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

by Lois Winston

  “Huh? What vandalism?”

  I’d forgotten Trimedia refused to file a police report, but I would have thought Lou had at least notified building security. Apparently not, although I found it hard to believe word hadn’t trickled down through the union grapevine. Since I’d already spilled some of the beans, I dumped the rest.

  “When was this?” Hector asked after I filled him in on the trashing of the studio set.

  “We discovered the vandalism the day before Mr. Beaumont was killed. It must have occurred the previous Friday night after everyone left the studio, or sometime during that weekend.”

  Hector scratched his head. “Don’t remember Ms. Rabbstein ever coming down to look at any security tapes,” he said. “Not that day or any other day. Could’ve been while I was on my lunch break, though. One of the other security guards probably handled it.”

  “I guess so.” I paused for a moment, then added, “Any chance I could have a look? Maybe she missed something. I’d really like to nail the bugger responsible for making me do all this extra work.”

  Hector shrugged his enormous shoulders. “Don’t see why not. Give me a minute to pull them up.” He fiddled with some equipment behind the desk. “Now that’s damned odd,” he said.

  I darted around the counter to look at the screen. “Find something?”

  “Static. Must be a bug in the system.”

  “You’re saying there’s nothing at all on the recording? Which day?”

  “I started with that Friday. I’m fast-forwarding through the entire day. Doesn’t look like we got anything.”

  “What about Saturday and Sunday?”

  Hector tapped a few keys on his console, and I watched as he zoomed through two days of static.

  “Try Monday, the day we discovered the vandalism.”

  More tapping. “Damn.”

  More static.

  “Definitely a bug in the system.” He picked up the phone. “I’d better notify the service company.”

  Disappointed, I headed for the elevators. Maybe I’d have better luck upstairs. Then a thought occurred to me. I turned back to the desk. “Hector, just out of curiosity, check the tapes for the Thursday before the vandalism and the day after the murder.”

  He hung up the phone mid-dial and pressed a few more keys on his console. I stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. “Worked Thursday,” he said. He pounded a few more keys. “And the following Wednesday.”

  “And it’s definitely working now,” I said, pointing to the real-time screen.

  “It was working those other days, too. I would’ve noticed if a screen went down.”

  “I don’t think the system has a bug,” I said. “I think it was deliberately hacked. Probably by the killer.”

  “Must’ve been after the cops took a look. They didn’t question me about any problems.”

  I didn’t believe that for a minute. I was certain the reason the cops hadn’t yet made an arrest was because they, too, had seen nothing but static when they viewed the security tape, and for whatever reason, they were keeping that information to themselves.

  I left Hector to make his phone call and headed for the elevators.

  When I arrived upstairs, I discovered a change since my last trip to the studio. Sheri’s name now replaced Lou’s on his door. Not only had she been handed his title but his office. I wondered if she also received his salary. Not that I begrudged her a raise, but Trimedia had every excuse in the book for not giving me or my fellow editors more money, and we were the ones doing twice the work we’d done only a few short weeks ago.

  I unlocked the door and stepped inside, although I hardly expected to find anything. This was Sheri’s office now, as evidenced by the fresh coat of lavender paint on the walls, a color no guy would ever use to decorate a room, let alone a producer’s office.

  I looked around anyway, pulling open the top desk drawer, only to find all things Sheri—a box of Tampax, a bottle of Midol, a bag of M&Ms—and no evidence that Lou had once occupied the place. So much for ferreting out the author of that note. Still, as long as I was there, I decided to snoop—er, sleuth—further, rifling through the contents of all the desk drawers, scanning the shelves, nosing through the closet.

  I found nothing more than typical business files and office supplies in the drawers and Sheri’s misshapen black cardigan, speckled with mop doll fuzz, hanging in the closet. Aside from the sweater, the only other personal item in the room was a framed photo of Sheri with another woman.

