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

by Lois Winston

  “Drugs?” asked Jeanie.

  “Uncontrollable sticky fingers on Rodeo Drive,” said Cloris. “The other was some right-wing radio pundit who’d served mandatory time at Betty Ford.”

  Tessa wrinkled her nose. “And we’re supposed to give them makeovers?”

  “Sure,” said Jeanie. “You educate them on how to accessorize orange jumpsuits, and I show them how a few yards of chintz can transform a prison cell into a cozy abode.”

  We all laughed. “Maybe the craft segment will be considered art therapy,” I said. “Something they can do to keep busy while in rehab or prison.”

  “And Cloris can teach them how to bake a cake with a file hidden in it,” added Janice.

  “Frankly,” I said, “I really don’t care who the hosts or guests are. I’m just happy for an opportunity to increase my bank account.”

  “Ditto,” said Cloris. “My daughter’s tuition is going up again next semester. Nearly ten percent this time.”

  I groaned. If I remembered correctly, this was the third tuition increase for Cloris’s daughter, and she was only a sophomore. Alex was two years away from college. I had no idea how we’d manage tuition, even the more reasonably priced state schools, no matter how much extra I earned from the television show. Thank you from the bottom of my penniless heart, Karl Marx Pollack.

  Frown lines settled at the corners of Naomi’s mouth. She cleared her throat. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she said, “but chances are none of you will be seeing anything extra in your paychecks from this. If there actually is a show in the works.”

  We all stared at her. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I’m not taking on more responsibilities without adequate compensation,” said Tessa. Only periodic Botox injections prevented her from frowning the displeasure evident in her voice.

  “Read the fine print in your contracts,” said Naomi. “We all have a clause that requires us to perform any public relations duties Trimedia deems necessary to the success of the publication. The contracts specifically mention television, radio, and public appearances.”

  “But this isn’t an occasional three-minute holiday stint on Good Morning America,” said Cloris.

  “Right,” said Jeanie, her head bobbing in agreement with Cloris. Even the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose seemed to scowl her displeasure. No Botox for Jeanie. No Miss Clairol, either. She believed in the natural aging process. Her gray-streaked hair proved she practiced what she preached.

  “Doing a television show would be like taking on a second job,” I said. “Surely Trimedia needs to compensate us for that. Besides, according to Mama—”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t jump to conclusions until we know all the facts,” suggested Naomi. “Right now all we have is what your mother told you. Nothing official.”

  What Mama told me. I chewed on my lower lip and admitted what had nagged at me from the beginning. “Mama isn’t always the most reliable source of information.”

  Except that this time she was. Kim returned a few minutes later waving a sheet of paper. “This is a copy of the memo going out to all of us via e-mail later today.”

  Tessa snatched it from her hand and read out loud, “All staff members are required to attend a cocktail party Friday evening, seven-thirty sharp, at the Marriott Marquis where the launch of a joint venture between two of Trimedia’s highly successful properties, American Woman magazine and our morning talk-show You Heard It Here First with Vince and Monica, will be announced.”

  “Highly successful?” Janice raised both eyebrows. “Wasn’t it just last week they were threatening to fold us if retail sales didn’t improve?”

  “That was a ploy to keep from handing out annual raises,” said Kim. We all stared at her. She shrugged. “Hey, you hear things upstairs.”

  Cloris turned to Naomi. “Is that true? No raises this year?”

  Crap. Besides my huge husband-induced debt, Westfield had announced school tax increases for the coming year. Then there was the recent rise in everything from postage stamps to gasoline to milk. “Not even a cost-of-living adjustment?” I asked.

  Naomi frowned into her coffee cup. “Don’t look at me. I’m on a need-to-know basis when it comes to those guys.”

  “Hugo hasn’t said anything?” I asked. After all, Hugo had an office upstairs, even if it wasn’t more than a broom closet and situated as far away from the action as the big boys could stash him without actually shoving him out a window.

  “Hugo knows even less than I do.”

