day, it ain't worth the effort. I think he screwed me, though. Gave me all of five grand for the whole lot, but I had no choice. I had to dump the goods quick."

  "But you had the diamonds, Dicky. Why not give those to Daddy?"

  "You got boulders for brains, Sweet Cheeks? You know how much that ice's worth? I ain't turning them baubles over to Joey M. No way. I earned them diamonds fair and square on my own time, not on a job for the boss."

  "But won't Daddy get real mad when you don't hand over all the money?"

  "Why should I fork over my hard-earned dough when it's Karl who screwed me? And now his wife's trying to pull a fast one. Trust me. She'll cough up the whereabouts of the bread to save those kids of hers. Besides, I kinda figured you'd look real good wearing some of those rocks"

  "Really?"

  "Sure. Gotta get them reset first, though. Don't want anyone recognizing them."

  "Maybe one of them could be an engagement ring?"

  "Maybe"

  "Oh, Dicky."

  "Don't paw me while I'm drivin; Sweet Cheeks. Gets me too excited."

  Erica giggled. "Dicky?"

  "Hmm?"

  "I just had an idea."

  "Yeah?"

  "Maybe we should stash Anastasia at Daddy's hunting lodge, and you could go get her sons and bring them there"

  "Or maybe I should kill one first and dump his body at her feet. I'll bet she'd sing her little heart out to save the other one."

  "Uhm ... that would work, but why not kill him in front of her? More impact, right?"

  "Yeah, even better. Hey, now you're talkin' like a Milano, Sweet Cheeks. Your old man'd be real proud of you."

  "I'll stay at the cabin and keep an eye on her while you go get the kids."

  "Sounds like a plan."

  My heart now beat as loudly as the kettle drums pounding in my head. I could barely force the words out as I spoke into the phone. "Did you hear that? My God! He's going to kill one of my kids."

  But Batswin didn't answer. We'd entered another dead cell zone.

  "SHIT! WHERE THE HELL'D they come from?"

  Ricardo slammed on the brakes. I whiplashed from the front to the back of the trunk, adding yet another layer of bumps, bruises, and abrasions to my bleeding and battered body. The car fishtailed; I flew from side to side. Now I knew what it was like to go a dozen rounds with Mike Tyson-and come up on the losing end.

  I heard a loud smack as we sped off in the direction we'd come. "You back-stabbing bitch! You're working with them, aren't you?"

  Erica screamed out in pain. "No, Dicky, no! I wouldn't do anything to hurt you."

  "Then how'd they know to stake out the lodge?" Ricardo had gone ballistic. I couldn't be sure what he was doing to Erica as we sailed down the road, but by the choking sounds she was making and the repeated sickening thuds, it sounded like he had grabbed her by the throat and was smashing her head against the dashboard.

  "I don't know!" she gasped. "Please stop! You're hurting me. I can't breathe!"

  "Hurting you? I ain't begun to hurt you, bitch."

  I heard a loud crunch. Then silence.

  "Goddamn sonofabitch!" He slammed on the brake again. The car jerked to the side, spun, then flipped. My body bounced around like a load of wet laundry in a clothes dryer. My head continued to spin even after the car came to a rest, upside down.

  I don't know how long I lay there. I think I may have suffered a concussion. Shouting voices and sirens surrounded me but like a dream that faded in and out of my consciousness. Finally, someone banged on the car. "Mrs. Pollack? Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

  I never thought I'd be so happy to hear Robbins' voice. "I'm alive," I shouted.

  "Hold on. We have to flip the car to get you out."

  The Mercedes rocked back and forth like some mangled metal hammock. I swayed along with it, each to and fro more pronounced.

  Someone yelled, "Here it goes"

  The car flipped, slamming right-side up, and I followed, slamming my head yet again.

  "Still with us, Mrs. Pollack?" yelled Robbins.

  "No, I decided to step out for a Starbucks. This is a recording."

  He laughed. Detective Robbins actually laughed! "While you're there how about getting me a double-shot mocha Frappucchino?"