  I picked up the photo and studied it. The two resembled each other somewhat, down to their roly-poly bodies and dark hair, the other woman’s streaked with gray. An older sister or cousin, maybe? They stood with their arms around each other, both wearing muumuus, a sandy beach and ocean waves in the background.

  I placed the photo back on Sheri’s desk. I had hoped to find something searching through Lou’s stuff, not Sheri’s. Guilt forced me to exit the office and lock up.

  On the off chance that the contents of Lou’s office weren’t already in a Dumpster, I decided to check out Sheri’s old office, the storage closet, and anywhere else I thought someone might stash a few cartons of unwanted odds and ends. I found nothing.

  So much for my brilliant idea. I might as well head home to tackle the laundry. I started for the elevator, but paused as I approached Monica’s dressing room. I held Lou’s key ring in my hand, a key ring with dozens of keys. I wondered if one of them opened the door in front of me. Only one way to find out.

  I systematically made my way through the collection of keys. On the fourteenth key, the tumblers clicked into place. I turned the knob, pushed open the door, and stepped back in time several centuries.

  Only the mini-kitchen, complete with sink, fridge, and microwave, kept the room from resembling a period piece out of a classic Hollywood movie. Floor to ceiling mirrors covered the walls. I looked up. Ceiling, too. Holy vanity! Everywhere Monica turned, she’d see herself. Over and over again. Ad infinitum. As I was now seeing myself. Only I didn’t quite fit in with my worn jeans and old T-shirt. This room called for silk negligees and feather boas.

  A crystal chandelier hung from a gilt medallion in the center of the mirrored ceiling. Crystal sconces dotted the mirrored walls. An enormous dressing table stood against one wall, a pink velvet lounging couch, piled high with satin floral print pillows, sat against a perpendicular wall. A hand-painted silk dressing screen, complementing the print of the throw pillows, blocked off the corner between the dressing table and couch.

  I poked my head through one interior doorway to find a mirrored bathroom, complete with Jacuzzi tub and gold fixtures, down to the toilet flusher and bidet faucets. A bidet! Jeez! The woman must channel Madame Pompadour in this crib.

  A second door led into a walk-in closet filled with racks of dresses and shelves of shoeboxes. Right then and there I decided to hire the guy who negotiated Monica’s last contract. The woman had perks up the wazoo.

  That thought reminded me of the conversation the day of the vandalism, when Sheri blew a gasket over Vince’s and Monica’s contracts. She’d called their dressing rooms a recreation of Versailles. Now I understood why. Lou had said there were extenuating circumstances and that the negotiations were rather complex.

  Did Vince and Monica have some dirt on their producer? Lou had refused to go into details, as if he were ashamed or embarrassed. Or maybe scared? Yet another mystery that would remain unsolved unless Vince and/or Monica fessed up, which appeared highly unlikely. What would they have to gain at this point?

  Yet another reason to cross both Vince and Monica off the suspects list. Both profited by Lou’s continued good health and had nothing to gain by his death.

  I had no qualms about snooping through Monica’s things. Something was up with her, something that involved police surveillance, and I was curious to learn what was going on with that. So I started nosing around, poking through drawers and cabinets.

  Finding nothing of interest in
the dressing room, I headed for the closet. The woman had enough shoes to satisfy the most avid foot fetishist. Manolo Blahnik. Ferragamo. Christian Louboutin. Henry Beguelin. Jimmy Choo. Every imaginable designer label on one box after another. A freaking wall of overpriced stilettos. I could put my kids through college on what Monica spent on footwear. And it wasn’t even her money. This was her studio wardrobe. Trimedia had paid for it all.

  As every teenage girl knows, shoeboxes make for ideal hiding places. A small step stool stood in the middle of the walk-in closet. I pulled it over, climbed up, and reached for the highest box, one with a Bottega Veneta label. But when I lifted the lid, I didn’t find a pair of Bottega Veneta shoes. Instead, I found Monica’s secret.

  Twenty

  “Monica’s a junkie?” Cloris screamed the question so loud she almost didn’t need a phone for me to hear her.