  Naomi had always remained semi-aloof when it came to relations between herself and her editors, but the problems of the past few months had shattered the wall that separated the drones from the queen bee and created a bond between us. I suppose murder will do that to people. Especially when the police finger you as one of the suspects. Naomi and I had both been singled out for extra scrutiny during the investigation into Marlys’s murder.

  I exhaled a sigh of disgust. My problems were my own and not Naomi’s fault. “That’s it?” I asked Kim. “We don’t get any other information about the show until tomorrow night? Like whether or not we’re getting paid?”

  Kim turned to Naomi. “They want to see you upstairs.”

  “That sounds ominous,” said Cloris.

  “Should I bring my shovel?” asked Naomi.

  Kim nodded.

  “This is not looking good,” muttered Tessa, biting off all her carefully applied lipstick.

  _____

  When Naomi returned an hour later, Kim called all eight editors into the conference room.

  “I want you to know I did my best,” Naomi began.

  “Here comes the big but,” Cloris stage-whispered.

  Naomi sighed and nodded. “But I couldn’t sway them. They’ve consulted with the corporate attorneys who have concluded editorial participation on the show falls within the parameters of your existing contracts.”

  “Shit!”

  Everyone turned to stare at me. Thermonuclear heat jettisoned up my neck and into my cheeks. I hung my head and mumbled, “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” said Naomi. “I used far more graphic language a few minutes ago. To no avail.” She went on to feed us the company line. “They believe this is an excellent opportunity for all of us.”

  “How do they figure that?”

  “The show is being renamed Morning Makeovers. It will run Monday through Friday from 9 a.m. to 10 a.m. Each editor will be responsible for a fifteen-minute segment once a week—one each for fashion, beauty, decorating, crafts, food, travel, finance, and health—two segments per show.”

  “The math doesn’t add up,” said finance editor Sheila Conway.

  Naomi shrugged. “They didn’t outline the remainder of the programming to me, and frankly, I wasn’t interested. My only concern is the magazine’s involvement.”

  We all nodded in agreement as Naomi continued. “Anyway, each of your segments will relate to the makeover of a lucky viewer participant. The magazine, as well as each of its editors, will gain tremendous national exposure. Or so they believe.”

  “Silly me,” I said, slapping my forehead. “I had no idea the utility companies were now accepting exposure credits in lieu of checks for payment. How many minutes of air time equals a dollar’s worth of electricity or gas? One-for-one like mileage awards? There aren’t any blackout periods, are there?”

  Naomi winced. “The exposure could lead to product endorsements or other offers.”

  “Don’t try to put a positive spin on this,” said Cloris. “Let’s face it. The only winner here is Trimedia. Think of the increased advertising revenues. Corporate stuffs their pockets on our slave sweat.”

  “So, we won’t be compensated at all for these weekly appearances?” asked Tessa.

  “They expect you to honor your contracts. Their attitude is that they’re only asking for an additional fifteen minutes of your time per week. And due to the new format, the show will now
be taped, so none of you will have to leave home before dawn to arrive at the studio on time.”

  “Their benevolence knows no bounds,” Jeanie grumbled.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Fifteen minutes? What about the additional hours it takes to prepare that fifteen-minute presentation? I don’t pull craft projects out of a magician’s butt, you know. And each completed project I show in the magazine requires several step-by-step models.”

  “Same here,” said Cloris. “When I bake a cake, I actually bake half a dozen.”

  “And what about the commute in and out of Manhattan?” asked Tessa. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re stuck in the middle of a New Jersey cornfield.”

  “Add to that the time we’ll have to spend in make-up prior to taping and you’ve killed an entire day,” said Nicole Emmerling, our beauty editor. She panned the room, a scowl plastered across her face, as she waited for the rest of us to chime in our agreement.

  “Fifteen minutes, my ass,” grumbled Sheila.

  “Unless they want us to appear au natural,” suggested Jeanie.

  Cloris laughed. “Are you kidding? We’d frighten the hell out of women waking up all over America.”

  “Which might not be such a bad idea,” I said.

  “What?” Nicole’s perfectly shadowed, lined, and mascara-ed eyes widened with horror. “I’m not appearing on television without make-up. Are you crazy?”

