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

by Lois Winston

  “Which will leave me with Lucille.” A less than happy thought. I’d rather have ten conniving Mamas living under my roof than one curmudgeon of a mother-in-law. Unfortunately, I was stuck with Lucille. Till death do us part.

  I caught Zack up on my hospital visit before turning the conversation to Monica’s arrest. “But I guess you knew about that investigation, too? From your ex-wife?”

  In the fading light he answered with an enigmatic smile. Nothing more.

  “As I suspected. Keeping any other secrets from me?”

  He made an exaggerated show of pondering the question for a moment before answering, “No, I think that’s about it.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Do you have any idea how Monica’s arrest will impact the show? Vince certainly won’t be coming back and now Monica.”

  I told him what Naomi thought and how Sheri was already revamping the program, including dragging me to the Bronx early tomorrow morning. “I sure hope Naomi is right about a quick cancellation. This crazy schedule has to end. Fifteen minutes once a week has morphed into two full-time jobs without the benefits of a second pay check. Trimedia is either going to have zombies for editors or a strike on their hands. None of us can keep up this pace much longer.”

  I punctuated my words with a yawn before nestling into Zack’s chest and promptly falling asleep.

  _____

  I woke up the next morning in my own bed. Alone. Someone had removed my shoes but not my clothes, tossed a quilt over me, and set my alarm for five thirty. Zack. Mama would have said to hell with Sheri and let me sleep.

  After showering and dressing—or more accurately, redressing—I left the house before anyone else woke up and hiked the three blocks to the train station. If I lived to see retirement—a rather speculative if, given my financial situation—I planned to celebrate by catching up on all those missed Z’s. At my present rate of sleeplessness, I figured that would place me in contention to overtake Rip Van Winkle’s record.

  The address Alex had scribbled down wasn’t far from the Castle Hill Avenue station on the 6 line. According to Google maps, somewhere around thirty-five miles as the crow flies. More like forever and a day via public transportation.

  Other than the occasional trip to the Bronx Zoo when Alex and Nick were little, I’d never set foot in the Bronx. Then again, I’d rarely set foot in any of the outer boroughs except for taking the subway to Queens for Mets games, and I hadn’t done that since before the demise of Shea Stadium and the erection of the new Citi Field.

  For the most part, Staten Island, Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx were as foreign to me as Kalamazoo, Michigan, or Kracker Station, Mississippi. I had no idea how long it would take to arrive at my destination and hoped the two hours I’d allotted for the commute would be sufficient, given that once in Manhattan, I’d first need to take three subway lines, then walk several blocks.

  Two hours and fifteen minutes after leaving my house, I arrived at the Castle Hill Avenue station, already late, dripping sweat from an exceptionally hot June morning, and still blocks from my destination. I glanced around to get my bearings. The area resembled Chicago more than New York, due to the train switching from underground to elevated tracks once we crossed the Harlem River from Manhattan into the Bronx.

  One-story retail shops lined the main thoroughfare—a nail salon, thrift shop, real estate office, bank, hardware store, bodega, and several takeout restaurants featuring Mexican, Indian, and Chinese menus—most with signage declaring Habla Español or advertising Halal foods. An odd neighborhood for a Morning Makeovers photo shoot. What was Sheri thinking?

  Maybe Alex wrote down the address wrong? I pulled out my phone to call Sheri and realized when I flipped it open that I should have charged it last night. I guess I had other things on my mind. Like a kiss that had not only rocked my world but turned it upside-down, inside-out, and sideways.

  Talk about a seismic shift! Talk about anything. Zack and I definitely had lots more talking to do. Right now I could barely think straight about what had happened last night. Besides, I needed to concentrate on my present situation and leave my future love life for the future.

  Sheri had insisted on giving all the editors her cell phone number as well as her direct office line. At the time I thought it a bit of overkill, not to mention controlling, since she wanted our cell numbers as well, but now I was glad to have hers.

  I brought up the number, hit send, and waited while the phone rang. And rang. And rang. After five rings the call went to voicemail.