  “Can you think of any other reason someone would hide a lighter, a metal spoon, and a syringe in a Bottega Veneta shoebox?”

  “Boat what?”

  “Never mind. It’s not important.” Cloris could rattle off the names of every five-star chef in the country, but when it came to anything outside the cooking world, she was clueless. I may never be able to afford any of their high-end leather goods, but I certainly knew the name Bottega Veneta. A girl can drool, can’t she?

  “That certainly explains the constant fidgeting and lack of coordination,” she said.

  “Not to mention the extended periods of time closeted away in her dressing room.”

  “No wonder she couldn’t crack an egg.”

  “Or plait a braid.”

  “I wonder how that brownstone fits in. Think she’s also dealing?”

  “Could be why the cops have the house under surveillance. Maybe that’s the distribution hub.”

  “If Monica is caught up in a drug sting, Sheri will have cause to terminate her contract without paying out the balance. Maybe Monica killed Lou because he found her shooting up.”

  “She’d certainly have motive, but I just can’t see Monica stabbing Lou with a knitting needle, can you?

  “Besides, Lou was killed in the storage area. Monica wouldn’t shoot up someplace where anyone might walk in on her when she has the privacy of her own dressing room.”

  The other end of the phone went silent while Cloris chewed on those thoughts. And something else. “What are you eating?”

  “Chocolate-covered pretzels.”

  “I hate you.”

  “No you don’t. You just hate my metabolism.”

  “True.”

  “Getting back to Monica, I have to agree with you. She would have either been high or jonesing for a hit. Either way, she’s too much of a klutz. If she went after Lou, I see her lunging for him and tripping over her own feet. Or his. And falling flat on her face.”

  “I can’t disagree.”

  “Could have been Ray. Was he at the studio that day?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The police would. From the security tapes.”

  “Not necessarily.” I caught Cloris up on what Hector and I discovered about the tapes. “I think someone tampered with them to cover up both the vandalism and the murder.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that Sheri never said anything about the tapes? Wasn’t she supposed to check on them after the vandalism?”

  “Yeah. And I intend to ask her about that. You’d think she’d have a vested interest in finding the culprit who tried to destroy her show.”

  “Might be better to leave all the questioning to Detectives Phillips and Marlowe.”

  “You sound like Zack.”

  “Maybe you should listen to him,” suggested Cloris. “I get a weird vibe around that woman.”

  “Now you’re sounding like Mama.”

  “Seriously, Sheri strikes me as someone you don’t want for an enemy. Start questioning her integrity, and you’ll wind up on her Shit List.”

  “Sheri seems to like me, even with my Mama baggage. I’ll figure out a way to drop the topic into conversation without sounding accusatory. Just curious.”

  “Watch your back. Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “Ah, but satisfaction brought her back.”

  _____

  Since I was scheduled to shoot another craft segment the following day, I didn’t have to wait long to have a conversation with Sheri. You can’t shoot when one of your stars is supposedly dead, and the other never shows up at the studio.

  _____

  “She hasn’t bothered to call in, and she’s not answering either her cell phone or her home phone,” said Sheri when we’d waited over an hour for Monica to make an appearance.

  Naomi slammed her palms onto the island countertop. “This is getting ridiculous. My editors and I have work to do back at the office. We’re on deadline. We can’t afford to hang out here constantly waiting on that prima donna to make her grand entrance.”

  “Even when she is here, she might as well not be,” I said, and added, “given her lack of cooperation.” I wondered if Monica had OD’d, but obviously couldn’t voice that concern without giving away my snooping of yesterday. Instead, I asked, “Have you tried calling her husband?”

  “I’ll be right back,” said Sheri, then added louder, “Take five, everyone!” Which was rather ridiculous, being that everyone had been milling around for over an hour already. However, unlike me, the rest of them were getting paid to do nothing.

  Sheri waddled off, presumably to her office to call Ray Rivers. Her pink, green, and white faux Pucci print muumuu flapped in the breeze created as she pushed through the studio doors.