  A moment later I heard the unmistakable sound of ripping metal and saw the most glorious sight in the world-an Under Dog tie swinging from Robbins' thick neck.

  He helped me out of the trunk and gave me the once over. "You don't look too good."

  I swayed on my feet and nearly fell back into the trunk. He grabbed my arm to steady me.

  "You think?" I said.

  "We're going to get you checked out at the hospital," said Batswin, coming up behind us. A couple of EMTs, one wheeling a stretcher, followed her.

  Robbins led me to the stretcher, but before I allowed them to strap me in, I scanned the area. Lots of cars with flashing lights. An ambulance. A fire truck. People milling around, some in uniforms, some not. A few holding rifles.

  "What about Ricardo and Erica?" I asked.

  Batswin jerked her chin toward a set of flashing lights receding in the distance. "The other ambulance already left with them."

  Six hours later, after a stint of physical poking and prodding at the hospital, followed by several hours of verbal poking and prodding at the Morris County precinct, I sat in traffic on my way back to Westfield. Batswin drove, Robbins following behind in my Hyundai.

  I had sustained a mild concussion from all the head-banging and several cracked ribs. My X-Acto knife stabbed, bruised, and battered body-covered in shades of reds, purples, blues, and greens-looked like an expressionist painter had mistaken me for a canvas. My head felt like it was hosting a rave, and it hurt like hell to breathe-let alone move. But I felt terrific.

  "What's going to happen to Erica?" I asked. I had learned from Batswin that both Erica and Ricardo were listed in stable condition, having sustained numerous minor but few major injuries other than some broken bones. A testament to the advantages of seat belts and air bags, even when traveling at Mach One.

  "She's cooperating. The Feds offered her Witness Protection, and she jumped at the chance. By the way, you owe your life to her."

  "How? She couldn't have known I had freed myself and had my cell phone."

  "No, but she had hers. She planned to call the police as soon as Ricardo left the two of you at her father's hunting lodge."

  "And Ricardo?"

  "He's angling to cut a deal, too"

  "But he's a murderer!"

  "I don't think the Feds will be interested. There isn't much he can tell them that they can't get from Erica. Ricardo is pretty low level in the Milano organization pecking order. My guess is he developed a relationship with Erica to curry favor with her father"

  Poor Erica. She deserved a life of her own. No wonder she welcomed the offer of witness protection and the chance to get away from her family permanently. "So Ricardo was what? A mob loan shark?"


  "Right"

  I laughed. "Erica had us convinced Dicky was a financial consultant."

  "Banker for a private financial institution would have been a more fitting description. He didn't lend his money. He lent mob money. And probably only about twenty-five thousand to your husband. The rest would have been the interest that had accrued on the loan."

  "A hundred percent interest?"

  "I think the going rate is something like twenty-five percent a week."

  "Nice work if you can get it."

  She turned her head toward me and raised an eyebrow.

  "Don't worry, Detective. I have no plans to whittle down my debt by becoming a loan shark."

  "Glad to hear that, Mrs. Pollack."

  "Besides, I have no start-up capital."

  "Right" Batswin chuckled.

  Earlier I'd elicited a laugh from Robbins, now a chuckle from Batswin. Maybe the dynamic detecting duo was human after all. And to think, it had only taken me nearly getting killed to bring out the hidden Humor Gene in each of them. Who knew I had such talent?

  "So Ricardo had to account to higher-up hoods for the money?"

  "Every penny or they'd suspect he was skimming."

  "Then bye-bye Ricardo?"

  "You got it."

  "I guess that's why he was so desperate. Even willing to kill for it."

  "Kill or be killed with that group. But people kill for a lot less. Besides, your own husband committed murder for that same fifty thousand dollars."

  I shuddered at the memory. Three innocent people dead because of Karl's greed. "I hope no further surprises materialize. I'd like to close the Karl chapter of my life and start a whole new book. Although, that seems unrealistic, considering I'll be paying off the debt he dumped on us for years to come."