  “You’ve reached Sheri Rabbstein, producer of Morning Makeovers. Sorry I can’t take your call, but I’m sure you know how it is. Busy, busy, busy.” This was punctuated with a Sheri giggle. “Leave a message, but don’t forget to wait for the beep.” Yet another giggle, then, “Ba-bye.”

  Great. I waited for the beep. “Sheri, it’s Anastasia. Just wanted to double-check the address for the location shoot. Not sure I’m in the right place. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

  I hung up and speed-dialed Cloris.

  “Cloris McWerther here. I’m either on another call or pulling something from the oven. Either way, I promise I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Don’t forget to wait for the beep.”

  Beep!

  “Hey, I’m up in the Bronx for a location shoot, but I may have the wrong address, given what the area looks like. Sheri’s not picking up her phone, and my battery’s got one foot in the grave. I’m heading over to the address I have. Can you track someone down at Morning Makeovers and get back to me if I’m in the wrong place? Thanks.” I gave her the address Alex had written down, then hung up.

  As I headed away from the main drag, the neighborhood changed from retail to residential. Pre-war two-and three-story apartment buildings, duplexes, and small single homes lined the street. Suddenly, the location made sense. We must be shooting at Sheri’s apartment. She wanted to showcase the various crafts I’d designed in a home setting. I just never pictured Sheri Rabbstein living way up here in such an ethnically diverse area. She had to be the token Jew of the neighborhood.

  I checked the address once more and made my way down the street to a one-story white clapboard house reminiscent of the bungalows that once lined much of the Jersey shore. Except for needing a fresh coat of paint, the home looked well-maintained, with neatly trimmed hedges lining the walkway and impatiens blooming from Williamsburg blue painted window boxes. Matching shutters and a navy blue front door added to the welcoming ambience.

  A For Sale sign hung from a post sticking out of the postage stamp-sized front yard. Now that Sheri had inherited Lou’s position, I supposed she’d also inherited his salary and had plans to move into Manhattan. Or at least to one of the classier neighborhoods of the Bronx. I certainly couldn’t blame her. She really was way out in the boonies here, and although the neighborhood didn’t give off a ghetto vibe, neither did it strike me as the safest of places for a single woman living alone.

  I made my way down the path that bisected the front yard and rang the bell. The door flew open a few seconds later, but not by Sheri.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I think I may have the wrong house. I’m looking for Sheri Rabbstein.”

  “Right house,” said the woman standing in front of me. She stepped aside and waved me in. “Anastasia, right? I’m Maxine. Sheri’s off picking up the camera crew and all their gear. Their van broke down a few miles from here. Rather than having them wait for a tow and screw up the schedule, she ran off to rescue them.”

  Maxine looked vaguely familiar, and I searched my brain, trying to place her. When I took note of her dress, a green and brown palm tree print muumuu, it hit me. This was the woman from the picture in Sheri’s office. The one who looked like an older version of Sheri. A sister or cousin. However, afraid of making assumptions, I went with a more generic association. “Are you Sheri’s roommate?”

  “In a manner of speaking. How about a glass of ice tea? I just made a fresh b
atch.”

  “Thanks. I’d love some.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  Maxine toddled off to the kitchen. I sat down on the sofa in the small but neat living room furnished in country-style Ikea and decorated with crafts-fair kitsch.

  Maxine returned a minute later with two tall glasses of ice tea and handed me one. I gladly accepted and began to drink. That’s the last thing I remembered until I woke up to find myself bound, gagged, and tied to a chair.

  Twenty-two

  “I suppose we’ve got to get rid of her.”

  “Of course we do. Why else did we lure her here?”

  I was having some sort of weird dream about Sheri and Maxine. I couldn’t move, having twisted myself up in the blankets, but I didn’t have the strength to untwist. My limbs refused to budge. My eyelids wouldn’t open. Throbbing and spinning, my head slumped on my left shoulder, producing a painful neck cramp, but I had no energy to either lift my head or shift position.