  “That woman is setting herself up as the laughingstock of morning TV,” said Naomi, sotto voce to avoid being heard by any of the studio crew.

  “I feel sorry for her,” I said. “She’s totally out of touch with reality.”

  “Look at the upside, though. This show is going to tank within days of its debut. Then we can all go back to our normal work schedules.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’m not sure how much longer any of us can keep up this pace.”

  “Tell me about it. At least the rest of you are only here for your individual segment shoots. I’m stuck here for all of them.”

  “Two full-time jobs for the pay of one?”

  “Exactly.”

  That cleared up one mystery. Right from the editorial director’s mouth. Naomi definitely hadn’t cut a deal with Trimedia at her editors’ expense.

  Sheri pushed through the studio doors less than five minutes later. “She seems awfully pleased with herself,” said Naomi.

  I studied Sheri as she approached us. No mistaking the grin on her face or the glint in her eyes.

  “I have good news and better news,” she said.

  “Oh?” Naomi raised an eyebrow.

  “Naomi, I’m pleased to announce that you’re now the sole host of Morning Makeovers.”

  I looked at Naomi. I didn’t need to be a mind reader to know congratulations were definitely not in order. “What happened to Monica?” I asked.

  “Monica violated the morals clause in her contract,” said Sheri. “She’s out of here. Permanently.”

  “How?” asked Naomi. She sounded as if she just might consider doing whatever Monica had done in order to be rid of Sheri and the burden of Morning Makeovers.

  “Monica was arrested in a sting operation yesterday afternoon.”

  “Drugs?” I asked.

  Sheri focused on me. “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t. Just a wild guess.”

  “Not so wild,” said Naomi. “She often acts like she’s high on something.”

  “Well, maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t,” said Sheri, “but that’s not what got her busted. Are you ready for this?” She paused for effect.

  “Out with it already,” said Naomi.

  “Monica had a side job.” Sheri giggled. “As a—call girl.”

  So that’s what was going on at that brown
stone! Those were vice cops staking out the place, not homicide detectives connected to Lou’s murder and the attempt on Vince’s life.

  “How did you find out about this?” I asked Sheri.

  “Ray told me. He’s livid. You weren’t off base with your wild guess. Turns out Monica has a heroin habit to support, and this was the only way she could pay for it without Ray suspecting something since he controls her finances.”

  “But he did suspect something,” I said. “According to Lou, Ray was always accusing Monica of having affairs.”

  Sheri shrugged. “Not my problem. I’m just happy to be rid of both her and Vince. I’ll have to work up a new production schedule. We’re going to have to reshoot everything now that they’re not part of the show.” She clapped her hands together and bounced on her toes, unable to contain her giddiness. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  Neither Naomi nor I shared her enthusiasm. “Reshoot everything?” asked Naomi.

  “Of course,” said Sheri. “We can’t start off our new show featuring a pedophile and a prostitute.”

  I hadn’t forgotten about the security tapes and now saw my opportunity to jump in with a question. “What about the vandalism that first day? Did you find one of them sneaking back into the building when you checked out the tapes? You never mentioned anything.”

  This caught Sheri off guard. “The tapes? Oh. Uhm … they were inconclusive. Lots of people entered the building between Friday night and Monday morning, but I didn’t see anyone connected with the show.”

  Which could only mean that whoever hacked into the system and destroyed the recordings did so after Sheri viewed the tapes that Monday morning. Either that or Sheri was lying to me, but what would be her motive?

  “So whoever trashed the set could still be out there,” I said. “And might also have murdered Lou.”

  “And Vince,” added Naomi.

  Or at least attempted to murder Vince. Neither of them knew that Vince was still alive.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Sheri. “It’s obvious Monica is the killer. Lou must have discovered her drug habit, and she killed him to shut him up. As for Vince, you know there was no love lost between the two of them. Maybe he also discovered the drugs and attempted to blackmail her.”