  "Oh, that reminds me," she said, shifting lanes to maneuver around a minivan, "while you were giving your statement at the station, we received a call from the Bronx police. Based on what you heard Ricardo admit, they raided Nardo Milano's pawn shop. All your stuff was still there. Once they're done using it as evidence, you can get it back."

  The way the wheels of justice squeak and piddle along, that could be anywhere from six days to six years, but we'd manage. Somehow. We'd survived far worse over the past few days.

  Half an hour later, Batswin pulled up in front of my house; Robbins parked my car in the driveway. We all piled out. "Nice," said Robbins, eyeing the two-seater silver Porsche Boxster he'd parked beside. "Yours?"

  "Yeah, I only drive the rattletrap to work because of all the crime in the cornfields."

  "That's what I thought."

  All three of us laughed. "You're okay, Mrs. Pollack," he said.

  High compliment coming from a man who only a few days ago wanted to slip a noose around my neck. "Yeah, so are the two of you." And I meant that. Batswin and Robbins weren't the incompetent country rubes I'd originally dubbed them. After all, they'd saved my life.

  "The car belongs to my new tenant," I said.

  I invited them in for cups of instant coffee, but they declined. "We still have reports to file," said Batswin, "but thanks. Maybe another time."

  She and Robbins headed back to her car as I opened the front door.

  "Keep it up, and I'll report you and all your cohorts to Homeland Security," screamed Mama. "I know what you're planning in those secret meetings of yours. You communists are as much a threat to this country as Al-Qaeda!"

  "Me?" Lucille laughed derisively. "Who do you think supplied all those weapons to the Taliban? All your right-wing reactionary friends."

  Mephisto barked.

  Catherine the Great yowled.

  Ralph squawked, "Once more unto the breach, dear friend. Henry the Fifth. Act Three, Scene One."

  I turned to see Batswin and Robbins staring at my open front door. "Home sweet home," I said with a shrug and a wave as I closed the door behind me.

  Life goes on. Eventually, I'd get past my anger over how Karl fooled and shafted us. I'd deal with Lucille, deal with Mama, deal with the debt, deal with getting Alex and Nick into college-and how to pay for it.

  And then if I had any time or energy left, I'd deal with me. Maybe even dip my big toe back in the dating pool. You never know what's waiting around the corner.

  Or above the garage.

  THE END

  If you enjoyed reading Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun read on for

  a glimpse of the next Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery

  Mop Doll Murders

  UPSTAIRS, THE FRONT DOOR slammed with enough force to register a five on the Richter scale. Dust dislodged from the exposed basement rafters and drifted down like polluted snow, settling over the basket of clean laundry I'd been folding. The ensuing shouting, barking, and yowling drowned out my muttered curse of choice and yanked my attention away from the now Dalmatian-spotted white wash.

  "Once more unto the breach, dear friends," squawked Ralph, the Shakespeare-spouting African Grey parrot I'd inherited when Greataunt Penelope Periwinkle died two years ago. "Henry the Fifth. Act Three, Scene One." He spread his wings and took flight up the basement stairs to check out the action. I raced after him, eager to prevent World War Three from erupting in my living room.

  "Muzzle that abominable creature, or I'll have the pound haul him away," shrieked Mama. "He's traumatizing Catherine the Great."

  "So shove some Prozac down her throat," said my mother-in-law Lucille. "What the hell are you doing back here? And don't you ever bother to knock? Just barge right in like you own the place."

  "I have more right to be here than you. This is my daughter's house, you ... you pinko squatter."

  As I hurried through the kitchen, I glanced at the calendar tacked next to the telephone. Mama wasn't due back from her Caribbean cruise for another three days. Damn it. I needed those three days to steel myself for the inevitable explosive reaction that occurred whenever Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O'Keefe, my mother and the former social secretary of the Daughters of the American Revolution, locked horns with Lucille Pollack, my mother-in-law and current president of the Daughters of the October Revolution. I'd been swindled out of seventy-two hours.