  Then, slowly, as I focused on the voices around me, I realized this was no dream.

  “What have we done, Max? This has gotten so out of control. We’ve murdered people. We’re not killers. We’re good people. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. All I wanted was for you and me to work together on our dream show.”

  “I know, sweetie, but there’s no turning back now. We’ll dump her in the river after it gets dark. We can drive upstate and find some out-of-way place along the Hudson. Weight her down so the body never surfaces. I saw some barbells around here that we can use. No one will be able to trace her disappearance back to us.”

  Body? Were they talking about me? I forced myself not to panic, to keep still and concentrate on the voices.

  “I know the others had it coming to them,” said Sheri, “even if I never meant to kill Lou, but I actually liked Anastasia.”

  “And look where it got you. Don’t blame yourself. This is her own fault for snooping around. Good thing you set up those hidden spy cameras, or we might be in deep shit. God bless your tech skills is all I can say. No telling what she would have figured out if we hadn’t caught her snooping around your office.”

  “You’re right. She’s been asking too many questions from the very beginning. I should have known she’d cause trouble for us.”

  Stay calm, Anastasia! Let them think you’re still unconscious from whatever Maxine used to spike the ice tea. I forced myself to breath slowly and not move a muscle, not that I could. As my brain continued to unfog, I realized I wasn’t tangled up in blankets but tied to a chair. Not with rope, though. Duct tape. My chest was bound to a hard chair back, my arms pinned behind me, each of my legs secured to a leg of the chair from my ankles up to just below my knees. More tape secured my thighs to the hard seat. Someone had made damn sure I wasn’t going anywhere. A final strip taped my mouth closed.

  I forced myself to remain as still as possible and listened, hoping to learn more. Not that it would do me any good. I was at a severe disadvantage. At least the last time I’d found myself tied up, I’d had the use of my cell phone and an X-acto knife to save the day. And my butt. This time, nothing. If I didn’t figure out some way to escape, I was going to be fish food.

  How soon, I had no idea. I had no way of telling how long I’d been unconscious. Moisture crept behind my closed lids, and I fought back the sob collecting in my throat. If I let them know I was awake, they might kill me right now.

  “You’re sure there’s no way to trace the call back to you?” asked Sheri.

  “Absolutely not. I used a disposable cell phone and called when you told me she wouldn’t be home. Only, the mother didn’t answer. One of her kids did.”

  “Even better,” said Sheri. “With my alibi of being at the studio early this morning and you sending her to a vacant house, no one can connect me to her disappearance. Too bad with all the bad publicity, Trimedia will probably cancel the show before it even debuts.”

  “I’m not worried. Screw Trimedia. We don’t owe them a damn thing. You’ll get enough publicity out of this that we’ll have our pick of networks and for a lot more money. From here on we dictate the terms.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Come on, let’s head upstairs and see what there is to eat in this dump. I’m hungry, and we’ve got hours before it will get dark enough to move her safely.”

  “Maybe we should dump her in the van now and get out of here. We can leave her locked up in it until dark.”

  “Too risky in daylight.”

  “But what if someone shows up to look at the property while we’re still here?”

  “Relax, sweetie. You worry too much. No one is going to show this house today.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “Because I made sure of it. If anyone calls the office to set up an appointment, they’ll be told the house is undergoing termite extermination.”

  “And the owners?”

  “House hunting in Georgia. Trust me. We’re safe.”

  “That’s why I love you, Max. You think of everything.”

  “Of course I do. Now, can we get some lunch?”

  Sheri giggled. “Unless you’d like dessert first?”

  “I could be persuaded.”

  I heard them start up a flight of creaky steps, then stop.

  “Wait,” said Sheri. “She’s not going to wake up anytime soon, is she?”

  “And what if she does?”

  Sheri giggled again. “You’re right. I worry too much.”

  They continued to lumber their way up the creaky stairs. I heard the flick of a switch. What little light had permeated my blindfold disappeared. A door slammed.

  I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I was going to die a horrible death, and no one would know what happened to me. No one would ever find my body. I’d leave my sons orphans.