  “Like a fox,” I said. “Can you think of a quicker way to turn off the public? No viewers, no show.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” said Naomi. “However, before you plan a mutiny, bear in mind that Trimedia keeps an office full of barracuda attorneys on retainer. Don’t do anything that might set you up for a lawsuit.”

  “So you’re saying we have no choice?” Janice asked.

  Naomi raised her hands in defeat. “I did my best. They refuse to budge. The only concession I could wheedle out of them was a verbal hint of a possible bonus if the show is successful.”

  “Any chance of getting that in writing?” asked Cloris.

  “From those guys?” I tossed her a smirk. “When armadillos fly.”

  “What if we refuse to participate?” asked Tessa.

  “People who don’t meet their contractual obligations get fired,” said Naomi. “If you want to keep your job, you have no choice.”

  Tessa crossed her arms over her silk-clad, silicone-enhanced cleavage. “Well, I’m not going to stand for this. I’ll hire my own attorneys to fight them. No one takes advantage of me and gets away with it.” She stormed out of the conference room, her Jimmy Choo heels clicking a quick staccato beat on the terrazzo floor.

  Tessa wasn’t one of my favorite people at the magazine, but I had to give her points on this one. The last thing I needed was another uncompensated responsibility egg to juggle. Problem was, I also didn’t have any excess cash to hire a contract attorney, and I doubted any pro bono flunky at Legal Aid would stand much of a chance against the Trimedia barracudas.

  “Just like Marlys,” said Cloris to Tessa’s retreating backside.

  “I hope not,” I said. “Finding a dead fashion editor in my office was one experience I’d rather not repeat.”

  _____

  The next evening, minutes before the press conference, the American Woman editors were ushered into a small meeting room next to the reception room. Mama’s Poor Lou, looking fully recovered from his traumatic encounter with Ralph, bobbed his head in silent response to Alfred Gruenwald, the Trimedia CEO speaking to him. Naomi, regal in pearls, basic black, and a tight smile, stood beside Gruenwald. I scanned the room but saw no evidence of Hugo.

  To my surprise, Mama, decked out in a two-piece Pierre Cardin plum-colored jacket dress and acting the perfect corporate wife—or fiancée in this case—hung onto both Poor Lou’s arm and every word spouting from our pompous CEO. She had given no indication that she’d be attending the press conference when I mentioned it to her yesterday, and she hadn’t been home when I popped in to change clothes before catching the train into Manhattan. Then again, Mama hadn’t divulged much of anything after dropping her bombshell two nights ago.

  Halfway across the room, a man and woman watched Mama, Lou, Naomi, and Gruenwald. They made no attempt to conceal their murderous expressions as they whispered to each other.

  “Vince Alto and Monica Rivers,” said Cloris, following my gaze.

  Vince Alto appeared to be in his mid-fifties, a man who spent too much time either in the sun or in tanning beds, judging from the deep crow’s feet and laugh lines engraved into his bronzed skin. His way-too-jet-black wavy hair made me wonder if he owned stock in Grecian Formula. His slight paunch strained the gold buttons of the blue serge blazer he wore with a pair of khaki pants, lemon yellow dress shirt, and blue gingham checked silk tie. A matching silk handkerchief peeked from his breast pocket. He looked like he’d taken a wrong turn on the way to his yacht.

  In contrast, his co-host had dressed for New Year’s Eve at the Ritz—more than seven months early. Monica Rivers wore a long-sleeved crimson sequined gown with plunges front and back that required at least a roll of double-sided tape. Otherwise she’d run the risk of arrest on charges of indecent exposure. Her deep chestnut teased hair was piled high on her head. Strategically placed tendrils cascaded over her face and kissed her shoulders.

  I pegged her at around my age, maybe a few years younger. The tight pull of her facial skin suggested someone who lived fast and hard but had the money to camouflage it. Plastic surgeons live for such women.

  I had dressed in a conservative black silk suit with pearl buttons, the same outfit I’d worn three months earlier to Karl’s funeral. Most of the other editors were similarly garbed except for Jeanie, who hadn’t bothered to change from the flared denim patchwork skirt, matching jacket, and Birkenstocks she’d worn to work. Only Tessa had donned a cocktail dress, but her shocking pink chiffon baby doll chemise looked like a nun’s habit compared to Monica’s almost-a-dress.