  By the time I entered the living room, Mama's and Lucille's voices had reached glass-shattering decibel range.

  "Crazy communist!" yelled Mama. She stood in the middle of the room, cradling Catherine the Great, her corpulent white Persian with an attitude befitting her namesake.

  Manifesto, my mother-in-law's runt of a French bulldog, stood inches from Mama's Ferrigamos, his bark having switched to growl mode as he glared up at his nemesis. With a hiss and a yowl, Catherine the Great leaped from Mama's arms. Showing his true cowardly colors, Mephisto, as we always called him behind his back and often to his snout, scampered to safety behind my mother-in-law's ample girth.

  Lucille barreled across the room, waving her cane at Mama. "Reactionary fascist!"

  "How dare you threaten me!" Mama defended herself with a French manicured backhand that would have done Chris Everett proud. The cane flew from Lucille's grasp and landed inches from Mephisto's nose. Demon dog yelped and dove between Lucille's orange polyester clad legs.

  My mother-in-law's rage multiplied into Vesuvian proportions. Her wrinkled face deepened from a spotted scarlet to an apoplectic heliotrope. "You did that on purpose!"

  Mama jutted her chin at Lucille as she rubbed the palm of her hand. "You started it."

  "And I'm stopping it." I stepped between them, spreading my arms to prevent them from ripping each other's lips off. "Knock it off. Both of you."

  "It's her fault," said Mama. She jabbed a finger at Lucille. Her hand shook with rage, her gold charm bracelet tinkling a dainty minuet totally incompatible with the situation. "And that vicious mongrel of hers. She sic'd him on us the moment we walked through the door."

  Highly unlikely. "Mephisto's all bark and bluster, Mama. You should know that by now."

  "Manifesto!" shrieked Lucille. "How m
any times do I have to tell you his name is Manifesto?"

  "Whatever;" Mama and I said in unison. It was an old refrain. Mephisto better suited demon dog anyway. Besides, who names a dog after a Communist treatise?

  Behind me, Ralph squawked. I looked over my shoulder and found him perched on the lampshade beside one of the overstuffed easy chairs flanking the bay window. A chair occupied by a cowering stranger, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms hugging his head. I glanced at Mama. Glanced back at the man. "Who's he?"

  "Oh dear!" Mama raced across the room, flapping her Chanel-suited arms. "Shoo, dirty bird!"

  Ralph ignored her. He doesn't intimidate easily. Mama was hardly a challenge for a parrot who had spent years successfully defending himself against Aunt Penelope's mischievous students. "Anastasia, I told you that bird's a reincarnation of Ivan the Terrible. Do something. He's attacking my poor Lou"

  Her Poor Lou? Okay, at least the man had a name and someone in the room knew him. I stretched out my arm and whistled. Ralph took wing, landing in the crook of my elbow. Poor Lou peered through his fingers. Convinced the coast was clear, he lowered his hands and knees and raised his head.

  "Are you all right, dear?" asked Mama, patting his salt and pepper combover. "I'm terribly sorry about all this. My daughter never did have the heart to turn away a stray." She punctuated her statement with a pointed stare, first in Lucille's direction and then at Ralph.

  Lucille harrumphed.

  Ralph squawked.

  Mephisto bared his teeth and rumbled a growl from the depths of his belly.

  Catherine the Great had lost interest in the family melodrama and dozed stretched out on the back of the sofa.

  Before Mama could explain Poor Lou's presence, the front door burst open. Fourteen year-old Nick and sixteen year-old Alex bounded into the living room. "Grandma!" they both exclaimed in unison. They dropped their baseball gear and backpacks on the floor and encircled Mama in a group hug.

  "Aren't you supposed to be on a cruise?" asked Nick.

  "Who's this?" asked Alex, nodding toward Poor Lou.

  Poor Lou rose. He wiped his palms on his pinstriped pants legs, cleared his throat, and straightened his skewed paisley tie. "Maybe I should be going, Flora. The driver is waiting."