  I should have listened to Mama. She pegged Sheri from the very beginning, but I refused to listen to her. Now I’d never have the opportunity to tell her she was right and that I was sorry for not believing her.

  Stop sniveling and think, Anastasia!

  I couldn’t let Sheri and Maxine get away with murder. I had too much to live for. My kids. Mama. And now Zack. Damn, now that I’d discovered what I’d been missing all these years, I wanted more. A man who kissed like Zack probably excelled in other areas I wouldn’t mind exploring. Maybe there really were men out there whose lovemaking skills—or lack of them—didn’t necessitate faking orgasms. Damn it! I wanted the chance to find out for myself.

  I saw no viable escape, though. Even if I had my trusty X-acto knife in my pocket, I couldn’t reach it. No cell phone, either, assuming the battery hadn’t already died. My purse was most likely still on the living room couch.

  The dank mustiness told me I was probably in a basement. As the fog continued to lift from my brain, I saw fuzzy, indistinct shadows through the fabric blindfolding my eyes.

  Investigating further by scooting the chair toward those shadows wasn’t an option, not with the way my legs were bound to the chair. My feet dangled above the floor. If I tried to rock the chair to move it, I’d tip it over. The noise would surely bring Sheri and Maxine running, and that would most likely shorten my already short life expectancy.

  Think!

  What would Stephanie Plum do?

  Sadly, nothing. She wouldn’t have to. Ranger would rescue her in the nick of time. Stephanie had to survive for the next book in the franchise. Kill off Stephanie and Janet Evanovich killed off her cash cow. Sadly, I was no one’s cash cow. Quite the opposite. Besides, I wasn’t playing a character in a mystery series. This was scary real, and in the scary real world, there was never a sexy man in black around when you needed one.

  Once more my eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t even blame my latest predicament on Dead Louse of a Spouse. Had Karl still been alive, I’d still be about to die. However, I wouldn’t be leaving my kids orphans, just motherless. For that I did blame Karl. Everything always c
ame around to being Karl’s fault, one way or another these last few months. Why should this be an exception?

  Above me, bed springs bounced as Sheri and Maxine enjoyed a little Sapphic afternoon delight, totally unconcerned about the murder they planned to commit hours from now. I, on the other hand, once accidently ran over a squirrel and was more upset by that mangy critter’s death than those two were concerning my impending demise. And I hate squirrels!

  Funny how the mind works. I had hours at the most to live and what was I thinking about? Squirrels. What might Sigmund Freud say about that?

  The banging upstairs—both figuratively and literally—grew louder. Those two sure knew how to have a rollicking good time, at my expense and on someone else’s bed. I wondered if they’d bother to clean up after themselves.

  And why did I care?

  Because maybe they’d leave behind some DNA that just might lead the police to their capture and eventually to my remains. And because if I thought about what really mattered to me, I’d spend the last hours of my life driving myself nutso. Far better to think of a dead squirrel and hair follicles left by two lesbians having sex in a stranger’s bed.

  Damn, those two were going at it like sex addicts at an all-you-can-fuck orgy. What could they possibly be doing up there to create so much banging and thumping?

  And now screaming? Both of them at once. At the top of their lungs.

  Then I heard shouting, but not from Sheri and Maxine. Footsteps pounded above me. The door banged open. Someone hit the light switch.

  “She’s down here.”

  Through the blindfold I made out a hulking figure bounding down the creaky staircase and heading toward me. He pulled down my blindfold. I squinted. He wasn’t Stephanie Plum’s Ranger, but he was wearing a black suit, and I’d never been so happy to see anyone as I was to see Detective Marlowe at that moment.

  “She’s alive,” he yelled. Marlowe grabbed onto a corner of the duct tape securing my mouth. He yanked, and I screamed. “Sorry,” he said. “Should’ve warned you it would hurt like hell.”

  I flexed my jaw. “Are you kidding? Pain never felt so good. Those two were planning to dump me in the Hudson in a few hours.”