  The two hosts interrupted their whispering long enough to dart a quick once-over in our direction. The homicidal set of their jaws and dagger glint in their eyes remained in place. “They look about as friendly as a pair of porcupines with hemorrhoids,” I said.

  “Get a load of those baubles,” said Cloris. A pair of multi-diamond and ruby earrings dangled from Monica’s lobes. “I’ll bet they’re worth enough to cover a few years of college tuition.”

  “If they’re real,” said Tessa. “Hard to tell from this distance. Or they could be on loan. The dress, too.”

  “Yes,” said Cloris, “your predecessor used to take advantage of that little perk quite often. Got herself killed for the Cartier trinkets she was wearing.”

  Well, not exactly. I raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. Cloris ignored me. We both knew Marlys’s borrowed diamonds were a bit of serendipity for Ricardo the Loan Shark, but Cloris liked to yank the newbie’s chain a bit from time to time. Having few perks of our own, we Bottom Feeders took whatever advantage we could get.

  Jeanie continued to stare at Vince and Monica. “I’m feeling like the poor relation no one really wanted to invite. Do you get the sense they don’t want us here?”

  “They don’t.”

  We all turned. A shocking pink and lime green floral muumuu-draped woman stood behind us. I pegged her as early-to-mid fifties. She wore a Dorothy Hamill helmet of peat-brown hair and a smile that stretched between a pair of plump, splotchy red cheeks. Raising her hand, she wiggled her fingers in greeting. “Welcome, ladies. I’m Sheri Rabbstein, otherwise known as the power behind the throne.” She giggled.

  We stared at her.

  “Lou Beaumont’s indispensable assistant producer,” she explained. “Nothing gets done around here unless I do it. And I am so happy to meet all of you.” She reached out and pumped our hands, one after the other. “I’ve been after Lou for ages to give this show a swift kick in the gluteus maximus. ’Bout time he listened to me.” She darted a quick frown to
ward Poor Lou.

  Then, her face-filling beam somersaulted back into place, and she cocked her head in the direction of Vince and Monica. “Those two are so yesterday. They were killing us. We were about to be canceled, you know.” She spoke this sotto voce, her hand cupping her mouth. “But you gals are tomorrow. Between my ideas and your know-how, this show is going to rock and roll.”

  “We don’t do music,” said Cloris.

  Sheri offered up another giggle. “Here.” She handed us each a sheet of paper. “This will explain all the changes in case any members of the press buttonhole you during the reception.”

  “Buttonhole us?” I asked, glancing down at three paragraphs of black type on a pink page.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “After they hear about the changes, they’ll be all over Vince and Monica. I doubt anyone will ask you any questions. If you do get trapped and need rescue, I’ll be circulating, ready to bail you out of any jam.” She darted another quick frown toward Poor Lou. “That’s what I do best.” Then with her smile pasted in place, she wiggled her index finger at us before bouncing toward the exit. “Remember,” she sing-songed over her shoulder, “I’m here if you need me.”

  “That woman missed her calling,” said Cloris. “She belongs on Sesame Street.”

  “Too sweet.” Janice wrinkled her nose. “She’s more like that obnoxious, obese purple dinosaur.”

  The others grunted in agreement as I bowed my head over the pink sheet of paper. “Oh. My. God.”

  Three

  “What?” My fellow editors stared at me staring at the paper in my hand. Too flabbergasted to speak, I responded by jabbing at the words on the page. As they read from their own copies, I stole a glance at Vince and Monica. I swear I saw angry puffs of steam rising from the tops of their expertly coifed heads.

  “No wonder they look ready to tear us limb from limb,” I said.

  “Hell hath no fury like a celebrity snubbed,” muttered Cloris.

  Vince Alto and Monica Rivers had been screwed. Big time. Not only had Poor Lou stripped their names from the show’s title, he’d yanked those plush host seats right out from under their celebrity derrieres. Naomi was the new host of the show, with Vince and Monica demoted to sidekick status.